Lauren Haney ing I felt presumptuous, but by day’s end, I reveled in the luxury.”
Bak laughed. “You’ll rapidly become spoiled. Your mas ter has another inspection tomorrow.”
The scribe’s good humor faded. “Will the local men show themselves again, hoping to intimidate him as they tried to do today?”
“They don’t give up easily.”
Pawah plopped down on the sand facing Bak. “Sennefer said you were very brave today, sir.”
Bak rolled his eyes skyward. “A gross exaggeration.”
“Still…” The boy leaned toward him, eyes wide, will ing him to admit to a courage Bak felt unwarranted under the circumstances.
Mindful of the pavilion a few paces away and its flimsy linen walls, he took care how he answered. “The men who faced us today saw Nebwa and me with Amonked. They surely concluded that I, a man they know as fair and com passionate, have come to look into Prince Baket-Amon’s murder. They can also be sure Nebwa, a man highly re spected in Wawat for his rough honesty, his integrity, will see that no harm comes to the caravan or to any who dwell along the river. They had far more to gain by allowing us to pass than by attacking us.”
“Do you and the troop captain hold so much power?” the scribe asked.
“Not power. Trust.” Bak rubbed his arms, wishing he had thought to don a tunic before leaving the archers’ hearth. “To retain that trust, I must lay hands on Baket Amon’s slayer and Nebwa must see that no man suffers loss of life or property.”
“If you don’t?”
Bak shrugged, unable to answer.
“Has it never occurred to you that the prince might’ve been slain by someone wishing to take his place as leader of his people?” Thaneny asked.
The question was valid, but Bak suspected it was prompted more by hope than conviction that the slayer would be found outside of Amonked’s party. “The succes sion has never been an issue. He had a young son, whose mother will serve as regent, and other, younger sons of the same woman.”
“He was very loyal to Kemet, I’ve been told. Would anyone have wished him dead in order to tear this part of
Wawat out of our sovereign’s grasp?”
“Certainly not the kings of Kush who dwell beyond our southern frontier. Many years ago, the powerful kingdom centered in Kerma was crushed by Ahkheperkare Thut mose, and it’s now fragmented into a number of smaller, weaker kingdoms. Each thrives on the trade passing be tween Kemet and the lands farther south. Who would jeop ardize that? As for the people who dwell here in Wawat, they need us just as we need them.”
Unable to offer another option, Thaneny fell silent. His expression was glum, as was Pawah’s, neither wanting to believe the prince had been slain by someone close to them.
“Have you been with Amonked for long?” Bak asked.
“Four years.” Thaneny, looking relieved at the change of subject, shifted position. He had trouble bending the dam aged knee. “Since I was hurt in an accident at our sover eign’s new memorial temple across the river from the capital. A weakened rope, a stone sliding out of control…”
His voice tailed off, leaving the rest to the imagination.
Bak nodded his understanding. He had grown to man hood near the southern capital of Waset, where men toiled year after year on the mansions of the gods and the tombs and memorial temples of royalty. Raised by his physician father, he had grown accustomed to seeing men crippled and maimed or hearing of men killed by heavy stones fall ing while being lifted into place or scaffolds collapsing or mounds of sand or rocks sliding out of control. “And the lord Amon chose to smile upon you.”
“The god, yes, and Amonked.” Thaneny flashed a grate ful look toward the pavilion. “He’d come to the temple that day to see how the work progressed. He saw the stone lifted off me and the way my leg was crushed, and he had me carried to a royal physician. Later, while I lay drugged and senseless, he took me to his home where his servants could care for me. I came close to death, they tell me, and I spent many days unable to get off my sleeping pallet.”
No wonder he’s so devoted to Amonked, Bak thought.
Few men with so serious an injury would have survived.
Only constant and dutiful care could have kept him alive and a bright, clean house instead of a hovel.
“My debt to Amonked grew each day.” The scribe glanced again toward the pavilion and the shadows flitting across the lighted walls. “I couldn’t walk, but I could read and write. As soon as I could sit erect, he allowed me to read to his children and to teach them. When I learned to walk on crutches, he took me into his office.”
“There you’ve been ever since?”
Thaneny’s voice pulsed with emotion. “I can never repay him. Never. He gave me my life.”
“Must you dwell on the past, Thaneny?” Amonked stood at the corner of the pavilion, baton of office in hand, mouth pursed in disapproval. “You’ve long since repaid me with your competence, your honesty, your loyalty. You offend me by thinking otherwise.”
The scribe bowed his head. “Yes, sir.”
A frustrated sigh burst from Amonked’s lips. He greeted
Bak with a nod and beckoned Pawah. “Come. I wish to speak with the caravan master.”
The boy’s eyes lit up and he leaped to his feet.
When they were well out of hearing distance, Bak re turned to the purpose for which he had come. “Did you see
Baket-Amon the morning he was slain?”
“No, sir.” The answer came fast and firm, with no hes itation betraying doubt.
Bak gave him a sharp look. “You knew him, I see.”
“I did, yes.” Thaneny noticed Bak’s heightened interest and his voice turned wry. “We were far from intimate, Lieutenant. I’m a servant and he was a man of substance.”
Bak doubted the scribe spent much time in the royal house. Other than errands, Amonked would have no need to send him there. He would be more useful in his master’s home in Waset or on his country estate-or estates. “How did you meet him? Where?”
The scribe hesitated, his reluctance to answer apparent.
“I’ll learn the truth, Thaneny, with or without your help.”
The scribe took a long time answering. “Two years ago, or was it three? He took a liking to mistress Nefret. He…
Well, I don’t know if you, who dwell here in his homeland, ever heard tales of his exploits in Waset. But he was a man who loved women. Many women.”
“Wawat was also his playground,” Bak assured him.
“Then you know he wasn’t one to give up easily.”
“I’ve heard no tales of Baket-Amon pursuing a woman who offered no encouragement.”
“Mistress Nefret gave him none. I swear she didn’t.” The protest was made with the intensity of a zealot. “Nonethe less, he came often to Amonked’s house, thinking to attract her attention.”
Nefret was lovely, Bak granted, but would beauty alone have been sufficient to draw the prince away from more fruitful pursuits? “Did he catch her eye?”
“She’s a good girl, honest and loyal, and she knows she owes Amonked everything. At times she isn’t happy, and now and again they quarrel, but her father-a minor no bleman with no wealth to speak of-committed her to him, and she vowed to live up to their agreement. Since she’s shared his bed, many young men have paraded before her.
She’s looked at none of them.”
A strong avowal of unwavering fidelity. Enough to make
Bak weary-and arouse suspicion. “Did she ever acknowl edge the prince’s pursuit?”
“I doubt she even noticed him.”
Bak bestowed upon the scribe a long, skeptical look.
Thaneny did not so much as flinch. His admiration for the woman, his adoration, was unshakable. “Did Amonked know of Baket-Amon’s interest in mistress Nefret and of his many visits?”
“No, sir!” Thaneny eyed Bak furtively, realized another answer had come too fast, and hastened to explain. “When we’re in residence in Waset, he goes each day to the royal house and continues on to the warehouses of the lord