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“Can I help you search for the slayer, my friend?” Imsiba asked.

“How can you? Your wife has yet to find a new ship.”

“You know very well that the captain of the vessel we left behind in Abu is here with us. As he expects to command her new one, he has much to gain by offering sound advice. I go with them to the harbor only because she wishes me to.”

“As much as I’d like your help, you must stand by her side until she finds a suitable vessel. Pashenuro and Psuro can take temporary charge of our men.”

“You must promise to summon me should you need me.”

“Never fear, Imsiba, but as of now I can see no purpose in dragging you along with me. Today the murder seems im possible to solve, but tomorrow, when I talk to men who knew of Woserhet’s mission, the reason for his death may be revealed and the name of the slayer as well.”

Chapter Five

“Hapuseneb has been told of Woserhet’s death.” Ptahmes, the chief priest’s aide, a young man as free of hair as a melon, wore across his chest the sash of a lector priest.

“He’s very upset, Lieutenant. I can’t tell you how strongly he feels that the man who slew him must be snared and pun ished as quickly as possible.”

The priest, with Bak at his side, walked slowly down the narrow lane toward the multitude of buildings that formed the house of life, the primary center of priestly learning in the land of Kemet. The lord Khepre reached into the lane, turning the plastered walls a blinding white and heating the earth upon which they trod. The second day of the festival promised to be as hot as the first. Soft voices could some times be heard beyond the doorways to either side, but in general, silence and peace reigned.

Bak tried not to show his annoyance. The last thing he needed was the chief priest adding to the burden Amonked had already placed on his shoulders. “To do so, I need to know more of his activities.”

“Ask what you will.” The young priest stepped over a yel low dog sunning itself in front of a door. “I can’t promise to give you the answers you need, for I’ve been told close to nothing. I’ll do the best I can.”

“Mistress Ashayet, Woserhet’s wife, had no idea what he’s been doing-evidently he seldom spoke of his task but she said he’d been troubled for several days. Can you tell me why?”

“All I know is what he told Hapuseneb: he’d found some discrepancies in the records of the storehouses of the lord

Amon. What they were, he didn’t say, evidently wishing to be more certain before he pointed a finger.”

Bak grimaced. He had hoped for more. “Were the store houses here in Waset or in some other city?”

“Here, I believe, but of that I’m not certain. You must speak to his scribe, a man named Tati.”

“Can you tell me where to find him?”

Bak made his slow way down the narrow, meandering lane, counting the open doorways as he stepped over a cry ing baby, sidled around donkeys and several women barring the path while they argued, and stopped to allow a pack of snarling dogs to race around him. Crowding in to either side were the walls of small, single-story interconnected houses from which grimy white plaster flaked. The lane, untouched by the early morning sun, smelled of manure, rancid oil, un washed humanity, and, strangely enough, of flowers. The poor of the city loved the delicate beauty of the blooming plants they had neither the space nor the leisure to grow and, during the reversion of offerings, would ofttimes choose blossoms over food.

This and several neighboring building blocks, though less than two hundred paces from the sacred precinct of Ipet-isut, seemed a world away. According to the chief priest’s aide,

Woserhet and his scribe and workmen had been given a house here for that very reason. In this private place, with no one the wiser, the lord Amon’s servants could dwell on the premises, the auditor could study untroubled the documents they had taken from the storehouses, and they could keep their records.

Bak reached the twelfth doorway on his right and walked inside. The main room was fairly large, an irregular rectan 70

Lauren Haney gle with the wall to the right longer than the opposing wall.

Two rooms opened off to the left. Light and fresh air entered through high windows at the back. A quick glance told him this was the dwelling he sought. Rather than a loom or signs of other household industry, he saw sleeping pallets rolled up along one wall and several small woven reed chests and baskets containing personal belongings.

Footsteps sounded, drawing his eyes to a short, squat, and muscular man descending the mudbrick stairway built against the rear wall. “Who are you?” the man demanded.

Bak gave his name and title, saying he represented

Amonked. “And you are…?”

“You’ll be looking for Tati.” The man dropped off the bot tom step and pointed upward. “He’s on the roof, sir. He’s ex pecting you. Or someone like you.”

He looked no different from any other workman in the land of Kemet and wore the same skimpy kilt, but he spoke with the accent of the people of the western desert and car ried the brand of a prisoner on his right shoulder. Bak guessed he had been taken in a border skirmish and offered by Maatkare Hatshepsut to the lord Amon in gratitude for the victory. “You’ve been told of Woserhet’s death?”

“We have,” the workman nodded. “May the gods take him unto themselves and may the one who slew him burn through eternity.”

Bak was not quite sure what family of gods had given birth to the words, but he could see the sentiment was heart felt. “You liked him, I see.” He smiled, hoping to draw the man out.

“He could be as sour as an unripe persimmon, but he was always fair and made no unreasonable demands.” The work man hesitated, then blurted, “What’ll happen to us now, sir?

Has anyone said?”

“With so many men in authority participating in the Beau tiful Feast of Opet, I doubt if a decision has been made.”

The workman nodded in mute and unhappy understand ing.

Bak headed up the stairs. He sympathized with this man and the others. As servants of the lord Amon, their fate rested in other men’s hands. The scribe would probably be kept at

Ipet-isut or be sent to another god’s mansion, but the odds were weighted heavily that the four workmen would be taken to one of the lord Amon’s many estates to toil in the fields.

At the top of the stairs, a long expanse of white rooftop baked in the morning sun, with no line marking where one dwelling ended and another began. A half-dozen spindly pavilions had been erected to expand the living and work space of the houses below. North-facing airshafts projected here and there, and stairways led downward to each home.

Lines had been strung from which dangled strips of drying meat or newly dyed thread or yarn. Fish lay spread out to dry. Sun-baked dung had been piled in neat mounds for use as fuel; hay was spread in loose piles; baskets, tools, and pottery lay where they had been dropped.

Beneath a rough pavilion roofed with palm fronds, he found a small, elderly man seated cross-legged on the rooftop. His upper back was so stooped his head projected from between his shoulders like a turtle peering out from its shell. His brand, different from that of the workman, had faded, speaking of many long years as a servant.

“You must be Tati,” Bak said.

“Yes, sir.”

The scribe motioned him to sit in the shade. While Bak explained who he was and why he had come, Tati made a tiny mark on the scroll spread across his lap and another on the limestone flake on the roof beside him. Noting the cu riosity on Bak’s face, he explained, “The scroll contains the official list of all the faience statuettes and dishes thought to be in a storage magazine we inspected last week. The shard shows all we found.”