Lauren Haney - Curse of Silence

Bak gently laid the prince on the floor. Psuro straight ened out the legs without being asked, a measure of the distress he felt at having failed in his duty. The dagger protruded from the dead man’s lower chest. It angled up ward, piercing the heart with the single thrust. The broad collar, bracelets, anklets, and especially the pendant were finely crafted and of sufficient value to proclaim theft as an unlikely reason for the slaying.

Faced with a task he abhorred, Bak swallowed hard, took hold of the dagger, and pulled it free. The bronze blade was narrow and pointed, about the length of a man’s hand. The hilt, also of bronze, had been slightly roughened to provide a secure grip. The dagger was simple and unadorned, not of military issue but as easily come by. He had seen many similar weapons offered in the markets of Mennufer and

Waset and Abu.

He laid the dagger beside the body, stood erect, and fo cused on Psuro. The Medjay, one of his best and most dependable men, stood stiff and straight, tense, awaiting an interrogation he obviously dreaded.

Bak eyed the stocky policeman, his demeanor stern.

“How long ago did Baket-Amon come to this house?”

“I can’t say for a fact,” Psuro admitted, shame-faced.

“None of us saw him enter.”

“If each and every guard was at his assigned post, how could he possibly have escaped notice?”

The Medjay stared straight ahead. “We were obliged to leave our posts, sir.”

Bak gave him an incredulous look. “All of you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I assume you have an explanation. A good one.” Bak’s grim expression, his severe tone promised dire conse quences if no suitable reason was offered.

“I believe so, sir.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Psuro licked his lips, shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“At break of day, Amonked’s sailors began to carry away the furnishings in this house, taking what was his back to his ship. Eight or ten youths-apprentices, they were, on the way to their masters’ workshops-came upon them a block down the street. They began pelting them with stones.

The sailors were laden with objects of value they had no choice but to protect. Rather than allow a fight to break out, giving both Amonked and the people of this garrison ad ditional reason for anger, we went to their aid.” The Medjay paused, cleared his throat. “It was then, I believe, that the prince entered the house.”

And soon after, he was slain, Bak thought. “How long were you away from your posts?”

“A few moments at most.” Psuro saw the doubt on Bak’s face and hastened to be more exact. “I raced full-tilt down the stairs and out onto the street, where I found the others already gathering. As soon as the youths saw us coming and realized our purpose, they ran. I sent Kasaya after them to make sure they wouldn’t return, and the rest of us went back to our posts.”

Psuro was not a man to lie or exaggerate, so Bak knew his tale was true and unembellished. The house had indeed been unobserved for only a short while. Too short, he sus pected, for Baket-Amon to enter unseen, and for someone else to follow him inside, stab him, stuff his body into the storage area, and leave the house unnoticed. A theory that did not include time for the angry words that most likely preceded the murder. Some member of the inspection party had slain the prince, he felt sure.

But why? Could the prince have entered the building for some reason other than to beseech Amonked to keep the army on the frontier? Some reason related to the past that had troubled him so?

He turned his thoughts back to Psuro. The knowledge that the Medjays had not strayed for long was no excuse.

They should not have lowered their guard. “You had no idea Baket-Amon was inside?”

“None, sir.”

“What of the people in Amonked’s party?” Not ready to relent, he remained stern. “Were they all in the dwelling when the fight occurred up the street?”

“Yes, sir. Probably because of the early hour. The streets were fairly dark, uninviting to people who have limited knowledge of this city.”

“And later?”

“It was chaos, sir, complete chaos.” Psuro shook his head in wonder. “They were milling around all over the place.

Going into and out of the house, following the sailors down the street to see if any precious belonging had been dam aged in the fight, or to retrieve something they’d already packed and couldn’t live without until they boarded their ship, or to pack something they’d forgotten to stow in a chest or basket.”

Bak eyed the Medjay critically. “You did what you thought best, Psuro, and I’ll not fault you for that. You clearly had no choice but to go to the sailors’ aid. However, you should’ve left at least one man at his post to watch over the house.”

Psuro, as transparent as a pool of clear water, failed to hide his shame. “I know I erred, sir. I’ll never let it happen again.”

“After Baket-Amon is taken away, you may go back to the barracks and get some sleep, you and the others who were posted here through the night. First, tell them what’s happened and pledge their silence. It’s not up to us to add fuel to the rumors which will all too soon spread throughout

Buhen and beyond.”

“Yes, sir.” Psuro swung around, openly relieved his or deal was over, and hurried from the room.

Bak stood over the body, looking at the remains of a man who had two days before called him a friend. He of fered a silent prayer to the lady Maat that Commandant

Thuty would allow him to pursue the slayer and snare him-no matter who or how lofty the killer proved to be.

“I don’t care what Amonked says, Lieutenant.” Thuty paced the length of the courtyard outside his private recep tion room, swung around, stalked back in the opposite di rection. Struck at an angle by the midmorning sun, the open court lay half in shadow, half in brightness, emphasizing the play of his powerful muscles. “He and his party must either return to Buhen, or you must travel upriver with them. The prince was slain in the house they occupied, and someone inside that house took his life.”

Bak, seated on the floor beside a loom on which was stretched a length of white linen, was delighted with

Thuty’s decision that he investigate the murder, although he did not know what else the commandant could in all good conscience do.

“He’ll not come back to Buhen.” Nebwa rearranged a twig nestled in the corner of his mouth. “That’d be too much like an admission that someone he holds close is guilty of wrongdoing.” The troop captain occupied a low stool in the sunny space between two potted acacias.

The court, like the rest of Thuty’s private quarters, was cluttered with toys and reminders of household tasks. A couple of spindles and the loom, a bowl filled with peas that needed shelling, a tunic with a partly mended tear, strips of beef drying on a line stretched overhead. Four black puppies played around a large bowl of water on which floated a half-dozen blue lilies. Their sweet scent vied with the aromas of baking bread and roasting lamb, setting Bak’s stomach to growling.

“Nor will he wish to delay a task ordered by our sov ereign,” Thuty grumbled. “A small matter of murder won’t halt his wretched inspection.”

“He’ll claim-with good reason-that my men allowed their attention to stray.” Bak raised a knee and wrapped his arm around his leg. “I’ll wager he’ll say someone resentful of the inspection entered the dwelling and slew the first man he came upon. A resident of Buhen or someone pass ing through.”

Nebwa snorted. “Baket-Amon? A man known and liked throughout Wawat?”

Thuty jerked a stool away from the wall, swept three leather balls onto the floor, and sat down. “I don’t care what the swine claims. I’m giving you unlimited authority to investigate, and I’ll send a courier to Ma’am with a letter to the viceroy, seeking support I’m sure he’ll give.”