Lauren Haney - Curse of Silence

Bak could think of several objects that might be appro priate under different circumstances. Amonked’s armchair would please the old man beyond words, but it was too large and noticeable and best carried on the back of a don key. The racing dog would do, but would not survive for long when faced with tougher, meaner village curs. The pavilion would provide a wonderful setting for a headman who wished to impress, but they needed the poles for weap ons more than Rona needed status.

Keeping his thoughts to himself, he shrugged. “An object that won’t attract attention should we be spotted by men of the desert, one that will appear normal and natural from a distance. Something a proud and no doubt stubborn old man can look upon with satisfaction and at the same time show off to those who look to him for leadership and guid ance.”

Amonked glanced at the donkey by his side, his expres sion speculative, as if she and her twins might be suitable, then glanced toward Pawah and shook his head. Turning his back, he climbed a gradual slope of sand off to the side, gaining a broader perspective of the long line of animals, many of which carried his belongings and those of his com panions from Waset.

Bak, who had followed, looked at the passing caravan with a soldier’s eye, not that of a man seeking to gladden the heart of a stranger. No general would approve, he knew, but considering what little they had started with, he was pleased. Nebwa had spread the archers along the length of the caravan, close in to the animals. The guards, less well trained and therefore more dispensable, he had distributed along a wider path on both sides of the column. Thanks to the lord Amon and a boundless effort late into the night,

Minkheper and his helpers had not only created at least one small weapon for each guard but had made enough spears to arm the drovers, with a few to spare. One tent, saved for

Nefret, had survived their assault, and the pavilion would be the next to go. The young woman was upset. Very upset.

Thus Amonked’s escape.

He could not help but see the irony of the situation. An attack by desert tribesmen would go a long way toward convincing the inspector the army was needed along the Belly of Stones. However, if set upon by a large enough force, both man and mission might come to an abrupt and fatal-end. The number of men they had to face would

make a crucial difference. The more men, the less chance they would have of succeeding in spite of Nebwa’s best efforts.

“This is sure to satisfy him,” Amonked said, pulling a ring off the middle finger of his left hand and offering it to Bak. “My cousin gave it to me when first she attained the throne. I treasure it greatly, but I value more my life and the lives of all who travel with this caravan.”

The solid gold ring felt heavy in Bak’s palm. The band was broad, supporting a good-sized bezel shaped as a scarab, inscribed on the under side for use as a seal. An object of considerable value. “Are you sure you wish to part with this, sir?”

“I do. Whether or not the headman can read, he’ll rec ognize the symbol of protection surrounding the royal name. He’ll be suitably impressed, I’m sure.”

Bak looked closer at the inscription. Maatkare Hatshep sut, it read, after which were the symbols for life, health, and prosperity. The beauty of the scarab, the superb crafts manship, made the ring worthy of the most illustrious of noblemen. He was astonished. The queen would not be pleased to learn that her cousin had given such a fine gift to the elderly headman of a poor frontier village.

Could he be wrong about Amonked? This stout, rather nondescript man whom everyone believed to be a tool of his powerful cousin had begun to display a far greater depth than Bak had expected. He had prepared well for his task in Wawat, studying many documents. He seemed not to leap to conclusions about the fortresses he inspected. True, he was impressed with the objects he saw in the storage magazines, but taking pleasure in items of value and beauty did not necessarily mean he thought less of the men who kept them safe. Though he had uttered no words of con demnation or praise, he appeared to recognize Horhotep’s limitations and to approve of Nebwa’s efforts to train and equip the men in case of attack. And now the ring.

The inspector just might be a good man. A man he might come to like, might even learn to respect. For the first time, Bak found himself hoping Amonked innocent of Baket Amon’s murder for a reason other than his kinship with Maatkare Hatshepsut.

“I’m surprised to find you alone, mistress.” Bak looked up at Nefret, seated on a thick pillow on the carrying chair, her face and voluptuous body shadowed by the canopy above her. She had substituted perfume for a bath, and its too-sweet strength tainted the air. “Your most avid admirer is neglecting you.”

He had seen Thaneny walking with Amonked. The scribe’s absence had offered an ideal opportunity to probe deeper into the young woman’s life-and the inspector’s.

If she was the key to Baket-Amon’s death, her guilelessness might lead to the slayer.

“Horhotep?” Nefret laughed. “He only talks to me be cause he fears Amonked has ceased to listen to him and he hopes I’ll use my influence to improve his position.” She laughed again, this time with a strong touch of cynicism.

“He doesn’t seem to realize that I, too, have lost favor.”

Poor Thaneny, Bak thought, the invisible man as far as she was concerned. “Has Amonked not told you he’s trou bled by your many complaints, your failure to accept this journey as fact and adapt as best you can?”

The porters exchanged a surprised look, unaccustomed to such blunt speech from anyone other than Amonked.

“I thought this trip would… Well…” Nefret fussed with her dress, smoothing it across her thigh. “I thought we’d be together more. From the day he took me into his household, he… He’s seldom spent time with me. Only at night. And then we don’t talk much.”

“I see,” Bak said, stealing the noncommittal demeanor and words from the inspector himself.

The porters exchanged another look, this one a smirk.

Amonked had, Bak realized, brought this beautiful young woman on this most arduous journey without really know 194

Lauren Haney ing her. A woman he had taken into his household… How many years ago? Four? Five? Possibly longer. It was one thing to enjoy the pleasures of the body and leave the bed chamber as the sun rose, quite another to share all the hours of every day and night out on the barren desert, with a minimum of comfort and a lurking threat of attack.

“I miss Waset! I long to return!” She flung a fearful look at a yellow dog trotting past. “To sleep in a house, with no insects or reptiles or animals to fear. To bathe each morning in a placid pool. To spend my days in the shade of a syc amore tree, breathing the sweet scent of flowers. To be waited upon by servants who leap to obey my slightest command. To gossip with Sithathor, Amonked’s wife, and his sister and his mother.”

“While you enjoy the pleasures of life, what does he do?”

Bak asked, silently thanking her for opening the door into their lives.

“When he’s home, you mean? What do noblemen usually do? He swims, plays board games, receives guests. Mostly, he fusses with the household accounts and manages his estate and that of Sithathor.” She wrinkled her nose as if so common a task was distasteful to her. “She tells me he’s multiplied her holdings three times over since the day he took her as his wife.”

Bak was surprised. Few men could accomplish such a feat. He had learned long ago not to take people at face value, but he had allowed Amonked’s commonplace ap pearance and Nofery’s old and outdated recollection of the past to influence him into thinking the inspector a shadow of a man. He had erred.