Lauren Haney - Face Turned Backward

“He must’ve been on his way home when he was slain,”

Nebwa said, eyeing the quarter-full bag of grain lying on the sand beside a single sheaf of hay. “Not much food remains for man or beast.”

Bak nodded. “The other two donkeys were so laden with game, they couldn’t have carried more.”

“A pleasant surprise, that was,” Nebwa said with a grin.

“We’ll have a great feast tonight, stuffing all these wretched traders so full of hare and gazelle they’ll have no heart to assault my ears with further complaints.”

Laughing, Bak picked up the heavy water jar and, with his hand over the mouth to catch anything that might be hidden inside, poured its contents into a mudbrick watering trough.

The jar held no secrets. “Intef left the donkeys behind and went off into the desert alone, carrying the one goatskin of water. He wasn’t after game; the men on desert patrol found no animal tracks. So he had a goal, and it couldn’t have been far from where they found him.”

“There’s nothing out there but desert.” Nebwa scratched his head, thinking. “I’ll wager he knew someone was tracking him and he headed away from the river, hoping to lose him among the dunes farther west.”

“I doubt he’d have left his donkeys so vulnerable if he’d meant to be gone for long.” Bak laid the jar on the ground with its empty twin, picked up the goatskin, and poured the water into the trough. “You knew him. Was he a man who might carry contraband across the frontier?”

“Intef?” Nebwa snorted. “He was a plodder, not one to spit in the face of authority.”

Bak knelt and poked through a basket containing a small drill used for starting a fire, a bundle of twigs, and dry straw for tinder. Finding nothing of interest, he laid them aside.

He crushed two round loaves of bread as hard and dry as stone, and flung away the crumbs for the pigeons that seemed always to be underfoot. He tossed a sheaf of limp green onions in front of the donkey, along with two overripe melons he broke apart, thinking something could’ve been hidden among the seeds. Leaf packets containing a few dried fish and a

98 / Lauren Haney handful of dates joined the fire drill in the basket, as did a small jar that had been emptied of all but a few dried lentils and beans mixed together and another jar of poor quality oil for rubbing on the body.

“Nebwa!” Imsiba, leading the donkeys that had earlier been laden with game, strode out of a narrow lane between two partially fallen walls. “I thought you’d be here, seeing what there is to see.”

“I’d have been more entertained watching the butchers.”

Bak picked up the quarter-full bag of wheat, well aware of how often toll collectors found items hidden among the kernels. Pulling the red bowl close, trying not to hope but hoping anyway, he slowly poured the grain into the vessel.

Other than the usual small stones and chaff, he found nothing. Nebwa muttered a curse, as disappointed as Bak. Imsiba expelled something between a laugh and a snort.

Bak turned to the bundle of hay. With another surge of hope, he drew his dagger, cut the cords that bound the sheaf, and tore it apart. Lying in the center like a large, elongated egg was a wide-mouthed alabaster jar the size of his open hand, its creamy white surface streaked with golden brown.

His spirits soared. The container was elegant-and utterly out of place among Intef’s poor belongings. Hardly daring to breathe, he picked it up. Several hard objects rattled inside.

He glanced at Imsiba and Nebwa. The Medjay’s eyes glittered with anticipation. Nebwa looked on the verge of prayer.

Offering a silent prayer of his own, Bak twisted the lid, breaking a thin seal of dried mud, and tipped the jar upside down. A bracelet dropped into his hand amid a cascade of seven gold beads. A small papyrus-wrapped bundle followed, and a second bracelet. Too surprised to speak, he rose to his feet and his friends drew close, their heads bent over the treasure. For a treasure it was. Both of the bracelets, made of a multitude of gold and carnelian and turquoise beads, a dozen or more shaped like cowrie shells, were very old and special, objects that might have come from the pillaged tomb of a long-dead nobleman.

He handed the jewelry to Nebwa and unwrapped the bundle. The papyrus fragment was stiff but not brittle, which indicated it was of relatively recent manufacture. Inside, he found a chunk of ivory barely large enough to make an amulet or the bezel of a ring. A few words had been written on the papyrus, a portion of a ship’s manifest. The cargo listed was grain, the most common item shipped upriver, and the date of delivery was two months earlier.

Bak lay awake long into the night, trying to rest on a borrowed sleeping pallet spread out on the roof of the officers’ quarters at Kor. The stars were bright points of light in a sky no longer murky. The many animals sheltered within the walls made the small noises common to creatures restless among strangers: soft snorts, low brays, the muffled thud of hooves.

The excitement he had felt at finding the ancient jewelry had long since dissipated. The small hoard had answered no questions. Instead, it had given him another path to follow, one that might point the way to Intef’s slayer, but could as easily lead nowhere.

He tried not to be discouraged, but the feeling persisted.

Two murders in two days. Two dead men whose paths were unlikely to have crossed. And the slimmest of leads: an uncut tusk on Mahu’s ship, which had almost certainly led to his death. A few pieces of jewelry which might or might not have led to the death of Intef. And a small chunk of ivory which might or might not connect the two men.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I can’t help you.” The boy Amonaya did not look the least bit sorry. “Mistress Nofery has ordered me never to awaken her so early in the morning.”

Bak scowled at the slim, sleek youth, eleven or twelve years of age, his dark skin oiled to a fine gloss. The boy’s large black eyes never faltered, his expression remained bland. Or smug, more likely. “You know as well as I that I’m a special friend. I come here often enough.”

“She takes no man into her bed, sir, unless she herself bids him come. I can awaken another young lady if your need is great.” The misunderstanding flowed off Amonaya’s tongue like honey off a smooth crust of bread.

Taking a quick step across the threshold, Bak clapped a hand on the back of the boy’s neck and squeezed. After a sleepless night, he was in no mood for games, especially from one who thought himself better than others merely because he had once been servant to a king. His voice turned ominous. “Either take me to your mistress, Amonaya, or bring her here to me.”

A low, deep growl came from the dim recesses of the room, the half-grown lion the boy had accompanied to Buhen. Bak had early on befriended the creature, but if the cat had to make a choice between a casual friend and the one who fed it, he had no doubt which of the two it would choose. He squeezed harder, accepting the risk. “Now do as I say. Move!”

Nofery’s room was dark, the high, narrow windows covered with mats. White bedding and a large white dress draped over a storage basket caught the light from the open doorway, drawing attention to the obese old woman lying like a queen on a bed with ebony head- and footboards. Her head was raised on a mound of colorful pillows so she could see Bak across her massive body. Beds were rare in Buhen.

Where Nofery had found hers, he had no idea, and he thought it best not to ask.

“Have you no regard for anyone?” She heaved her bulk back toward the low headboard, which Amonaya hastened to pad with more pillows. The bed groaned beneath her shifting weight. “Could you not wait until a decent hour? At least let the sun come up.”