Lauren Haney - Face Turned Backward

“Did he ever follow the headless man into the desert?”

Ahmose snorted. “He was a hunter. Would such a man follow a trail when he feared his own tracks might be followed?”

Bak smiled to himself. For one whose life was so limited, the old man missed almost nothing. “Did you ever see him far out on the desert? Possibly leading his donkeys along the ridge that separates this valley from the endless sands to the west?”

“He always came down from the desert.” Ahmose’s eyes narrowed. “The ridge, you say?”

“I know you’ve much to do and have precious few moments to stand idle,” Bak said, grinning, “but if you happened to be in need of rest, and if you happened to look toward the western desert, did you by chance ever see Intef exploring the ridge with more care than you thought necessary?”

Ahmose blinked a couple of times, absorbing the jest, then slapped his knee and burst into laughter. “You’ve a fine tongue in your head, Lieutenant! A way with words I truly enjoy.”

Imsiba lowered his head as if in prayer, hiding his face.

Bak gave the old man a fleeting smile, but remained silent, waiting.

Ahmose contained himself with difficulty. “The time I spoke with Intef at the cove, he went on about his business, traveling north along the river toward Kor to deliver the game his donkeys carried. Sometime later-a month, maybe longer-he came back. I saw him at the river one evening and the next day out by the ridge.” The last trace of humor faded from the old man’s face. “He was taking his time, tracking, I thought. I hurried into my house and knelt before the shrine. And I prayed he wasn’t tracking the headless man.”

“I sent two boats into the Belly of Stones and a like number of patrols along the water’s edge. They both came back empty-handed.” Nebwa ran his fingers through his unruly hair and stared sightlessly across the harbor of Kor. “If Wensu’s in there, he’s hidden his ship in a spot not easily found, and not a farmer along the river is willing to give him away.”

“They’re afraid,” Bak said, weariness creeping into his voice. “Of the authority you and I represent. Of Wensu, and rightly so. Not Captain Roy, for they must know by now that he drowned in the storm. And they fear the headless man.”

Nebwa planted his backside on a mooring post. “You saw for yourself how vulnerable they are. Can you blame them for being skittish?”

“Not at all.”

The two men sat in silence, mulling over the day’s minor successes and major failures. The lord Re lay on the distant horizon, a red-orange ball flattened against the outer gate of the netherworld. Not a breath of air stirred.

Except for a man whistling a bright and cheerful tune, the harbor was quiet, with many of the smaller vessels departed.

The larger ships remained, their masters unable to get mooring space at Buhen with the vizier’s fleet soon to arrive.

The five great warships plus the vessels already there would fill the harbor to bursting. To move a ship from Kor to Buhen and then have to move it back was not worth the effort.

“You’ll send soldiers upriver to look after Kefia’s farm and old Ahmose, as I promised?” Bak asked.

“How long must they stay?”

Bak gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “I’ve vowed to end this nightmare before the vizier arrives. That gives me one day, two at most.”

“I’ve bent my knees today before every shrine in Kor,”

Nebwa said with a resigned smile. “Something tells me I’d better go around again.”

Bak awoke the following morning long before daybreak.

He lay on his sleeping pallet, listening to Hori’s soft breathing in the next room and an occasional whimper from the large and good-natured dog the youth had brought into their lives as a puppy. Bak’s tangled sheets smelled of perfume, souvenir of the pretty young woman who had come to him in the night, sent by Nofery to put him in her debt. The old woman, whose curiosity knew no bounds, wanted to be sure he would tell her of his quest for the man who slew Mahu and Intef-and, no doubt of greater interest to her, the ancient tomb he sought and the riches it might contain.

He lay still and quiet, reviewing his list of suspects, trying to decide which of the five was the most likely to be the man he sought. Two, Ramose and Nebamon, he thought far less likely than Hapuseneb, Userhet, or Kay, but certainty continued to elude him. He did, however, have an idea how to give the headless man a face.

As soon as the high, narrow window admitted enough light to see by, he got up and dressed, roused Hori from his sleep, and issued orders. Leaving the boy reeling from the onslaught, he hurried outside and down the street to the Medjay barracks and Imsiba. He prayed the day would be long enough for all he hoped to achieve.

“Here you are, sir.” Hori laid four levers, a couple of mallets, an axe, several wedges and chisels, and a half dozen wooden rollers on the floor of Bak’s office. His dark eyes were alive with excitement, his voice tinged with self-importance. “As you suggested, I asked also to see the sledges, but came away empty-handed, saying your skiff is small and the low runners and crosspieces would make them difficult to stow. I told them I must first find out how great is the load you need to transport.”

“You talked with Userhet himself?” Bak asked.

“Not at first, but he was there throughout my stay, and he made no secret of his interest.”

Bak gave Imsiba, seated on a stool near the door, a quick smile of satisfaction. “How’d he react?”

“I paid special attention, as you asked me to.” Hori’s voice, his demeanor grew serious, the policeman he longed to be reporting to his superior. “If Userhet’s the headless man, he gave no sign. He had many questions, but so did the scribe who walked from basket to basket, collecting the tools I wanted. I, in turn, gave few answers, saying only that you sailed south yesterday and planned to go again today. Maybe you were taking the tools to Nebwa, or perhaps you intended to use them for some task unknown to me.”

“I can think of no more intriguing a response.” With a broad smile, Bak sat down on the coffin. “You’ve done well, Hori. You’ve planted a seed; now let’s see if it germinates.”

Basking in praise, the youth had trouble looking as serious as he thought he should. “I’ll go now to see Captain Ramose.”

“Don’t forget, we want a rope strong enough to support a man’s weight, yet not so thick we can’t easily work with it.”

Hori nodded and hurried away. The guardhouse was quiet, with the back rooms closed off and the men in the entry hall giving the knucklebones a rest while they ate their morning meal. Men strode past the street door, their sandals scuffing the pavement and their weapons clanking, hastening to their duty stations.

Bak scooted back on the coffin, rested his head and shoulders against the wall, and eyed Imsiba. “I pray we’re not playing this game for nothing.”

The Medjay’s expression held equal amounts of affection and skepticism. “We’re wasting much of the day, one better spent, I suspect, on the desert south of Kor.”

“Oh?” Bak’s eyes twinkled. “Did I not hear you say yesterday that to search the desert would be an endless and hopeless task?”

Imsiba scowled at the pile of objects the scribe had left behind. “I know you intended Hori to make his point with Userhet, but did he really need to bring so many tools from the warehouse?”

“If we find the tomb we seek, we may need them.”

“We’ll find an open entryway, a few steps down, and a room or two, that’s all.”

“I spent my youth in Waset,” Bak reminded him. “The tombs there are deep, the burial chambers not easy to reach.