Lauren Haney: Curse of Silence

“When did you last see him?”

“Two nights ago, when you were here.” With a dramatic sigh, she gave the weapons a final, rueful look, turned to face the bench, and picked up a copper bangle to study it for value. “He left at daybreak, fully sated.”

“He didn’t come back last night? Before he was slain?

He told me he meant to.”

She laid down the bangle and picked up a bronze ring with a mounting of yellowish stone. “I expected him-he seldom missed a night when he was in Buhen-but no, he never returned.”

“I can’t believe he’s dead.” The captain of Baket-Amon’s ship, a tall, bony man of middle years, slammed the palm of his hand against the frame of the brightly painted deck house, as if to punish the structure for the prince’s death.

“He was so much a man, so strong and virile, so well-liked by one and all.”

Bak glanced across the quay, where Nebwa and the arch ers who would accompany them upriver were boarding the traveling ship that would transport them south to Kor. They all carried baskets and bundles containing rations, extra clothing and weapons, and whatever else they would need on the long trek south past the Belly of Stones.

“Did he have any enemies that you know of?”

“None.” The captain walked forward, passing the empty stalls, and sat on the edge of the forecastle, head down, hands between his knees. The cattle had been led away to the animal paddocks, where they would remain until the ship was allowed to sail. “Could the one who took his life have erred, slaying the wrong man?”

“He was a man not easily mistaken for another,” Bak reminded him. The mildness of his manner belied his im patience to be gone.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” The captain looked up, a puzzled frown on his face. “He was big, bigger than most, and as strong as an ox. Was he slain from behind?”

Bak thought it best to be frank. The captain would resent anything less. “He was stabbed in the breast. By someone he knew, I’d wager, someone he trusted who caught him unaware.” He leaned back against the nearest stall. The smell of fresh fodder tickled his nostrils. “Did he stay on board last night?”

“Yes, sir.” The captain cleared a roughness from his throat. “Most of the night he was here, but I can’t say he slept. Oh, maybe an hour or two, but he spent much of the time pacing. Sometimes here on deck, sometimes on the quay where he had more room.”

“Did he tell you what troubled him?” The question was crucial and both men knew it.

“Would that he had.” The captain spoke with genuine regret. “He wasn’t a man to confide in anyone. Not those of us who knew him well, at any rate.” He cleared his throat again, blinked hard. “I’ve heard he talked freely to the women he played with. Have you spoken with any of the girls at Nofery’s place of business?”

“He said nothing to them.” Bak glanced toward Nebwa, busy with the men stowing their gear. “He hinted, when last I saw him, of some unpleasant secret in his past. Do you know anything about his younger days?”

“I’ve been with him barely three years.”

“Long enough to have heard many tales.”

The captain managed a crooked smile. “I know he was a wild one when he was young. And even now…” The hint of humor vanished. “Well, his wives are fine women and his children are as good as can be, especially his first born son. I thank the gods they seldom traveled to Waset with him-or anywhere else, for that matter-so the chil dren were spared the knowledge that he spent his nights engaging in the diversions of the flesh.”

“You disapprove.”

The captain shrugged. “A man’s a man, and I can find no fault with that. He was well-liked by his people and, if anything, his sexual prowess increased his popularity. But enough’s enough, if you know what I mean.”

“He made Ma’am his home?”

“He kept his family there, yes.” A hint of a smile touched the captain’s lips. “Close to the seat of power, he always said, where his sons could be brothers to the viceroy’s chil dren and at the same time learn the ways of Kemet.”

“His oldest son is his heir, he told me. I assume he’ll succeed him.”

“He will, but Baket-Amon’s chief wife will wield the power. The boy’s not yet eight years of age. If he should die before he reaches his majority, she’s borne other sons to take his place.” Again the captain smiled, this more over tly cynical. “She’s a strong woman, and a determined one.

She wants no blood but her own-and that of Baket Amon-in the line of descent.”

In other words, Bak thought, the odds were good that

Baket-Amon had not been slain by someone who wished to take his place as a prince of Wawat. “I pray she shares her husband’s love for the land of Kemet.”

The captain stared at his hands, locked between his bare knees, as if uncertain what he should say. “She’s a wife and mother first and foremost. Now, with her husband dead, she’ll protect her sons and their interests with all the feroc ity of a lioness with her cubs.”

“Could she have slain Baket-Amon, fearing he’d bring into his household a woman he preferred over her?”

“That wouldn’t have been in her best interest, or that of her sons.”

“Is it true?” Sergeant Pashenuro called, hurrying along the riverbank toward the ship. “Has Baket-Amon been slain?”

“By the beard of Amon!” Bak stopped midway down the gangplank that spanned the space between the vessel and the bank against which the craft was moored. He stared aghast at the Medjay. “Has word spread already?”

“It’s true then.” Pashenuro, a short, broad man whose intelligence and bravery came close to equaling Imsiba’s, shook his head in consternation. “The people of this land will not take the news lightly.”

Realizing he was barring the sole path off the ship, Bak hurried on down the narrow board, leaped a patch of mud, and hustled the sergeant off to the side, out of the way.

“Has Amonked heard?”

“I’ve seen no sign that he has.”

Bak disliked surprising anyone with bad news, but per haps it would be to his advantage to approach the inspector unaware. “How did you get word?”

“A trader came from Buhen an hour ago, setting men to whispering. Speculating. He knew nothing substantial, but with you turning up, and Nebwa and the men, they’ll guess the tale is true.”

Bak accepted the inevitable. What other choice did he have? “Does Amonked believe you and Dedu to be Seshu’s drovers?”

“Yes, sir. If he’s noticed us at all.” The sergeant raised a hand in salute to Nebwa, striding down the gangplank.

“The caravan is large. A man can easily get lost among its members.”

The archers followed the troop captain, each man carry ing his long bow, heavy leather quiver, and supplies. Their loads ill-balanced, they rushed one by one down the board, teetering, laughing with the good humor of men released from the tedium of garrison duty.

“Have you managed to befriend anyone in the inspection party?” Bak asked.

“Pawah, Amonked’s herald. A boy of twelve or so years.” Pashenuro smiled. “He likes animals so he comes often to see the donkeys. And as I’m a Medjay from the eastern desert and he a nomad from the western sands, he thinks of me as kin.”

Waving good-bye to the ship’s master, Bak and the ser geant fell in beside Nebwa and strode up a path that ran along the riverbank. The archers straggled after them. They passed two local trading ships evicted from the quay in favor of Amonked’s flotilla. Few men remained on board, their crews no doubt at the harbor, gawking at the lofty arrivals. The fishing fleet could be seen far out on the river, seining.