Lauren Haney - Curse of Silence

“How well did you know Baket-Amon?” he asked.

A pack of feral dogs raced across the campsite, barking at a cat speeding just out of harm’s way. Amonked’s dog shot to its feet. The inspector grabbed its collar before it, too, could give chase. The animal whined and struggled to get away, but he held on tight. “He was an envoy to the royal house. I saw him when he came to pay his respects to our sovereign or when he reported to the vizier. We were by no means friendly.”

Bak thought he heard a faint harshness in the inspector’s voice, a tension, but his face revealed nothing. “He spoke of his past coming back to taunt him. Do you have any idea what he might’ve been talking about?”

“I’ve never been good at guessing what lies in another man’s heart, Lieutenant.” Amonked swept aside the cloth covering the entryway and stepped inside, half choking the struggling dog. “I must dictate the results of our inspection of this fortress while my impressions are fresh.”

Bak held his ground. “If I’m to lay hands on Baket Amon’s slayer, I’ll need the cooperation of every member of your party. Will you see that they help me, sir?”

“I’ll tell them of your mission, yes, and I’ll suggest they cooperate. How willing they’ll be, I have no idea. That, I suspect, will be up to you.” Amonked dropped the cloth behind him, leaving Bak standing by himself in the sun shine.

Quashing an urge to shake the inspector until his teeth rattled, Bak strode toward the commanding officer’s quar ters. He had to send a message to Thuty, reporting that he and Nebwa had Amonked’s reluctant permission to remain with the caravan and investigate the murder. As for the inspector himself, what could he report? The man was like a boulder, solid and difficult to move. That he and Baket Amon had crossed paths in the past, Bak was certain, and neither man had come away content. Could their differ ences have been so serious that Amonked-cousin to Maat kare Hatshepsut herself-had slain the prince? Bak shuddered at the possibility.

“I hate this place! This wild and unruly land of Wawat!”

Nefret, Amonked’s concubine, blinked back angry tears.

“Amonked is a good and gentle man. One who’d never knowingly hurt anyone. I can’t think why he wished me to come.”

Bak had trouble holding back a smile. He had a good idea why the inspector had brought the young woman along. About twenty years of age, she was one of the most sensuous creatures he had seen since coming to Wawat close on two years earlier. Her firm breasts, narrow waist, and rounded hips, covered but not concealed by a white linen sheath, vied in beauty with those of the lady Hathor.

Large black eyes, long thick lashes, and wide, seductive lips adorned an oval face framed by a mass of black hair that cascaded around her shoulders. He prayed she’d stay inside the pavilion. Should the troops assigned to Kor see her, he feared a riot. Aware Amonked was sharing his eve ning meal with the commander of Kor, he had decided he must meet the other members of the inspector’s traveling household, especially the woman. The sobbing he had heard earlier hinted at discontent, and discontent often led to a failure to guard one’s tongue.

“His traveling ship is a prison. A benevolent prison, to be sure, but, oh, so confining!” She drew her legs beneath her, fluffed up the mound of pillows at her back, and re clined against them. “He equipped the vessel with every comfort, but to sail up the river day after day, with no diversions except a few ugly fortresses and a multitude of villages too small and poor and filthy to visit was an abom ination. I thought, once we reached the viceroy’s residence in Ma’am, that I could at least talk to a few women and maybe visit a decent market.” Her laugh was bitter, close to a whimper. “How wrong I was.”

“Mistress, please…” The maid, a girl of twelve or so years whose youthful form had just begun to blossom, hov ered at Nefret’s side, a mirror in one hand, an ivory comb in the other. A small wooden chest containing cosmetics and hair ornaments stood open on the mat at her feet.

“Go away, Mesutu.” Nefret frowned at the girl. “Go fetch us some wine. Some honey cakes, too.”

The girl threw a helpless look at the scribe seated on the floor at the opposite end of the pavilion, laid mirror and comb beside the box, and hastened through the wall of fab ric that separated the sleeping quarters from the more public area.

“The viceroy’s wife was not there. She’d sailed north to the fortress of Kubban to assist her daughter in childbirth.”

Nefret picked up the mirror, glanced at her image, and screwed up her nose in distaste. “The women who were there talked of nothing but their dreary lives in that dreary fortress.” She laid the mirror on the floor mat, sniffed back tears. “As for Buhen… Well, it was no better. I had to remain in that dreadful house.” She flashed a bitter look at the scribe. “And now, I must stay here. Where it’s safe, they tell me.”

The scribe stared unhappily at the scroll spread across his lap.

“After his meeting with Commandant Thuty,” Nefret went on, “Amonked issued an order that we not socialize with the officers and their families while he inspects the fortresses along the Belly of Stones.” Her voice rang with frustration. “I can’t imagine what prompted him. Did they quarrel?”

“Mistress Nefret.” The scribe, whom Bak guessed at thirty or so years, laid aside the scroll, struggled to his feet, and crossed the room, his gait heavy and off-center. Unlike most men of his profession, he wore a shorter, thigh-length kilt, probably to ease the effort of walking. A monstrous scar ran from his right ankle up his lower leg and deformed knee, to vanish beneath the garment. “You must not speak out in anger. You’ll hurt no one but yourself.”

“Can’t you ever leave me in peace, Thaneny?” She shot to her feet, glared. “Must you constantly repeat Amonked’s words like the pale shadow you are?” Bursting into sobs, she ran from the room.

The scribe looked as if he had been slapped. “She’s very upset, sir. Lonely. Afraid. She doesn’t mean half of what she says.” A blind man could see he doted on the young woman.

To no avail, Bak feared, if the contempt she had dis played were sincere. “Most women come to Wawat with their husbands and children, and they tolerate this life for a year, two years, sometimes three, because they must.

She’s fortunate she has to remain only a few weeks.” He had no doubt Nefret could hear through the flimsy wall of hangings. His words would offer no comfort, but they might set her to thinking of others besides herself.

“She shouldn’t get so angry with Amonked. From the day he took her into his household, he’s cherished her, plied her with gifts, surrounded her with beauty and comfort.”

Thaneny looked away and spoke in a wistful voice. “Would that I could someday give a woman all he’s given her.”

“Has not the lord Amon given you far more than material objects?” Bak asked, thinking of the misshapen leg.

“My life, yes. I thank him each and every day for sparing me.” Thaneny spoke as if reciting a litany, deeply felt but too often uttered. “Nefret can’t find it in her heart to un derstand, but I never cease to thank that most benevolent of gods for allowing me to serve a kind and generous man, one who doesn’t look away each time I walk into the room.”

Bak was aware that Thaneny’s labored gait would arouse a pity few men wished to acknowledge. Especially since the scribe was a handsome man still in his prime, with well formed facial features, broad shoulders, narrow waist, and muscular arms. If Amonked could look at the man and not see the deformity, he had at least one redeeming quality.