Lauren Haney - Face Turned Backward

Imsiba muttered a few words in his own tongue, an oath most likely. “We don’t even know which path to follow, which direction to turn.”

A sullen mumble, the stench of rancid beer and vomit, drew Bak’s eyes to the door. A heavily built Medjay held a thin youth by the scruff of the neck, marching him through the entry hall to a door leading to the cells. The men on duty looked up from their game to jeer at a boy they housed often.

“I agree, but someone fears us nonetheless,” Bak said. “I have a feeling our questions about Mahu led to yesterday’s attack. Or maybe our examination of the tombs. Or both, if Intef and Mahu were slain by the same man.”

Imsiba frowned. “Other than similar murder weapons, we’ve found no connection between the two.”

“No obvious connection.”

The Medjay leaned forward, his interest quickening.

“You’ve seen a link I’ve missed?”

Hori walked into the entry hall from the street, so over-burdened that sweat poured from his brow. In one hand, he carried a basket piled high with bread and beer jars and in the other a deep bowl of fish and onion stew, if the odor wafting from its mouth told true. Dangling from one shoulder were two quivers with a few arrows in each. A pair of bows hung from the other shoulder, chafing his ankle with each step.

The Medjays on duty looked up from their game. Their faces lit up at the sight of the food and they called out a greeting. One man scrambled to his feet to meet Hori midway across the room and relieve him of basket and bowl. Carrying the containers back to his partner, he placed the food between them and they scooted close to eat. The smell of fresh bread and the odor of the stew banished the lingering smell of beer.

Bak dropped off the coffin and hurried out to take the weapons.

“I’ve just come from the armory, sir.” Freed of his load, the scribe bent to rub his ankle. “I know the task took too long, but I went a second time, taking also the bow and quiver dropped by the man who waylaid you and Imsiba.”

“Well done, Hori.” Bak ushered the youth into the office, leaned the weapons in a corner, and went back to his seat on the coffin. “Now tell us what you learned.”

“The arrows are all alike, sir, standard issue with no marks to distinguish one from another. Nor are the bows and quivers any different than those in the garrison arsenal, those handed out to our archers.”

Bak was disappointed but not surprised. “Can a man lay hands on bow, quiver, and arrows with the ease I fear?”

“No, sir.” Hori blew away a drop of sweat hanging from the tip of his nose. “The scribe responsible for archery equipment is a diligent man. He treats a lost or broken arrow as an offense to the gods. When I told him how you came upon these weapons, where you found them, his face reddened and he sputtered like a drowning man. Not until he regained his breath was he able to search his records for lost items.”

Hori paused, adding drama to his tale. Bak sneaked a glance at Imsiba, who rolled his eyes skyward.

“Bows disappear, sometimes broken or lost in the desert, 164 / Lauren Haney but it’s not easy to lose a quiver,” the boy said. “According to the most recent inventory, taken only last month, none has gone missing for a year or more.”

“Then where did these two come from?”

Hori shrugged. “From another garrison, he suspects, or an arsenal in faraway Kemet.”

Bak released a long, disgusted breath. “With each of our suspects involved in one way or another with trade, each could’ve laid hands on those weapons.”

A heavy silence descended upon the room, broken at length by Imsiba. “You were about to tell me, my friend, why you think Intef and Mahu were slain by the same hand.”

Hori’s eyes widened. “Is it possible, sir?”

Bak pointed to a stool. As the youth settled down, he said,

“We know someone approached Mahu, asking him to smugle contraband, and Intef told his wife he’d found an old tomb, long ago robbed but a gold mine nonetheless. We also know that illicit objects are usually smuggled across the frontier in small quantities, primarily because they’re difficult to hide on the donkey caravans that bypass the Belly of Stones, and they’re easily found by our inspectors. Yet Captain Roy’s deck was piled from stem to stern with contraband.”

Imsiba frowned. “His cargo was off-loaded from a ship, not a caravan. The crew saw the vessel sailing away in the dark.”

“I’d wager a month’s rations that that ship came down the Belly of Stones during high water. And I’d bet my newest kilt that it carried contraband belowdecks as ballast.”

Imsiba eyed his friend thoughtfully. “A ship of modest size, with its hull filled from one end to the other, would hold a lot of illegal cargo.”

“If filled with care,” Bak added, “it would look and feel natural to those who earn their bread standing on dry land, ropes in hand, hauling vessels up and down the rapids.”

“But once below the Belly of Stones, he must face our inspectors. How…?” Imsiba’s puzzled expression vanished; he snapped his fingers. “Of course! He’d unload his cargo upstream from Kor and stow it away in some secret place. An old, long-forgotten tomb perhaps.”

Bak nodded. “Intef’s gold mine.”

“Lieutenant Bak?” Sitamon stood in the entry hall just inside the street door. Her little boy, half hidden by her leg, clung to her long white sheath. She carried in both hands a large reddish pot with a long, slim loaf of bread laying across the top. The escaping steam carried the odor of pigeon smothered in herbs.

“I’m looking for…” She stepped hesitantly toward the office, spotted Imsiba at the back, smiled. “Oh, there you are, Sergeant! I heard you were wounded and I thought…” She glanced at Bak and Hori, blushed. “Well, I thought you might like a thick and soothing broth, but I see you’re busy.”

Imsiba shot to his feet, smiled. “No. No, I’m not busy.

We’ve been talking, that’s all.”

Bak noted how flustered his friend was, how pleased to see the woman. Smothering a smile, he dropped off the coffin and brushed the dust from the back of his kilt. The young scribe, he noticed, was staring at the bowl in her hand with open longing.

“Hori and I have not yet had our midday meal, and it awaits us in the barracks. We were just getting ready to leave.” He gave the youth a pointed look. “Weren’t we, Hori?”

Nebwa spent the rest of the day in Buhen, talking with the garrison officers and their sergeants, planning ways in which to dazzle the eye of the vizier. Bak talked to his Medjays, who dropped in on various scribes and craftsmen they had come to know during their months in the fortress, and he visited Nofery’s house of pleasure. Thuty spoke to his wife, whose servants’ hasty visits to one dwelling and another, inviting, borrowing, seeking help, spread word of her party throughout the city. By the time the barque of Re sank beneath the western horizon, leaving behind a slab of moon amid a thick sprinkling of stars, the vizier’s surprise inspection was the most widespread secret in Buhen.

“I’ll not spend another day in this room. I’ve grown accustomed to our friend here…” Imsiba tapped the coffin with his knuckles. “…but I’m not about to keep him company through eternity.”

“We’ll soon be rid of him,” Bak said, glancing up from the scroll spread across his lap. “Ramose promised to haul him north when next he sets sail.”

Imsiba walked to the bench and, with a clatter of metal and wood, bundled together more than a dozen spears, forming what looked like an immense, rigid sheaf of hay.

Their sharp bronze points glittered like gold, bringing a smile to Bak’s face. These were not the first the big sergeant had polished. For a man who had spent the previous day resting-and in truth he no longer appeared wan and drawn-he had accomplished a lot.