Lauren Haney - Curse of Silence

The missile sped past Amonked, missing him by an arm’s length. Bak raced toward the hidden archer with

Nebwa at his side. A stream of arrows flew past, their course nowhere near, their target uncertain. Too many ar rows for one man to fire, Bak thought, the wild shots of inexperienced men-or men firing in haste or desperation.

Three men armed with bows burst from the shadow and raced like frightened hares into the nearest lane. Bak and

Nebwa sped after them. They turned to the right into an intersecting street and to the left at the next lane. Another turn carried them deeper into the lower city, closer to the escarpment. People leaped out of their way, dogs barked, a small child wailed when an archer kicked its ball far down a lane. Bak feared the trio would split up, but in their panic they ran on together. He feared they would lose themselves in the maze-like lanes, as his assailant had done the pre vious night, but that, too, proved an unnecessary worry. A final turn carried them into a lane that went nowhere.

Bak and Nebwa found them standing at the base of the escarpment, caught in a trap of their own making. Panting for breath, frightened, shamed by so gross a failure, they dropped their bows and quivers to the ground and held their hands at shoulder level, signaling defeat.

“All right,” Nebwa said, “who are you and what, in the name of the lord Amon, did you think you were doing?”

They looked at each other, each man pleading silently with the others to speak up. To think of a tale, Bak suspected, that would make them look as innocent as newborn calves.

“I’m Lieutenant Bak, head of the Medjay police in Bu hen.” He stared at them, his expression stern. “I must know your names and how you earn your bread.”

Each rattled off a name and an occupation. One was an armorer, another butchered meat for the garrison, the third made the heavy leather sandals worn by the troops. Men not of the army, but men whose livelihoods depended upon the army’s continued occupation of the fortress. Bak glanced at Nebwa, who nodded his understanding of the reason behind their foolishness.

Hearing a noise in the lane behind them, Bak glanced back. He could hardly believe his eyes. Amonked and Sen nefer stood in an intersecting lane, too deep in its mouth to be seen by the three bowmen. The inspector’s face was flushed and he was gasping for breath, while Sennefer showed slight strain as a result of the chase.

“Who were you trying to slay?” Nebwa, unaware of the men behind him, looked as severe as Bak had, but his voice carried a suspicious note of humor. “From your lack of skill, the wild manner in which your arrows flew, it was hard to know.”

“We didn’t want to slay anyone,” the butcher wailed.

“We wanted to scare him, that’s all. The inspector.”

“What’ll we do if he tears the army from Iken?” the sandal maker whined. “We all have wives whose families dwell here. Our children know nothing but this city, this land of Wawat.”

“What good would I be with the army gone?” the ar morer asked. “Merchants have no use for weapons.”

Bak secretly blessed the trio. In a few highly emotional words, they had unknowingly told Amonked what he most needed to hear.

Nebwa eyed them long and hard. “What shall we do with them, Lieutenant?”

“We could turn them over to Horhotep.” Bak looked from one man to the next, making sure they understood the worst possible consequence of their actions. “Lieutenant

Horhotep, the inspector’s military adviser is a cold, unfor giving man who’ll insist you be sent to the desert mines as punishment.”

“No!” they chorused, horrified.

“What would happen to our families?” the sandal maker cried.

“My wife. How would she feed our children?” the ar morer wailed.

Nebwa frowned, pretending to think over their fate. “I’d prefer we turn them over to Commander Woser. They’re his men, his problem.”

“Let them go.” Amonked came up beside the two offi cers, his breathing not yet under control. “I’d guess their attempt at murder frightened them as much as me. I doubt they’ll ever again repeat so foolhardy an action.”

Bak did not know which was the more surprising: the fact that the inspector had managed to follow them or that he had given so generous a judgment. “Are you sure you want to do this, sir?”

“Set them free.”

No men had ever before dropped to their knees in front of Bak and bowed so low their foreheads touched the ground. He was startled-and discomfited-by their ex treme gratitude. Amonked looked unmoved.

Nebwa set a fast pace at the head of the desert patrol

Woser had assigned to escort them south to the caravan.

The ten spearmen who regularly patrolled the desert sands were hard-muscled, tough-thinking young men burned dark by the sun. The sleek, well-groomed men from the capital maintained the same fast pace, but with an effort. Assuming the attempt on Amonked’s life had shown him how vul nerable he was, Bak thought it a good time to probe for information. He drew the inspector off to the side of the column, close enough to be safe, far enough so no one could hear.

They were on high ground, following a trail that would, later in the day, strike off across the desert to avoid a bend in the river, saving many hours’ march over hard, rough terrain. To the east, islands large and small broke the sur face of the glittering ribbon of water contained between tree-lined banks interrupted at times by the mouths of dry watercourses covered with black, fertile soil or by streams of sand spilling out from the desert. In spite of the obsta cles, the river flowed more freely than at any time since they had left Kor.

Amonked studied the surrounding landscape, his face clouded by worry. “Do you think it wise to walk so far from the patrol?”

Since leaving Iken, Bak had seen no one standing along the riverbank, watching them pass. The trees were thick enough to shelter an army, but was not the purpose of the endless watch to be seen? To unnerve with a continuing presence? “I wish to speak of Nefret and Baket-Amon, sir.

If you have no objection to others hearing, we can rejoin them.”

“Our experience in Iken has made me too cautious,”

Amonked admitted, looking chagrined. “If anyone chose to attack us now, we’d see them in plenty of time.”

Bak forced himself not to look again at the river, but the temptation was great. The absence of watchers puzzled him.

Why were they not there as always before? Something must have happened to discourage them, but what? Surely not

Amonked’s kindness to those three witless bowmen. Some thing of far greater significance.

“I know you quarreled with Baket-Amon,” he said.

“So Thaneny told me.” Amonked expelled a humorless laugh. “It was naive of me to believe you’d not learn of the confrontation, but I don’t like to think of myself as a man of no self-control, and to proclaim my irrationality to a stranger is repugnant.”

“Baket-Amon’s reputation with women neared mythical proportions, and your concubine is a very lovely and de sirable woman. You surely know that fact alone places you high among those who might have wished him dead.”

“We argued about her, yes. But would I slay a man for her? Never!”

“Then tell me of your quarrel.”

“I can assure you that our words spoken in anger were quickly forgiven and forgotten. By me, for a fact. By him as well, if I’m the excellent judge of men Maatkare Hat shepsut believes me to be.”

Did he mention his cousin, thinking to intimidate me?

Bak wondered. “To keep the quarrel a secret multiplies my suspicions ten times over.”

The inspector threw him an irritated look. “I’ve no desire to speak further of the matter.”