A scuffle broke out in the corner, a disagreement over a game of knucklebones. One man cursed another. Stools skidded across the floor. Pottery crashed. Pahared's wife strode across the room, carrying a baton Bak suspected she had taken from some visiting official-perhaps by force. She held it firmly, her expression making clear that she was prepared to smash a head or two. The men slunk back, thoroughly cowed.
Bak had to give credit where credit was due: Pahared had wed quite a woman. "Tell me of Hatnofer," he said to Kasaya. "Did you discover her connection to the sandstorm?"
The young Medjay scooted sideways, making room for the servant to pour dry sand on the wet floor. Beer sloshed from his bowl, spilling down her leg. The girl's mouth tightened; her eyes flashed anger. He turned to Bak, unaware. "When she was a babe, a guard found her on the doorstep, and Djehuty's father took her in. She grew to womanhood as a servant. Arguments abound among the household staff as to whether or not Djehuty took her to bed. Half say her jealousy knew no bounds, so he must've. The others swear no man would touch a woman so sour."
Psuro snorted. "What kind of woman would crawl in with a man so small in his every thought and deed?"
"They wete close to each other in age," Kasaya said, as if that explained everything. "A couple of the servants, both men, hinted that Djehuty wasn't a youth to overlook any tender young morsel, especially one who earned her daily bread in his own household."
"Admirable," Psuro said, looking scornful.
Kasaya's eyes drifted to a slim young dancer who had red ribbons woven into the long black braid hanging down her naked back. The servant, finished with her task, dribbled sand onto his pillow, across his leg, and down his spine. He yelped, swung around, glared. She turned away, triumph lighting her face.
Bak bit back a smile. "Get on with your tale, Kasaya!" The young Medjay threw a pained look at Psuro; whose face was stiff with smothered laughter. "When Hatnofer reached an age to wed, another servant, one who toiled in the gardens, took her as his wife. She had two stillborn children, the second near the time mistress Khawet was born, thus she became her wet nurse. Her husband died, and she conceived no more."
"A convenient marriage," Bak said.
"Djehuty's father arranged the match, so I was told." Kasaya grinned. "About the time Djehuty wed Khawet's mother, I suspect."
"He may've set her aside for a noblewoman," Psuro said grudgingly, "but he did well enough by her in the end. Not many foundlings rise to the lofty position of housekeeper in a governor's villa."
"So she must've thought." Kasaya drank from his bowl, licked the foam from his lips. "They seldom quarreled, though from what I've been told, he often gave her reason to burn with anger."
Bak raised an eyebrow. "Someone, I don't recall who, mentioned an argument not long ago."
"Oh, they sometimes argued. Not often; she wouldn't let him bait her. But you're right: a couple of months ago, they had a good one."
"Tell me," Bak said.
Psuro gave him a surprised look. "You don't think Djehuty slew her, do you, sir?"
Bak waved off the suggestion as unlikely. "Well, Kasaya?"
"Let's see. Around two months ago, it was. In Nebmose's villa." The young Medjay gave his drinking bowl an exaggerated frown, as if forcing himself to think. "The door was closed and no one could hear what they said, but their voices were heated and Djehuty came away with the red mark of Hatnofer's hand on his cheek."
"Good for her!" Psuro chuckled. "Can't think of a man more deserving."
"That's it?" Bak demanded, deflated. "Words led to a blow, and you can tell me no more?"
Kasaya shook his head. "No, sir."
"She didn't confide in anyone, telling what happened or giving a reason for the quarrel?"
"She was so angry no one dared ask, ever."
Bak scowled at the young Medjay. He had a good idea how a fish felt when a man dangled a worm in front of it and then jerked it away. No wonder the poor creature grabbed the hook the moment the man let it drop again. "What of the storm? Did you find any connection between her and the tempest?"
"No, sir." Kasaya wiggled around, twisting his torso, and ran his fingers under the waistband at the back of his kilt. Evidently sand had trickled inside. "Oh, she knew some of the men who died. After all, she toiled in the governor's villa for a long time, and he headed the garrison. And Abu's not all that big. But… Well, if she was close to one, no one will speak out."
Bak set his drinking bowl on the floor, leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes. In this, too, the gods had failed him.
Bak stumbled on a rough spot in the lane, lurching forward. Kasaya swayed toward him, resting much of his weight on Bak's shoulder. "We should've left you in Swenet," he growled at toe besotted Medjay.
Psuro, who had dunked his head in a water trough to clear away the haze, tugged at the arm across his shoulders, trying to shift some of Kasaya's weight onto himself. "I doubt he can hear you, sir."
They maneuvered their shuffling, stumbling load around the corner and into the lane leading to their quarters. Bak peered into the blackness, imagining he could see a darker rectangle near the far end. Their door seemed a long way off.
"I fear I'm getting old, Psuro. This is the second man I've half carried to his quarters in less than a week. Both times I've reached my sleeping pallet as sober as a priest, a feat unheard of in my younger days."
"I shouldn't have reminded him of Djehuty's cook's daughter. That's what set him off." Psuro hesitated, added, "You may have to hustle him onto a ship, sir, and smuggle him out of town."
"I know nothing about this latest fling, nor do I want to. It's time he solved his own problems."
"You, sir, are a hard man," Kasaya mumbled.
Bak would have kicked the young drunk if he had thought the effort worthwhile, but the punishment, he suspected, would fade from Kasaya's memory faster than a flame from a lamp burned empty of oil.
"Here we are," Psuro said, pausing before the gaping doorway.
"I thank the lord Amon!" Bak helped maneuver their burden across the threshold and into their quarters. The room was as black as a scribe's ink, blinding him. "Where's his sleeping pallet?"
"Does it matter? We could leave him in the lane, and he wouldn't know the difference."
"How right you are," Bak laughed.
They let their besotted companion crumple and stretched him out as best they could. Bak went outside to search for a house showing a light, while Psuro fumbled around near the door for the lamp he had left there. Not a creature stirred all along the lane, and every fire had been extinguished. The Medjay came out, lamp in hand, and went off to find a night patrol with a torch. Bak's wait was probably not long, but it seemed so.
When Psuro returned, he held the lamp in the doorway so his superior officer could enter first. As Bak stepped across the threshold, Kasaya let out a yell that must have awakened the dead. He rolled, crashed into the woven reed storage chest, and scrambled to his knees. He gave Bak and Psuro a wild-eyed look, tried to talk, could not, and pointed. The light was dim, the flame unstable, making the shadows deep and impenetrable, setting them aquiver like wraiths from the netherworld. A fitting habitat for the object they saw.
Propped against a folded sleeping pallet close to where Kasaya's head had been, the first thing he must have seen when he opened his eyes, was an egg-shaped green-andwhite striped melon about the size of a human head. Drawn in black ink were huge eyes, a long nose, and a mouth twisted as if in agony. The top and one side of the obscene head were crushed, showing the reddish interior. Sticking out of the wound was the foreleg of an animal, a goat, Bak thought.