Lauren Haney: Curse of Silence

“Did you see the look on Amonked’s face?” Nebwa wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “He didn’t know if

Thuty was joking or putting some kind of spell on him.”

Bak smiled. “I guess he intended a subtle threat, but it came out all wrong.”

“I wanted to laugh so bad I thought I’d burst. If Seshu hadn’t come along when he did, giving us an excuse to leave, I’d’ve made a grand spectacle of myself.”

“Concern for Thuty kept my laughter in check. He’s toiled long and hard to attain his exalted position, and I feared he’d lose everything in an instant of reckless speech.”

Bak leaned a hip against the wall surrounding the animal paddock. The enclosure was filled to capacity with don keys. About half the sturdy creatures surrounded broken sheaves of half-dried clover, eating a portion and spreading the rest over the sand on which they stood. A few animals dozed on their feet, the rest milled around, too fretful to settle down. The fine dust stirred up by their hooves, the stench of fresh manure, and the harsh odor of the fodder made Bak sneeze.

“What now, I wonder?” he asked, not expecting an an swer. “With no one to watch over Amonked, no one to provide the knowledge he’ll need to see the fortresses in a true light, how can he make a rational decision?”

“We must see that Dedu and Pashenuro go, with or with out Thuty.”

“Amonked won’t listen to two sergeants, or anyone else for that matter. He made that clear.” Bak waved off a fly buzzing around his head. “They could go as drovers, I sup pose, keeping their true task a secret. Seshu can certainly use their help. And they could report by courier each time they reach a fortress.”

“Good idea.” Nebwa planted his backside against the wall, picked up a length of yellow straw, and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. “Amonked brought an officer with him, a military adviser he calls him. A lieutenant named

Horhotep. The lord Amon only knows how competent a warrior he is.”

“One who’s fought all his battles in the corridors of power, I’d wager.”

Bak hoisted himself onto the wall. Legs dangling, he eyed the dozen or so paddocks that filled the northwest corner of the outer fortress. Many contained donkeys, vital to the movement of trade goods, supplies and foodstuffs for the army, and ores and valuable stones taken from the de sert mines and quarries. Without these sturdy beasts of bur den, nothing could cross the southern frontier during the long months when the Belly of Stones could not be navi gated. Their drovers were squatting together in the shade of the corner tower, playing a game of chance, awaiting

Seshu for word as to how many men and animals he would need on the long, slow trek to Semna.

Sheep and goats occupied a few of the remaining enclo sures, awaiting slaughter or shipment downriver. A small but fine herd of tan short-horned cattle, soon to travel to the royal house in Waset as tribute for Maatkare Hatshep sut, stood in a pen near the fortress wall.

Seshu came hurrying down a path between two pad docks. He stopped before the two officers and wiped the sweat from his brow. He appeared to be in a state of shock.

Bak dropped to the ground, his feet sending up a thin puff of dust, and laid a sympathetic hand on the caravan master’s shoulder. “What is it, Seshu? Amonked again?”

“That man’s a menace to himself and everyone around him.” Seshu’s brow wrinkled with worry. “He refuses to leave behind any of the luxuries he brought from Waset.

He insists his concubine come along and…” He let out a harsh, cynical laugh. “… and he wishes her to travel with every amenity.”

“How many servants does she have?” Nebwa asked.

“Only one. I thank the lord Amon. Her personal maid.”

Seshu shook his head in disgust. “Altogether there are nine people in his party. Plus fifty spearmen, guards he calls them, and their sergeant, and twelve porters.”

“Porters?” Nebwa demanded.

“For the carrying chairs. Three of them. One for Amon ked. One for his noble brother-in-law. And one for the con cubine. You didn’t think they’d walk, did you?”

Nebwa muttered an oath in the local dialect spoken by his wife. “Seventy-two people who have to be provided with food and drink. I don’t envy you your task.”

“Plus the many drovers necessary to handle the don keys,” Bak said.

Seshu heaved a deep, dejected sigh. “The caravan will not only be large and hard to manage, but he’s bringing along a portable pavilion, furniture, any number of items that will make it a target for bandits. I’ve led bigger and richer caravans from the desert mines, but they were well guarded, peopled with soldiers and officers who knew the desert-and knew how to stand up to the enemy.”

“Thuty should send along a company of spearmen,”

Nebwa said.

“He suggested as much, but Amonked refused, saying his own guards could manage.”

“Fifty men? If they know what they’re doing, and if their officer has, at most, a modest amount of experience, you should be all right.” Bak prayed such was the case.

Seshu, looking dubious, straightened his spine and pulled back his shoulders. “I must go speak with the drovers, warn them what they’ll face, then convince them to risk life and limb and donkeys on this witless adventure.”

Bak, his face grim, watched him walk away. “I care noth ing for Amonked the man, Nebwa, and I wholeheartedly resent the inspector of the fortresses of Wawat, but I fear for our sovereign’s cousin. Should he not survive this mis sion of his, every man along the Belly of Stones will have to pay for his poor judgment.”

“Other than stay behind and hazard guesses as to what may be happening upriver, what can we do?” Nebwa ran his fingers through his hair, making unruly locks go in all di rections. “We’re as helpless as a couple of speared fish.”

Bak looked the length of the street, but barely saw the blocks of interconnected buildings that hugged the thor oughfare, their walls a brilliant white in the early afternoon sun, or the tall towered gate straddling the far end. Nor was he fully aware of four comely young women standing in an intersecting lane, talking, or a brown goose waddling up the pavement, leading her brood of seven downy goslings.

“Amonked looks as plain and straightforward as my fa ther.” He scooped a cast-off beer jar from a low drift of sand that had formed against the closed and sealed door of a storehouse. “Would that such would prove to be the case.”

Nebwa snorted. “I always thought you a man of common sense, not one who dreams while awake.” The young women must have thought the accompanying frown di rected at them, for they ducked into the side lane.

The two men stepped apart, letting the goose lead her brood up the street between them, and continued on to the guardhouse, the back half of which was unoccupied, badly in need of repair. With Nebwa a pace or two behind, Bak strode through the door. He paused just inside, halted by the silence. For the first time since the Medjay police had occupied the building, the clatter of knucklebones had ceased. Instead of sitting on the floor, playing a game that continued through day and night, never ending, the two guards on duty stood at attention on either side of the rear door leading to the sleeping quarters and the prison. Some thing was decidedly wrong.

One of the guards took a quick step forward. “Lieutenant

Bak. Sir…” His eyes flitted past Bak’s shoulder, his mouth snapped shut.

A man’s curt voice from behind: “I caught those two neglecting their duty, Lieutenant, playing a game of chance.”

Bak pivoted. Standing in the door of the room he used as an office was a swarthy man of thirty or so years, me dium of height and sturdily built, wearing an impressive multicolored broad collar, bracelets, anklets, and armlets.