Lauren Haney: Flesh of the God

Bak let himself relax, but not too much. “Did Nakht let you read the scrolls when he called you into his office the day of his death?”

“Do you jest? He told me of their existence, but left no doubt as to their contents.”

“Good! We’ve no need to haggle over their worth.”

“What do you want?” Paser repeated through gritted teeth.

“I’m not a greedy man.” Bak’s voice was smooth, generous. “For each scroll, I wish to receive a single bar of gold. I’ll need a third bar for the document I prepared that relates in detail the path I took that led me to you.”

“You swine!”

Bak made a tut-tut sound with his tongue. “I suggest we meet again within the hour. Here on this roof. I’ll have the scrolls with me, that I promise, and I expect you to bring the gold. After the exchange is made, I’ll withdraw my Medjays from the gates. If you choose to remain in Buhen, your life and mine will go on as before and I’ll make no further demands. If you flee with the remainder of your prize, I’ll do no more than go through the motions of tracking you down.”

“If I fail to meet you here?”

“You’ll not survive the night.”

Paser glared, stretching the silence and the tension gripping Bak’s heart. “All right.” He swung away to plunge down the stairs.

“Leave your weapons behind,” Bak called to the back of his head. “I’ll make no trade with a man I can’t safely approach.”

Paser lost himself in the darkness. The baked clay bowl made no noise. He must have torn it from the step.

Bak stood quite still, alert to every sound no matter how ordinary: the hoot of an owl, barking dogs, the faint squeak of a rat. At last the tomcat yowled. Paser had left the building. Bak rammed his dagger into its sheath and slumped onto the step. He thanked the lord Amon for his help so far and prayed for additional favors. Only the god could allow the Medjays to blend into the dark and follow Paser unseen to the place where he had hidden the stolen gold. Only the god could lead Paser back to the rooftop and give him enough self-confidence to loosen his tongue.

Not until later did it occur to him that Paser had never once mentioned his powerful cousin, the high and mighty chief steward Senenmut.

The moon had passed over the battlements and the open stairway lay in shadow when next Bak heard the caterwauling tomcat. Relief flooded through him. He had told the Medjays who had been following Paser to give no signals after the caravan officer left the building, preferring to remain ignorant of his movements rather than risk raising his suspicions. The long silence had threatened to erode his confidence.

He had recovered the scrolls from their hiding place in the courtyard, grabbed a plugged jar filled with wheat he had found by the grindstone, and raced back to the roof. After mounding a portion of the grain near the stairwell opening, he had left the container on a lower step and climbed back up to his previous perch. Then he had waited, so still and silent that eight or nine rats had crept across the rooftop to devour the feast he had provided them.

Taking care not to frighten away the rodents, he shifted from one buttock to the other, touched for reassurance the scrolls on the step beside him, and fingered the handle of his dagger. Miniature rivers of sweat, cold and reeking of tension, trickled from beneath the bandage around his shoulder and upper chest. He imagined Paser hidden in the shadows of the courtyard, studying him, searching for a sign of danger-or an indication of weakness.

One of the feasting rats, the largest, lifted its head and stared toward the stairwell. Bak sucked in his breath, held it. The creature remained motionless, listening. Abruptly it let out a shrill squeak and shot across the roof, away from the opening. Its mates scampered in all directions, leaving nothing behind but a scattered pile of grain. Paser’s dark head rose to the level of the rooftop.

Bak scrambled to his feet, vowing to thank his unwitting allies with the wheat he had held in reserve.

If Paser noticed the grain, he gave no sign. As cautious as before, he climbed out of the stairwell and stepped onto the roof. He carried no spear and the sheath tied to his belt was empty. The absence of weapons surprised Bak, troubled him.

“Have you brought the gold?” he asked.

“Here.” Paser held out his right hand, displaying a small, neat parcel wrapped in linen. “Where are the scrolls?”

Bak nudged the three cylinders with his toe, shifting them on the step so Paser could see them. “Unwrap the package.”

Paser folded back the corners of the fabric to display three thin bars of dully gleaming metal, exactly like the bar Nakht had left for Azzia to find. “Let me see the scrolls. I must be sure they’re what you say they are.”

“You don’t trust me, lieutenant?” Bak asked, forcing a smile to hide his own mistrust. Buying time.

“No more than you do me, policeman.”

Bak eyed the officer’s short white kilt, so smooth around the waist and hips he could conceal nothing in-side bigger than a battle scar. “Lay your package on the stairway, on the highest step you can reach. I must be sure you’ve brought the flesh of the lord Re, not a lesser metal.”

“I’ll not walk to a place where you can jump me. We meet on level ground or not at all.”

The demand was reasonable, but Bak hesitated. His instincts cried out, warning him to take care. Unfortunately, he could see no other way of making the exchange. “Stand away from the stairs. I’ve no more wish to be attacked than you do.”

Paser backed away as directed, but stayed close enough to the opening to leap into the stairwell if threatened. Bak scooped up the scrolls with his left hand, leaving his right hand free to draw his dagger. Paser’s failure to comment on the weapon added to his sense of unease.

They met near the trapdoor, two arms’ length apart, close enough to trade one object for another, far enough to duck away from a sudden attack. Bak laid two scrolls on the step beside him and held out the third, the record of precious objects which had passed through Buhen on their way north to the capital. Paser took the document and handed over one golden bar.

“Tell me…” Bak eyed the ingot, caressed it with his fingertips to convince Paser of his greed. “…Did you set out to blame my Medjays when you used a spear from the police arsenal to slay your ally Heby?”

Paser glanced up from the scroll he had begun to unroll, raised an eyebrow. “Is that why you went to such effort to track me down?”

“Nakht’s legacy to mistress Azzia prompted me to act.” Bak formed a wry smile. “I must admit the trouble the spear brought about goaded me to a greater effort.”

“I didn’t plan on laying the blame at your men’s feet.” A note of bitterness crept into Paser’s voice. “I thought, when I shoved him into the water, the current would carry him far away, not deposit him on a riverbank an easy walk from Buhen.”

“You must’ve known him well to enlist him in your dangerous game-and to trust him to handle so much gold without being tempted.”

“We played together as children, grew to manhood in the same village.” Paser’s voice softened. “No two men could’ve been closer.”

“Yet you took his life.”

“Not without regret, believe me.” Paser sounded truly remorseful. “Heby knew the wound in his shoulder would lead you to him, and he wanted his share so he could flee. However, he didn’t know this barren land as I do. He could never have survived the desert and he would’ve been snared within a day or two if he’d traveled by boat. What could I do but slay him?”

Bak was too aware of the careless way Paser had admitted to murder to think up an appropriate reply. It was obvious the officer had no intention of letting him live to repeat his words. When would he strike? With what? He remembered how evenly matched they had been when fighting in the goldsmith’s house. If they were to clash here, and he suspected they would, the weapon Paser used might well give him the advantage.