Lauren Haney - Face Turned Backward

Kay gave Bak a quick look. “He sailed out of Buhen the day before the storm with no caged animals on board. I know that for a fact, for I saw the ship leave. Have you asked his crew where they picked them up and who delivered them?”

“Sir!” Psuro, his face an emotionless mask, pulled himself half out of the hatch. “We’ve found something you should see.”

Bak noted the Medjay’s lack of expression, the careful way he failed to name his prize. Contraband? He glanced at Mahu, who looked mildly puzzled rather than fearful-as most men would if they expected to be caught with an illicit cargo. Lieutenant Kay glanced from one man to another, curious.

Bak hurried to the hatch, Psuro ducked out of his way, and he let himself down into the hold. The square of light beneath the opening illuminated neat stacks of copper ingots, which filled much of the floor space within easy reach of the hatch. Accustomed as he was to the brightness of the deck, he could see nothing beyond except the two torches his men had brought and, at the far end of the cavernous space, a square of light from the open foredeck hatch. He ducked down and closed his eyes, giving them time to adapt to the dark. He felt the ship wallow in the swells, heard water slap the hull, smelled the burning torches. The skitter of tiny clawed feet passed him by, a rat without doubt.

When at last he could see, he arose. The deck was too low overhead to allow him to stand erect, so he walked hunched over, taking care not to bump his head on the crossbeams.

Beyond the ingots, he stepped around a hundred or more thigh-high reddish pottery jars stacked and tied so they could 66 / Lauren Haney not escape and roll with the ship. The two men who had gone below with Psuro knelt in the light of their torches, looking at a mound of coarse white fabric-the sail stowed away for the journey downstream. The remainder of the hold was filled with rough chunks of stone, providing the additional ballast required over and above the weight of the ingots and whatever the jars held. They gave the hold a dusty smell which mingled with the odors of stagnant water, grain, and hints of an infinite variety of previous cargoes.

Psuro squatted beside the sail, and Bak knelt next to him.

The thick, heavy linen had been folded in as neat a way as possible so that when next it was needed, it could be installed on the yards with a minimum of effort. Now it lay with each of the top six or seven folds folded back on itself. Laying across the next lower fold was a long, curving cone of ivory, an uncut elephant tusk the length of a man’s leg from thigh to ankle.

“I didn’t know the tusk was there!” Mahu, looking as harried as a man could be, wiped the sweat from his brow. “I swear to the lord Amon and all the gods in the ennead that it was not on this ship when we stowed the sail below.”

Bak eyed the officer, less certain than he liked to be that he had found the guilty man. Mahu was either a superb actor or innocent. “How did it come aboard then? And when?”

Mahu stared at the tusk laying at his feet as if it were a poisonous serpent. “If I knew, don’t you think I’d tell you?”

Bak glanced at the growing number of men standing on the quay alongside the ship, talking among themselves in hushed voices, fearful of missing a single detail. Sailors and fishermen mostly, alerted by whispers carried on the wind and drawn to the scene by curiosity. Lieutenant Kay was not among them; evidently he had no taste for seeing a man brought low.

“I must make you my prisoner, Captain Mahu, and impound your ship and cargo.” Bak kept his voice low, unwilling to shame the officer before the gawkers on the quay.

Mahu drew himself up to his full height and looked the length of his ship, his pride in the vessel apparent. “I’ve done no wrong. If you seek the truth, you’ll learn for a fact that I’m innocent.”

Bak beckoned Psuro and issued fresh orders. The inspection was to continue, with the Medjay in charge. Guards must be posted, allowing no one to board. Later, after the search team completed its task, only the crew, who made the ship their home and had no other place to sleep or eat, should be allowed aboard.

Satisfied Psuro could continue without him, Bak plucked a tall, hefty Medjay from among the men searching the vessel, and the two of them ushered the captain down the gangplank and onto the quay. Mahu held his head high, trying without success to hide his distress. The onlookers, murmuring among themselves, parted to let them through, fell in behind, and followed them to the fortress. As they passed out of the sunlight and into the shade cast by the twin-towered gate, Bak saluted the sentry with his baton of office. The sentry, a seasoned veteran with graying hair, gave Mahu a curious look, then eyed the men who followed as if not quite sure how to deal with them. The Medjay solved the problem for him. He pivoted, held his long spear horizontally in both hands, and stood, legs spread wide, to hold the onlookers back.

Bak and Mahu entered the dimly lit passage through the gate, passing so quickly from light to near darkness that they were close to blind.

“You’re known as a man who searches out the truth,” Mahu said. “Will you do so for me?”

“And if I find you guilty?”

“I’ve done no wrong, I promise you.”

Bak heard something in Mahu’s voice, a sincerity perhaps, that came close to convincing him. “I’ll do what I can.”

Side by side, they stepped out of the passage. The sun, a smoldering orb hovering above the western battlements, reached into the citadel, setting aglow the white walls of the buildings lining the street, dazzling them with light. Muttering an oath, Bak snapped his eyes shut. A faint whisper 68 / Lauren Haney sounded, a dull thud. Mahu jerked backward and cried out.

Bak’s eyes shot open. He swung around, saw the captain staring wide-eyed at an arrow projecting from his abdomen.

Another wisp of sound and a thwack. A second arrow struck dead center below Mahu’s ribcage. He stumbled back and crumpled to the pavement. His life dripped onto the stones beneath him, forming a fast-expanding red puddle. He tried to speak. Blood bubbled from his mouth and he went limp.

Yelling for the sentry, Bak scanned the street, searching for the assailant. The bright walls and pavement, the fierce light, burned his eyes, making it hard to see. Three small boys, who had been playing in the dirt behind the old guardhouse, peeked around the corner, attracted by his shout.

Two elderly women, also driven by curiosity, moved out of the shade of an intersecting lane. They all gaped, too startled to move, too afraid to draw near. None could have seen Mahu struck down.

A sudden movement caught his attention, drawing his eye up and to the left, to the roof of the building across the street from the guardhouse. A warehouse, with grain stored on the ground floor, the top floor in need of repair and no longer occupied. He glimpsed a dark blur, barely visible in the sun’s glare. An instant later it vanished.

Mahu moaned, his eyes fluttered open. His breathing was rough and tortured.

“Sir!” The sentry ran out of the passage, saw the wounded man, gaped.

“Stay with this man. And send someone for the physician.”

Bak’s voice turned hard. “I want the one who did this.”

He raced to the warehouse door, shoved it open, and burst through. The guard on duty, curled up in a corner asleep, woke with a start and scrambled to his feet. He grabbed for his spear, leaning against the wall with his shield, and at the same time recognized Bak. The spear slipped through his fingers and clattered to the hard-packed earthen floor.

“The stairs!” Bak yelled, swinging his baton toward the man. “Where are the stairs to the roof?”