Lauren Haney - Curse of Silence

“Do you want the prince’s death to go unresolved? Do you wish the thought to fester forever in men’s hearts that you slew him?”

Amonked stared, thin-lipped, at the pack of feral dogs ranging across the sandy waste to the west. The animals had abandoned the inspection party in Iken, joining their brethren who dwelt within the walls of the fortress. The caravan had gone on without them, but some ancient in stinct had caused them to again form a band and follow the desert patrol and their lofty charges.

Amonked tore his gaze from the dogs and, with a dis tasteful look, began to speak. “Yes, Baket-Amon desired

Nefret. I’m not certain how often he came to my dwelling in Waset-neither she nor my wife would tell me-but at some point he made a nuisance of himself and the two of them together told me of his visits. I doubt he loved Nefret.

My wife believes that because she held herself aloof while other young women doted on him, she became a challenge he could not resist.”

“I’ve never heard that he pursued a woman uninvited.”

“Nor have I, but my wife assured me such was the case with Nefret. And my wife is a truthful woman.” Amonked looked hard at Bak, daring him to challenge the assertion.

“I confronted the prince and told him he must go away and forget her.”

“He agreed, I assume.”

“He offered to buy her.” Amonked’s annoyance was plain. “As if she were a common servant, one who’d come into my home and my bed to pay off her father’s debts. I set him straight on that score and refused his offer. We quarreled. Unaccustomed to having his wishes denied, he…” Raising his chin high, Amonked said indignantly,

“He called me a selfish old man.”

Selfish and old, Bak thought. Words designed to wound, words no man wishes to repeat when applied to himself.

“Not the judicious response I’d have expected from a royal envoy.”

“Indeed not.”

Bak offered an understanding smile. “You were in censed, I assume, and rightly so.”

“I ordered him out of my house. He refused to leave without hearing from Nefret that she wanted nothing to do with him. I finally threatened to speak to my cousin, Maat kare Hatshepsut, and he hurried away in a huff.”

“Never to return?”

“Never.” Amonked’s eyes darted toward Bak and he added with a certain amount of bitterness, “Why would I slay a man when I have merely to mention my cousin’s name and my least significant wish becomes a command?”

This was a side of the inspector Bak had never imagined, and he liked him better for the admission. He yearned to respond, but could think of nothing appropriate to say. So they walked along together, saying nothing, their silence strained at first but soon strangely comfortable.

Late in the afternoon they stopped at a watch station located on a rocky knob that rose above the surrounding landscape. While Amonked spoke with the sergeant in charge, Bak looked off to the south, where the caravan was making its slow way across the rolling, sandswept land scape, leaving behind the river and the wrath of the people who dwelt along its banks.

A soldier on duty pointed out, some distance to the west, a half-dozen ant-sized figures. “I thought at first they were nomads coming to the river for water, but instead they trav eled a parallel course to the caravan. Now, with the sun at their backs, making it hard to see them, they’re getting closer.”

Bak shaded his eyes with his hand. “They’re up to no good, we must assume, but what do they hope to gain? Our archers could decimate so small a group in no time at all.”

The inspection party rejoined the caravan as the sun sank toward the western horizon. Bidding good-bye to the desert patrol, who hastened east toward the river, they walked forward along the line of donkeys. They found the men in the lead unloading their animals and setting up camp on a broad sweep of desert with a cluster of sandy hillocks off to the west. Seshu stood in the midst of the commotion, issuing orders with skill and authority. Leaving the others to go their own way, Bak and Nebwa walked to him.

As they spoke of the next day’s march, the lord Re set tled on the horizon, preparing to enter the netherworld. The yellow-gold feral dog to which the bundle of sandals had been tied crouched among the piles of supplies, waiting to steal any food it could grab. The creature raised its head and sniffed the air, drawing Bak’s attention. It stood, trotted up the shallow slope to the west, and stopped to sniff again.

The hair rose on the back of its neck and it began to bark.

Other dogs raced up from all directions and they sped out across the desert, barking for all they were worth. Nebwa and Bak exchanged a silent query: a gazelle? Or the nomads they had seen from the watch station?

Before they could go see for themselves, a half-dozen men crested a hillock. The dogs stopped to watch from a safe distance. With the light behind the men, detail was lacking, but Bak could make out long spears and shields.

The sun dipped below the horizon, lighting the sky in one last brilliant flash of color. The figures were for a short time fully visible. Six men of the desert, one standing out from the rest. A man clad in a red kilt, with a red feather rising above his hair.

Nebwa spat out an oath. “Hor-pen-Deshret.”

“The swine has come,” Seshu said with venom.

“He must be the reason we’ve seen no people along the river,” Bak said.

“I’d not be surprised.” Nebwa glared at the men across the sand. “He raided farms and hamlets all along the west bank, taking the animals and harvest for his people and impoverishing the farmers. After he became more daring, robbing caravans and gaining more booty in a single attack than he had during a dozen before, he continued to take what was theirs.”

“He’s come to look us over, to evaluate the risk and gain.” Seshu’s expression was bleak. “I feared something like this would happen. So rich a caravan draws raiders like ants to grease.”

Nebwa was equally grim. “For every man we see, he’ll have eight or ten behind him, camped out of sight some where on the desert.”

“He’s surely heard of Amonked’s mission,” Bak said.

“Wouldn’t he be wise to hold off, waiting until the army is torn from the Belly of Stones?”

“You don’t know Hor-pen-Deshret,” Nebwa growled.

“Greed drives him, not good sense. If he concludes this caravan is worth attacking-and he will-he’ll think of to day’s gain, not tomorrow’s.”

The men’s concern was contagious, infecting Bak. “What of the people along the river? Will they stand with us if we’re attacked? He’s their foe as well as ours.”

Nebwa shrugged. “They fear him greatly and they mis 172

Lauren Haney trust Amonked. To them, one evil may be no better than another.”

Bak muttered a curse. This was the longest stretch be tween fortresses, a three-day march across the open desert to Askut. He and Nebwa, the two sergeants, and twenty archers could easily hold off fifty or so men attacking en masse. But random attacks along the length of a moving caravan or an attack by a large party would be impossible to fight off. Unless… “Go find Lieutenant Merymose and

Sergeant Dedu. Those fifty guards must be trained to be soldiers immediately.”

“I don’t see Hor-pen-Deshret among them.” Bak stared off across the desert at the half-dozen tribesmen who had kept pace with the caravan since they had broken camp at first light.

“Nor do I.” Nebwa, standing with him on a tall granite monolith that rose above the rolling sandhills, eyed the dis tant figures, his face grim. “He’s close by, though. I can feel him.”