Lauren Haney - Curse of Silence

“If Amonked’s as determined to do our sovereign’s bid ding as we think he is,” Nebwa said, “he’ll send a letter of his own to the royal house.”

Thuty shifted his stool to escape the sun’s glare. “A cour ier sailing a fast skiff, traveling night and day, can usually reach Ma’am in two days. The voyage to the capital is more than four times longer, with a lot more distance in which to run into difficulties. By the time fresh orders can be issued by Maatkare Hatshepsut, you…” Baring his teeth in a nasty grin, he pointed at Bak. “… will have laid hands on the slayer.”

Thuty was actually enjoying himself, Bak could see, now that he had an excuse to grab the offensive. “Sixteen or more days coming and going.” He scratched the neck of a fuzzy black puppy that had strayed from its siblings. Un willing to make too rash a commitment, he said, “That might be enough time-if Amonked and his party will an swer my questions with a frank and open tongue. If not…

Well, each day that goes by lessens the chance of success.”

“You’ve never yet failed. You won’t this time.” Thuty delivered the statement like a proclamation, a feat accom plished rather than a difficult task still to be performed.

Nebwa winked at Bak. This was not the first time the commandant had issued such an edict, and as always, such certainty of success troubled him. One day he might fall short of so high an expectation. What would Thuty do then?

“I’ll take Imsiba along,” he said. “He won’t be happy, parting from his wife and her son, but he has the wit to ask the right questions and to see through misleading answers.”

“No. I don’t think so.” Thuty spoke slowly, his brows drawn together in thought, then his expression cleared and he stated, “No, Lieutenant, you cannot take Imsiba with you.”

“But, sir!” Frightened by the sudden sharpness in Bak’s voice, the puppy scurried away.

“He’s the best man for the task,” Nebwa said.

“No.” Thuty’s gaze settled on the husky officer, and a wicked gleam entered his eye. “You, Troop Captain, are the best for the task. You’ve the rank and authority to over ride any man in that caravan except Amonked himself.”

Bak groaned deep down inside himself. He loved Nebwa like a brother, but feared his quick temper and rash tongue.

“Sir!” Nebwa stared at the commandant, appalled. He disliked leaving his wife and child as much as Imsiba did.

“I’ve fresh troops to train, desert patrols to inspect, repairs to the outer wall to supervise, new construction to…”

“The matter has been decided.” Thuty glared at Nebwa, forcing him to abandon the protest, and at Bak to ensure he got no additional complaint. “You’ll depart for Kor im mediately. I wish you to join Amonked’s party before nightfall, and to set out with the caravan at first light to morrow when it begins the long trek south.” He bounded to his feet and headed toward the stairs leading to the first floor. “While you make ready, I’ll dictate a letter to Amon ked, painting a vivid picture of your talents as an investi gator, Bak, and of you, Nebwa, as a man of long experience

with raiding tribesmen. He’s taking too many valuable ob jects not to make himself a target, and I’ll point that out.”

Thuty’s intentions were well meant, Bak knew, but he wanted more than a few fine words on a scroll. Plunging down the stairs at the commandant’s heels, he said, “I’d like to take along a unit of archers or spearmen. They’ll give us added authority and, should we need personal pro tection for any reason, we’ll have them.”

“An excellent idea.” Thuty stopped abruptly at the bot tom of the stairs, swung around, queried Nebwa with a glance. The troop captain knew more of the day-to-day workings of the garrison than the commandant himself, and knew which men could be removed from duty, causing the least disruption.

Nebwa pulled up short to avoid bumping into the pair below. “I’ve twenty archers awaiting reassignment. They can be ready within the hour.”

The trio hastened on down the hall, Thuty to fetch a scribe and dictate his letters, his subordinates to prepare to join a caravan and a party of travelers who would, at best, resent their presence. Bak prayed the commandant’s deci sion to send Nebwa would not prove a mistake. He con soled himself with the thought that Imsiba could conduct a parallel investigation in Buhen, thereby satisfying Amon ked that all was being done that should be-and responding to a tiny nagging fear within himself that he might be wrong in assuming the slayer was one who had dwelt within the house.

“You and Nebwa are going upriver with Amonked?” No fery laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think the com mandant slew Baket-Amon just to have an excuse to send men along with the inspection party.”

Bak placed a finger to his lips. “Silence, old woman.

Should a rumor like that spread along the river, reaching the ears of Baket-Amon’s subjects and allies, Thuty would be forced to leave Buhen.”

“What of Amonked? Will the people dare threaten a man of royal blood? One sent to Wawat by Maatkare Hatshepsut herself?”

“Suffice it to say, those twenty archers we’re taking along may prove a godsend.” Settling back on his stool, he raised his drinking bowl, inhaled the tangy aroma of the deep red wine it contained, and drank. “Delicious. I wish I could tarry, but I’m to meet Nebwa at the quay within the hour.”

Nofery’s house of pleasure was quiet, most of its occu pants resting after a busy night. The old man who cleaned was wielding a rush broom in a rear room, sending dust drifting across slender shafts of light falling through the courtyard’s lean-to roof. Bak had found the obese old woman seated on a low stool, examining the many objects she had received during the past few evenings in exchange for the pleasures provided. Spread out on the bench before her were jewelry of small value, items of clothing, woven reed sandals and baskets and mats, fresh and dried fruits and vegetables, pottery dishes and ornaments, several mea sures of grain, and a few small weapons: two daggers, a mace, and a scimitar. The lion lay in a patch of sun across the court, gnawing on a bone, growling softly at times in contentment.

Bak removed the weapons from the bench and laid them on the floor beside his stool. The troops were forbidden to trade away army issue equipment.

Nofery gave him a black look, but she knew the rules as well as he did and could not complain. She had succumbed to greed and lost.

“The prince said, when I saw him yesterday at the quay, that his past had come back to taunt him. Do you have any idea what he meant?”

“His past?” She gave an exaggerated shrug, letting him know how indifferent she was to his questions, how much she resented the loss of the weapons. “He was a mere child when I left the capital, one hostage among many who lived and studied in the royal house, rubbing shoulders with the sons of the nobility. I had no way of knowing him.”

“You counted princes among those who loved you.

Don’t deny what I know for a fact.”

Her smile was fleeting, grudgingly given. “They were young, yes, but they were men. This one was a child of six or seven years, a duckling who never strayed from the poul try yard. I never knew of his existence until I came to

Buhen.”

“Too bad. He grew into quite a man.”

“That he did.”

Bak sipped from his bowl, studying her across the rim.

He always thought of Nofery as the least sensuous of women, but something in her voice made him wonder if she, like the young women who toiled in her place of busi ness, had shared Baket-Amon’s passion. Her face gave away no secrets.