Lauren Haney - Curse of Silence

“Strange that none of the desert patrols from Iken noticed any unusual movement over the last few days.”

“I’ll wager the swine came from straight out of the desert.”

Bak turned around to look at the long line of donkeys plodding south along the trail. The gentle morning breeze, its chill banished by the sun, was too weak to account for the clear blue sky above the caravan. The sand here was coarse and heavy, almost free of dust. Isolated granite ridges and knobs rose out of a seemingly endless blanket of gold, with long dunes trailing off from their downwind side.

He was worried. By crossing this segment of desert, avoiding the long bend in the river, they were shaving al most two days off their journey. But they had to pay for the shorter passage. The river would be more than an hour’s walk away for a man in a hurry, a march from dawn to dusk for the heavily burdened donkeys. Forced to carry water, each animal was laden with the maximum it could manage, slowing the caravan as a whole while at the same time saving thousands upon thousands of steps.

Taking a final, long look at the tribesmen, he said, “We must assume those men are an advanced guard, keeping an eye on our progress while Hor-pen-Deshret’s fighting force comes from farther afield. Two questions arise: How large will that force be? How long will it take to reach us?”

“He must know we’ve no intention of traveling beyond

Semna, and he’ll want to attack well before we get there.

Other than Buhen, it’s the only garrison with a full com plement of troops.” Nebwa climbed down the side of the monolith, taking care where he placed his feet on the eroded stone. “As for how many men he’s gathered, only the lord Set knows. He’s never been known to risk an attack unprepared.”

“This long stretch of open desert looks to me a good place to strike.”

“I can think of no better.” Nebwa eyed the distant men, his face dour. “I imagine he came yesterday to look us over, to see for himself the riches we’re carrying and the number of men he’ll have to face. If he liked what he saw… And how could he not?… he’ll think the gain worth the risk.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, making it look more out of control than usual. “Let’s hope he’s decided he needs more men and won’t strike until they arrive. He’ll have seen fifty spearmen and twenty archers, but he’d have no way of knowing the spearmen lack training in the arts of war.”

Bak followed him off the protuberance, and the pair set out across the sand, heading toward the caravan. “Last night’s session went better than I expected. If enthusiasm is any measure of success, Merymose will one day be a general. The guards who report to him, as soft as their lives have been in the capital, surprised me with their willingness to learn.”

“They’d better show enthusiasm. Their lives may depend on it.” A sudden thought banished the severity from

Nebwa’s face and he grinned. “Do you remember what

Horhotep said yesterday, before we left Iken, about desert raiders?”

Bak altered his voice slightly and quoted the adviser word for word: “ ‘I’m convinced the raiding tribesmen we’ve heard so much about are mere figments of the imag ination.’ ”

“I wonder what he thinks now.”

“He won’t admit he’s erred until he has to.”

“Did you notice him standing in the shadows last night, watching us school the guards?”

“I feared for a while he’d order Merymose away, but he didn’t say a word.”

“I’ll wager Amonked got an earful.”

Bak’s laugh was short and humorless. “I’ve no experi ence training spearmen, as you have, but after we finished last night, I went to my sleeping place satisfied. Another few hours of schooling may not give the men the skill of seasoned troops, but I felt they’d be able to hold their own against tribesmen untrained in the finer points of warfare.”

“They’ll do all right with the spear,” Nebwa admitted,

“but they need replacement weapons should they lose or break those they have-and they’ll need weapons more suited to hand-to-hand combat: scimitars, maces, axes, slings.”

Bak’s expression turned dubious. “Not even the lord

Amon could supply those. This is a civilian caravan, not one meant to support an army.”

Nebwa scowled, taking the words to heart. “I must take an inventory, learn which of the drovers was once a soldier, who brought arms along and who didn’t. Better to know the worst from the start than to be surprised too late.”

The caravan moved on through the morning, with the tribesmen keeping pace off to the west. Bak walked the length of the long train of animals, speaking with drovers, archers, and Merymose’s guards, taking their measure in the face of a possible attack. Morale was good, thanks to a blind faith in Nebwa’s ability to see them trained and armed-and in Bak’s ability to lay hands on Baket-Amon’s slayer, thereby regaining at least partial goodwill of the people who dwelt along the river. And maybe their help, should help be needed.

Feeling like a man pinned against a wall, Bak thought long and hard about the prince’s death. He had been certain someone in the inspector’s party, someone who had been inside their quarters in Buhen, had slain Baket-Amon. Yet out here in the desert, living among them, asking questions that led nowhere, doubts plagued him. As no courier had come from Imsiba, the Medjay must also have come up empty-handed, contrary to Amonked’s initial prediction.

Small consolation, with the caravan being so barren of re sults.

Midday came and went and the animals plodded on.

“What do they do with the women they take?” Nefret stared at the small figures on the horizon, her eyes wide with fear. “Do they slay them outright? Or use them and throw them away? Or do they enslave them?”

Mesutu trudged behind her mistress’s carrying chair, her eyes straight ahead. Now and again she stumbled, as if her thoughts had fled to some far away and safer place.

The four porters holding Nefret aloft exchanged a sur reptitious look among themselves, its meaning betrayed when one man rolled his eyes skyward. Those walking a parallel course, carrying Thaneny’s chair, exchanged bored looks. They had apparently grown weary of the beautiful

Nefret and her many complaints. The third carrying chair,

Sennefer had left at Iken along with his four porters and many of his personal items. He could not have foreseen the arrival of Hor-pen-Deshret, but he had realized the value of traveling light.

“You’re taking the presence of those desert nomads far too seriously, mistress.” Lieutenant Horhotep, walking be side the young woman, had to know Bak could hear. “I’d not be surprised if they sneaked up in the night to steal, but would six men attack a caravan as large as this?” He answered the question with a derisive laugh.

Pawah, walking with Sennefer between the two carrying chairs, eyed the adviser doubtfully. “The drover Pashenuro thinks these men have come to seek out weak spots for a greater force soon to attack.”

Assuming his most sarcastic look, Horhotep said, “A drover? A frontier drover? Where did he train in the arts of war?”

Pawah’s face flamed. Eyes flashing defiance, he opened his mouth to retort. Thaneny touched him on the shoulder, drawing his attention, and shook his head to signal silence.

Sennefer put an arm around the youth’s shoulder and drew him off to the side of the caravan’s path. As Bak passed them, he heard the nobleman say in a voice too subdued for the adviser to hear, “Not everyone is blessed with common sense, Pawah, and those who aren’t seldom listen to those who are.”

“Hor-pen-Deshret.” Amonked, walking at Bak’s side, gave no sign that he had heard the exchange. “Before we left the capital, I read a few reports from Buhen, several of which mentioned the name. As I recall, Troop Captain