Lauren Haney: Curse of Silence

Lest Amonked take the final statement at face value and use it for his own purposes, Bak added quickly, “It’s easy enough to draw together sufficient men to fall upon a car avan spread across the desert or to raid vulnerable farms and hamlets, but quite another to muster a large enough force to attack a fully manned walled city.”

The inspector’s eyes rested on Bak for an instant, his thoughts hidden behind an expressionless mask. A mask carefully molded, Bak suspected, by a lifetime of tiptoeing among those who held the reins of power.

Thuty led the party into the building.

They walked corridor after corridor, passing room after room. Amonked paused now and again to ask a question, which Thuty answered, or simply to watch a man at work.

Many of the soldiers were on the practice field outside the walls of the fortress. Those who remained went on with their tasks, studiously ignoring the intruders. As far as Bak could tell, the inspector missed nothing, yet his expression throughout was noncommittal, registering neither approval nor disapproval. Nor did he react in any way to the men’s silence, their excessive concentration on their tasks.

Back on the street, the inspector asked, “How many men have taken local women as wives and now call Wawat their home?”

Thuty looked as surprised by the question as Bak was.

What difference would numbers make if the army was torn from the Belly of Stones? Or was Amonked in fact con cerned about all those who had made this land their home?

“A hundred and fifty, maybe more, dwell in the oasis across the river. More than two thousand live along the river between here and Semna.”

“I see.” Amonked raised his head, sniffing the air. The odor of baking bread wafted from a doorway brightly lit by the sun. “Ah, the cooking area. If that bread tastes as good as it smells, we must share a loaf.”

Obediently, Thuty headed toward the kitchen. Amonked stopped outside the door to look back at the barracks build ing.

“Impressive,” he said. “The structure is in excellent con dition, Commandant, and the space inside could not be bet ter arranged for more efficient use.” He nodded, smiled.

“Yes, it could be converted to a warehouse quite easily.”

“On the final day of every week, each commander of the fortresses along the Belly of Stones selects the most im portant information from his daybook and compiles a re port.” Thuty, his stance stiff and remote, removed a scroll at random from a wooden shelf built against the wall. He broke the seal, untied the cord that bound it, unrolled a segment half the length of his arm, and held it out for

Amonked to see. “He sends this compilation to me by cour ier.” His voice was as cold and distant as his manner.

Bak recognized the loose, flowing scrawl of the com mander of the fortress of Semna. The report was at least a month old and probably three times the length of the visible segment. Amonked and Horhotep moved in close to get a better look.

Before they could possibly read the few visible entries,

Thuty rolled the document into a tight cylinder and handed it to a scribe for refiling. “After I’ve read them all and passed them by my senior staff, I give them to the chief scribe, Kha.”

He walked the length of the long, narrow room, followed by his retinue. Two rows of ten scribes each sat cross legged on the floor, facing Kha. Their heads were bowed over open scrolls, their reed pens scratching across the pa pyrus in a pretense of work, a slim excuse for ignoring their exalted visitor.

The commandant stopped before the chief scribe, an ag ing, bald man who sat on a thick linen pad facing his min ions. “Kha excerpts major occurrences from the various garrison reports and compiles them in a new document. We send that to the viceroy, who forwards it on to the vizier in Waset.” The elderly man handed over a slender roll of papyrus, which Thuty unrolled. The scroll was less than a cubit in length, the report two narrow columns filling half the available space. “As you can see, it’s short and concise, containing only items of major import.”

Horhotep caught hold of the corner of the scroll. “May

I?” His voice was sharp, more a demand than a question.

Anger darkened Thuty’s face. Bak, fearing the comman dant’s tight control would snap, slapped hard at the back of his neck and at the same time took a quick step forward and pivoted, striking Horhotep’s head with his elbow.

The adviser loosed his grip on the scroll and swung around. “How dare you strike me!”

Bak rubbed his neck, forced a rueful smile. “Something bit me. An insect. I meant no harm.”

Nebwa, quick to understand, flicked a spot from his kilt.

“Fleas. They’re vicious this time of year.”

“I’ve noticed a good number of the pests in the dwelling in which we’re staying,” Amonked said. “I assumed the former inhabitants had pets, but perhaps all of Buhen is infested.” With a distasteful grimace, he took the scroll from Thuty. “Shall we get on with our task?” and he began to read.

Horhotep gave Bak a mean glare, then turned his attention to the document. Seeing the pair distracted, Nebwa pretended to wipe his brow. Thuty, very much aware of how close he had come to losing his temper, threw Bak a quick look of gratitude. A scribe near the back of the room scratched his thigh, setting off a rustling of kilts and a sub dued stir that sounded suspiciously like muffled laughter.

Amonked’s eyes darted toward the seated men and back to the scroll, a bland look masking his thoughts.

“This report contains the barest of details.” Horhotep tapped the scroll with a finger and sniffed his disdain. “If the scrolls of each of the ten garrison commanders include as much information as their length indicates, most of what occurs is omitted here. No wonder officials in Waset know so little of the activities along the Belly of Stones.”

“Perhaps nothing of significance occurs,” Amonked said,

“as our sovereign believes.”

Bak muttered an oath. Their very efficiency was speaking against them.

“This building serves as our treasury. Many of the items stored here are products of the land of Kush, but the ma jority have traveled from farther south, from strange and exotic lands few men from Kemet have seen.”

Thuty paused in the anteroom, waiting for the two guards to light torches so the inspection party could see into the darkest corners. He and his entourage filled the small space, crowding the two scribes, who feigned indifference to their lofty visitors. “About half what you see was obtained through trade. Roughly a quarter was given as tribute to our sovereign, offered by tribal princes and kings who wish to acknowledge her friendship with gifts. The remaining quarter…”

“Commandant Thuty.” Amonked’s voice held an edge of irritation. “I’ve been storekeeper of Amon for almost ten years. I’m fully aware of the source of all the valuable and exotic items that pass through the land of Wawat.”

Thuty crossed the threshold and followed a guard into a large room. If the reproach troubled him, he gave no sign.

“The items you see here will remain until suitable trans portation and security can be guaranteed. They’re reason ably safe within the walls of Buhen, but we must take many additional precautions to protect them during the long voy age north.”

The remainder of the party followed, with the second guard bringing up the rear, keeping a close eye on the vis itors. Flickering torchlight fell on baskets and jars and sacks and woven reed chests stacked in rows, sometimes precar iously high. The contents of each jar was scrawled across its shoulder or scratched into its dried mud plug, while baked clay tags identified the products inside the less solid containers. The air was heavy with the odors of herbs and spices, rare woods, aromatic oils, dust, and a musty smell