Lauren Haney: Place of Darkness

Amonked’s extensive knowledge of the thefts roused Bak’s curiosity. After the youth hurried away, he said, “You aren’t the man responsible for the investigation, are you?”

“Not at all. My task, one given to me recently by Maatkare Hatshepsut, is to watch over the construction of Djeser Djeseru, her memorial temple.” Amonked eyed the grapes again, but refused to be tempted. “My sole interest in the robberies is that they could be taking place right under the noses of the men who are building the temple.”

“I’m to remain in Waset a month or more, until Commandant Thuty comes north from Buhen.” Not wanting to appear too eager, Bak took a date from a bowl, pretended to study it. “I’d be glad to help.”

Amonked looked amused, as if he had seen through the casual facade. “No doubt you would, and you’d do the task well, but I’ve another I feel more urgent.”

Bak’s heart sagged within his breast. Hori would be disappointed. By the breath of Amon! So was he.

“It’s a task you may not find as much to your liking,”

Amonked admitted, “but one that must be resolved before other lives are lost.”

Lost lives? Bak tamped down a surge of hope. To feel joy at other men’s misfortunes was not seemly. “Yes, sir?”

“Djeser Djeseru has been plagued by a series of accidents, beginning shortly after construction began a little over five years ago. A few at first, but the numbers have escalated.

Several men have died. A much larger number have suffered injury, some more serious than others. I suspect deliberate intent, and I want you to investigate.”

Bak did not know what to say. Construction sites were in-herently dangerous places. Accidents happened all the time, some caused by careless men, others by the whims of the gods. How could he be expected to learn the reason behind each and every mishap that had occurred over five long years?

More important, the temple was Maatkare Hatshepsut’s proudest creation, a place she held close within her heart.

How would she react if she learned a man she had exiled to the southern frontier was treading its paving stones? Would she send him back to Buhen, a place he had come to love?

Or, far more likely, to some far-off and remote post where he would be lost to the world forever? He wanted nothing to do with the task.

Amonked must have read his thoughts. “You need not fear my cousin, Lieutenant. You’ll report to me alone and to no one else.”

“If she questions my presence?”

“I’ve but to remind her of your skills as a hunter of men.

Can she turn you away? I think not.”

Bak took a sip of wine, one of the best vintages he had tasted in a long time. He was not entirely satisfied with the promise. He trusted Amonked, but he doubted even the Storekeeper of Amon, as close a relative as he was, could stand up to the most powerful sovereign in the world when she sent her heart down a specific path, as she had when she had exiled Bak. Yet how could he refuse? “Exactly how many men have been hurt or slain?” Maybe the number of accidents was no greater at Djeser Djeseru than anywhere else.

“Thirteen have died: two foremen, nine ordinary workmen, a scribe, and a guard. Seven have been seriously injured, never to return to their tasks at the temple. That number includes my scribe Thaneny, whom you knew in Wawat.”

“I remember him well, sir.” A good man, Bak recalled, one whose mutilated and stiffened leg had testified to the seriousness of the accident that had nearly taken his life.

“Several more men have been badly hurt,” Amonked said,

“but none so disabled they couldn’t go on to other, less demanding tasks. Of course, there’ve been innumerable lesser accidents, three or four a month, I’d guess.”

Bak had to admit the numbers seemed excessive. He had nothing to compare them to, but if he were responsible for a task with so many dead and injured, he, too, would be concerned. “What do the workmen say about the mishaps?”

Amonked screwed up his face in distaste. “They blame a malign spirit.”

No surprise there, Bak thought. Men of no learning were superstitious, finding it easier to blame misfortune on the mysterious rather than other men or the gods. “Have tools turned up missing? Have the men been paid in short measure? Has the quality of workmanship been wanting?”

“Is corruption a concern, you mean?” Amonked shook his head. “I’ve scribes who go through the scrolls each time I receive a report. They check every inventory that pertains to the project, searching for theft of property or equipment, and they conduct their own random inventories. They look into tales of bad morale, quarrels between men, reports of personal theft, and all the other minor crimes that befall a project so large. They’ve found nothing out of the ordinary.”

“You trust them.”

“I’d place my life and my honor in their hands.”

Bak did not doubt Amonked’s judgment of his scribes, but honest men ofttimes missed the rotten core hidden within the fruits of men’s labors. “I’ll walk the same path for a short distance lest they’ve missed something. Other than that, you’ve not left me much to work with.” His smile was wry, containing a minimum of humor. “Nothing but a malign spirit.”

A rotund man with a black mole on his chin walked under the portico. He spoke briefly with the chief scribe, who ushered him to Amonked and introduced him as the captain of the ship that had just arrived. They spoke of the cargo, mostly wheat and barley, and of other matters related to the shipment. Listening with half an ear, Bak watched the crew of the vessel prepare to unload and the foot traffic on the busy street, which gave access to the numerous warehouses within Amonked’s domain. A flock of chattering sparrows darted among the passing feet, snatching grain that had spilled from a bag earlier in the day.

He spotted Huy coming toward the warehouse at a fast pace and with him a tall, well-formed man who carried a baton of office. The guard officer investigating the tomb robberies, Bak assumed.

Amonked bade good-bye to the ship’s captain, waited for the pair to draw near, and introduced Bak to the newly arrived officer. Lieutenant Menna, as he had guessed.

“You two should get on well together,” Amonked told Menna. “Lieutenant Bak has stood at the head of a company of Medjays at the fortress of Buhen for over two years. He’s a most talented investigator.” Pointing to a portable stool Huy drew close, he added, “I’ve told him of your own knowledge.”

While Menna sampled the wine and fruit, Bak studied him surreptitiously. He was a man of thirty or so years, freshly oiled and smelling of a scent he had used after bathing. His kilt was the whitest of whites, his broad beaded collar and bracelets gleamed. His belt buckle, the grip of his dagger, and his baton of office glistened. Bak doubted he had ever met a man so careful of his person. He wondered how he looked after tramping through the sandswept cemeteries of western Waset for hours on end.

Amonked handed Menna the precious objects lying in the square of cloth. “Lieutenant Bak found this jewelry on a cargo ship moored at Buhen. If not for him, these pieces would now be adorning the wife of some minor Kushite king.”

After looking closely at each object, Menna tapped with a finger the name within the ring of protection. “I’ll wager these came from the same tomb as the cowrie necklace and girdle the inspector found on a ship moored in Mennufer two months ago.”

“I’d not be surprised.” Amonked’s voice hardened. “This abomination must stop, Lieutenant. You must find that tomb.

That and the others being rifled. Of greater import, you must snare the man responsible.”