Lauren Haney - Face Turned Backward

“I saw both Hapuseneb and Nebamon.” Hori halted at the end of the terrace where it butted against the spur wall and gave himself a moment to catch his breath. “I’m sorry, sir, but they were together. I saw no way to draw one aside and then the other, so I told my tale to both at the same time.”

Bak stood up and began to dress. “It can’t be helped. What happened?”

“They both said they’d be glad to loan their donkeys, should you need them. Nebamon asked questions without number, most of them vague and devious. At first I couldn’t understand his aim.” The boy wrinkled his nose, showing his distaste for awkward or unnecessary guile. “I finally decided he was trying to learn if you were following the track of the headless man, but he didn’t want Hapuseneb to know he believed so unlikely a man existed.”

“Nebamon set us onto the headless man,” Imsiba said to Bak. “Would he have done so if he were laden with guilt?”

“He’s never been high on my list. He’s not a man who takes risks, and he hasn’t the wealth to obtain smuggled goods in the quantity we saw on Captain Roy’s ship. He’s even now treading close to the edge of failure.” Bak bent over and ruffled his wet hair, splattering water. “Desperate men ofttimes summon courage uncommon to their nature, but I can’t see Nebamon doing so.”

“What did you get from Hapuseneb?” Imsiba asked Hori.

“He was quick to realize Nebamon was holding something back. After that, he said almost nothing, merely watched and listened.” The boy grinned. “I can see Nebamon even now, pinned beneath Hapuseneb’s sharp eyes, wiggling like a serpent, swearing he doesn’t believe in a headless man.”

“I’ve always thought Hapuseneb a most likable man,” Imsiba said, scowling. “Determined, yes, but not ruthless.”

Bak spoke aloud his reasoning of the early morning hours.

“His ships both north and south of the Belly of Stones carry many precious items, as do the large caravans he uses to transport goods past the rapids. He complains about the tolls, but his profits are high. He has the nerve to smuggle and the means. A question remains, one I’ve asked before.”

He looked at Imsiba and at Hori. “Would he use another man’s ship to carry contraband when he could keep tighter control by using a vessel of his own?”

Imsiba shook his head. “I think it unlikely.”

“I’d better see Lieutenant Kay.” Hori said.

From the grim look on Imsiba’s face, Bak could see that their thoughts traveled a like path. Kay was skilled with the bow and arrow, while Userhet’s knowledge of the weapon was unknown, unlikely even. Userhet could read and write and so could Kay, but did the officer have sufficient compet-ence to create a false but convincing manifest?

“Go first to the scribal office building, Hori. Talk with the men who’ve seen Kay’s reports and learn how skilled he is at writing.”

“Yes, sir.” The youthful scribe pivoted on his heel, and hurried away.

Hori trotted along the terrace, carrying a basket that bumped his left leg with each step. Imsiba and Bak hastened toward him, meeting him halfway between the spur wall and the southern gate.

The youth held out the basket, which contained a half dozen maces, battle axes, and slings. “Lieutenant Kay was happy to loan these weapons, sir, but when I told him you were going off into the desert, he said you’d fare better borrowing a few skilled archers.”

Bak turned the boy around and aimed him back the way he had come. “How accomplished is Kay with brush and ink?”

“His writing is terrible, sir.” The boy grinned, but when he saw how serious Bak was, he quickly sobered. “As you directed, I went first to the scribal office building. There I looked at reports he’s submitted to Commandant Thuty. He turned in two I could barely read. According to the chief scribe, the commandant threw up his hands in disgust and now the lieutenant goes to a scribe each morning to dictate his reports.”

“So the headless man is Userhet,” Imsiba said, his voice grim.

Hori frowned, unconvinced. “I know he’s overseer of warehouses, but even that lofty position wouldn’t give him access to bows and quivers. The scribe responsible for archery equipment is too strict a guardian.”

Bak thought back, trying to recall actions once taken for granted, now suspicious. “I’ve seen him often at the quay, 228 / Lauren Haney meeting cargo ships laden with garrison supplies, including weapons. As the first man on board, he probably took what he wanted from among the bundles destined for the armory and altered the list of contents. Then he must’ve slipped the weapons in among the objects to be stored in a warehouse, where no one would’ve been the wiser. My question is: How skilled is he with a bow?”

“I’ve yet to find a man who’s seen him use one,” Hori said.

Imsiba stiffened; he snapped off a curse in his own tongue.

“I must go to Sitamon at once.”

“No!” Bak grabbed his arm. “She could speak out of turn, and that we can’t risk.”

“If he harms her…” The Medjay’s anger was palpable.

Psuro burst through the fortress gate. The stocky Medjay spotted them and raced along the terrace to meet them. “Sir!

Userhet has vanished. He entered the sacred precincts of the lord Horus of Buhen and a short time later, he walked out the pylon gate. He’s not been seen since.”

“He’s bolted!” Bak was elated. His plan had borne fruit.

“Hori, go summon the boy Mery. And you, Psuro, must load onto our skiff food, water, and weapons and the rope and tools you’ll find in my office. Then stay with the vessel. You’ll travel south with us.”

“Can I now go to Sitamon?” Imsiba demanded.

“No. You must go instead to the physician. Your wound needs cleaning, a fresh poultice, a new bandage.” Bak laid a hand on the Medjay’s shoulder, smiled. “Don’t fret, Imsiba.

I must report to Thuty, and while I’m there I’ll speak with mistress Tiya. She’ll be happy, I’m sure, to invite Sitamon and the boy into her household, keeping them there until Userhet is safely within our grasp.”

“We looked everywhere for the skiff, sir.” Pashenuro, the short, brawny Medjay sergeant next in line after Imsiba, stood stiff and uncomfortable, chagrined. “We never thought he’d leave it on the riverbank, lying in plain sight among the vessels the officers use for sport.”

Bak looked across the harbor in the general direction of the boats in question, but from where he stood on the quay he could not see them. Water lapped the smooth white stones at his feet, rocking the skiff moored alongside. Tangled together in an untidy heap were the food and drink, weapons, and tools Psuro had stowed on board.

Exasperation crept into his voice. “Have you never heard, Pashenuro, that the best place to hide an object is among like articles?”

The Medjay flushed. “Yes, sir.”

Bak eyed the massive fortress wall facing the harbor, its facade stark white in the midday sun. Thin shadows delin-eated projecting towers and accented details of the battlements; black rectangles marked openings through the towered gates. Atop tall flagstaffs that rose before the pylon gate, four red pennants fluttered and curled in a lazy breeze. A dog wailed somewhere inside the city, setting Bak’s teeth on edge.

“Userhet was last seen walking out the pylon gate. Why wasn’t he spotted when he shoved his skiff into the water?”

“He was, sir, but as he carried a bow and quiver, he was taken for an officer.”

“A bow?” Surprise gave way to satisfaction. A fleeing man does not take along a weapon for which he has no talent.

“He left the sacred precincts of Horus of Buhen empty-handed.”