Distant barking drew Bak’s attention. An archer walking apart from the caravan stopped to look up a long, broad sandy valley that came out of the western desert between rugged clumps of craggy hills. A half-dozen feral dogs were racing down the valley, veering to left and right, nipping at the heels of a yellow cur. No, they were nipping at some thing dragging behind the cur.
He hurried to the archer’s side and they stood together, watching the pack draw close. The nearest drovers, plod ding with their donkeys past the wadi mouth, stopped to look. The yellow dog ran as if for its very life, either afraid of its burden or the dogs who chased it. Its frightened yelps were almost lost among the excited barking of the others.
The pack veered around Bak and the archer, passing so close he recognized the large, muscular yellow-gold mutt in the lead. The thing dragging along behind, bumping and bouncing over the sandy surface, was a bound package the length of his arm from elbow to closed fist. It was tied to the dog by a rope wrapped around the creature’s neck.
“Stop that dog!” he yelled as the pack swerved to run alongside the caravan.
A drover, standing close to his lead donkey, grabbed a rope from a basket on its back, made a hasty loop, and swung. The luck of the gods was with him. The loop settled around the yellow cur’s neck, he jerked it tight, and dropped the creature in its tracks. Snapping his short whip to scare the other dogs off, he hurried to the downed ani mal, which was baring its teeth and snarling.
Bak and the archer ran to his aid, as did several drovers.
Nebwa sped up the line of donkeys to see what the problem was. While the newcomers chased away the rest of the pack, the drover who had caught the yellow dog quickly wrapped his rope around the animal’s legs and muzzle so it could not run away or bite.
Bak knelt to study the bundle. At first glance, it looked like the wrapped body of a tiny child, but he saw right away that it was not. The linen wrapping, discolored and dirty, was all wrong. The narrow bands of fabric, ragged and torn from the hard journey across the sand, were wound around the bundle in a random fashion that in no way re sembled the careful binding done in the house of death.
“In the name of the lord Amon,” Nebwa said, kneeling beside him, “I feared for a moment the dog had burrowed into a tomb.”
Bak looked at the cord that bound the bundle to the cur.
It was dark and worn, unlike the lighter, newer rope the drover had used. Examining the end around the struggling animal’s neck, he found a knot securely tied by a man, not the casual knot formed by accident. If the rope had caught on a protruding rock, the dog would surely have been stran gled.
With his dagger, he cut the rope from around the dog’s neck so the drover could release the mongrel. As it raced away, Bak cut the strips of linen that held the package together and unrolled the broader piece in which the con tents were wrapped. Out fell seven pairs of sandals.
Both men burst into laughter. Until they saw among the sandals a long gray feather plucked from the tail of a falcon.
And grasped the fact that the footwear had been taken in the dark of night. Taken by a man who had crept into the encampment and walked undetected among the twenty sleeping archers.
Nebwa glared off in the direction of the desert, no longer able to deny that Hor-pen-Deshret had returned. “We’d best keep our suspicions to ourselves, telling no one but our own men. Let the rest enjoy our one night in Iken.”
Chapter Ten
“I thank the lord Amon that we’ll soon reach Iken.” Pash enuro, whom Bak had just told about the sandals, glanced eastward, where a distant row of trees marked the course of the river, and toward the long escarpment that barred their view of the western desert. If any people watched the caravan, whether farmers or desert raiders, they were too far away to see. “I have no desire to march a couple of hours into the night.”
“All who dwell along this segment of the river are far more afraid of the denizens of darkness than you are,” Bak said. “I doubt they’ll stray far from their homes on a night as black as this one promises to be, with the lord Khonsu hiding much of his face, leaving only the stars for light. As for Hor-pen-Deshret’s men, I suspect we’ve seen-or not seen, as the case may be-the last of them until we travel on south of Iken.”
Pashenuro gave his superior a good-natured smile. “I was thinking of the donkeys, sir. The pace Seshu set and the long march across the barren sands has worn them out and me, too, if the truth be told. If we’re to set out at daybreak tomorrow-and he says we are-we’ll need a full night’s rest.”
Bak eyed the line of animals plodding ahead of them across the sandy plain north of Iken, a broad flat area lying between the rapid-strewn river and the escarpment. A dozen or so donkeys filled the space between Pashenuro’s string and the three carrying chairs. Nefret occupied one chair,
Thaneny another, the third was empty. Rather than ride in comfort as was their due, Amonked and Sennefer were walking with the remainder of their party. The Medjay was well positioned: close enough to see all that occurred and to rush to their aid if need be, but far enough away to remain anonymous.
“Has anything of note occurred in Amonked’s party?”
“Not that I’ve seen. If Seshu didn’t need my help each time we set up or break camp, I’d be more useful helping
Dedu train those oafs who call themselves guards.”
“They learned fast enough to build a proper fire and set up their camp in an orderly manner. If they’re as quick to master the arts of war, you’ll be of more use as a drover.”
Bak glanced toward the west, where the barque of Re hov ered above the escarpment, streaking the sky red. “I saw
Pawah walking with you an hour or so ago.”
“Yes, sir. The boy’s early childhood here in Wawat was one of need and hunger, yet he’s curious about his home land. He asks a multitude of questions, wishing to recall all he’s forgotten.”
“He said nothing about Baket-Amon?”
“Not a word.”
With a resigned sigh, Bak walked on lest he draw atten tion to the Medjay. Spotting Captain Minkheper off to the right, examining the slipway along which ships were dragged past the most formidable of the rapids below Iken, he struck off across the sand to join him.
He knew what he was doing: procrastinating. He feared
Amonked might be the man he sought, the one who slew
Baket-Amon, and he dreaded the thought. He had twice drawn Maatkare Hatshepsut’s attention, both times with mixed results. Once he had lost his rank of lieutenant and had been exiled to Buhen, a blessing in disguise though her intent had been to punish. He had regained his rank the second time and had been rewarded, but grudgingly. Then and three times more he had earned the gold of valor, but had never been awarded the prize. Her memory was long, her unwillingness to forgive legendary. He could well imagine her reaction should he reveal that her cousin was a slayer.
Minkheper greeted Bak with a smile. “I’m forever amazed at the ingenuity of man and the effort he’ll make to get what he wants. In this case, the rare and exotic prod ucts of lands far to the south.”
The slipway stretched farther than the eye could see across the sandy desert flat, a route paved with logs slightly curved to form a cradle, lying side by side along a bed of dry and cracking silt. The concave surface would support a ship’s gently rounded hull, holding it steady. When mois tened with water, the silt would grow slick, easing the ves sel’s overland journey.
“I not long ago saw the barque of Amon dragged along here,” Bak said, “not the great vessel used during the fes tival of Opet, but one of sufficient size to impress a Kushite king. It was a sight I shall never forget.”