“He’s a likable man, cheerful, congenial, and generous, but a man seldom inspired to diligent effort.” Imsiba must have noticed the birds, too, for he dug the oars deeper. “They say his land thrives only because its previous owner tended it with love and understanding-and because mistress Rennefer works the fields by his side and keeps a firm hand on the servants who toil with them.”
“You mentioned trouble with his neighbors,” Bak prompted, his eyes on a dark smudge off to the left, a mud-bank lurking just below the water’s surface, awaiting a careless sailor.
“Last year, close to the end of the growing season, when the days were hot and the land burned dry, he ordered his servants to dam the main irrigation channel that passes his farm and to open the ditches to his own fields. The crops on the farms farther along the channel went dry, while his crops thrived. Within a day the dam was found and dug away, but not before several neighboring fields were ruined and others were harmed, giving half-measure when they were harvested.”
Bak whistled. “No wonder he’s been attacked!”
“When he saw the damage he’d done, he was filled with shame.” Imsiba’s voice was as dry as the dust-filled air. “He offered to make good the losses, but his own crops in no 6 / Lauren Haney way covered the total. His neighbors, excusing him for a congenial fool, took what little he was able to repay and went on to other matters.” The Medjay gave Bak a wry smile.
“A few wondered if mistress Rennefer had whispered in her husband’s ear, advising him to redirect the water, but most are convinced she’s too honest and innocent for so unsavory an act.”
Bak’s thoughts leaped to the obvious. “Netermose, I assume, was one whose farm suffered?”
“He was among those few who wanted Penhet punished, but with the rest so quick to accept less than they lost, what could he do?”
What indeed? Bak wondered. The incident had happened half a year ago, the crops long since harvested and new crops even now being planted in their place. A long time to harbor a grudge-unless Penhet had tried the same foul trick again.
“You gave your husband root of mandrake.” Bak, dropping onto a low three-legged stool in the open court of Penhet’s house, kept his voice flat, his irritation contained. He saw no reason to add to Rennefer’s unhappiness, but the urge was strong.
“I wanted him to rest. To be free of pain.” Her eyes darted toward Bak’s, challenged him to contest her right to protect what was hers.
She sat on the hard-packed earthen floor, her legs drawn up beneath her, her hand on the sleeping man lying on the makeshift litter on which he had been carried to the house.
She was tall and thin, sinewy. Her face was plain, uncared for rather than unattractive, and her hands were rough, the knuckles swollen. The portly body of her husband lay on its stomach, face turned to the right, swathed from neck to waist in bandages. Blood stained one side, a rich red seepage drying to a brownish crust.
The courtyard was a whitewashed rectangle roofed at one end with palm fronds spread over a spindly wooden frame.
A faint rustling marked the passage of a mouse. A loom and a grindstone lay in the patch of shade with three round- bottomed porous water jars standing against the wall. Shoved up next to the jars to make room for the wounded man was a sheaf of long, tough river grass and a half-woven mat.
Seven large reddish pots containing herbs and vegetables were scattered around the sunny, unroofed area. An orange cat lay sleeping on the cool, damp earth in which a rosemary plant thrived.
“You’d have done better to use a more moderate dose,” he said, “giving me the chance to speak to him.”
“Why? You know who tried to slay him! That wretched Netermose!” Her voice grew louder, more strident with each word.
He forced himself to be patient. “Mistress Rennefer, you say you summoned me to look into this matter with a clear and unbiased eye. If such is truly your desire, you’ll place no obstacles in my path.” He paused, waited for her nod of agreement, resentful though it was. “Now where’s the dagger you found?”
“Out there.” Her eyes darted toward the door and the general direction of the field Bak had yet to see. “I couldn’t stand the sight of it, so I threw it away. It’s in the weeds somewhere close to where he fell.”
Tamping down the urge to shake her, he studied the woman, who was close to forty, as was her husband. Where the corners of Penhet’s eyes had wrinkles of laughter, her brow was lined with a lifetime of anxiety. Where his plump body spoke of an enjoyment of the good things in life, her spare figure told of toil and sacrifice. Her spine was stiff, her mouth thin and tight, the flesh below her eyes smudged by worry. Bak pitied her, but he did not like her.
He must not allow his antipathy to influence his search for the truth, he cautioned himself. “Did you actually see Netermose thrust the dagger into Penhet’s back?”
“I saw him on his knees, bent over my husband, looking at what he’d done.” She swallowed hard, as if to dam a flood.
“When he heard me behind him, he scrambled to his feet to run. I saw the blood on him…so much blood!..and I screamed, drawing my servants from the house and the 8 / Lauren Haney fields. They caught him and bound his hands and threw him in the hut where still he sits.”
A short, squat woman waddled through a rear door. She saw Bak with her mistress, gave a startled little squeal, and scurried away. She should have been with Imsiba in the servant’s quarters, he thought, not wandering around the house.
“Why would he wish to take Penhet’s life?”
Rennefer tossed her head in defiance. “How can I know what festered in his heart and drove him to such madness?
I didn’t ask him. I couldn’t bear to look at him.”
She was, he saw, a woman who wished always to hold the offensive. “Don’t you see an obvious reason for anger when one man takes the water entitled to another?”
“My husband made a mistake.” She swallowed again, blinked. “He…he isn’t much of a farmer. And he sometimes acts without thinking, but never with malice.”
“In what other way has he harmed Netermose?”
“Do you seek to blacken his name?” she demanded.
A trickle of sweat ran down his back, driving him to his feet. “Must I hear it from your neighbors, mistress?”
Her mouth tightened, her eyes glinted resentment. She knew as well as he did that there was no such thing as a secret in any community along the river. Whoever he asked would give the answer-and add Bak’s questions to the tale when next it was told. “Once Netermose accused my husband of moving boundary stones, and another time he said our cows crossed a ditch and trod on a field of new onions.”
“Were the charges true?”
Her eyes fluttered to his face and away, but her spine remained as stiff as the trunk of a dom palm. “I fear the cattle did some damage,” she admitted. “As for the boundary stones, we’ll know when next our fields are surveyed.”
Bak eyed her long and hard. “You seem an intelligent woman, mistress, and all the world knows you toil each day by your husband’s side. You can’t have been blind to his wrongdoing.”
“He has many admirable qualities, Lieutenant. He’s kind and generous and loving. His heart is filled with laughter.”
She caressed her husband’s cheek with the back of her fingers and a smile touched her face, a tenderness that vanished in an instant. “I take him for what he is and close my eyes to his faults. That’s what makes a marriage, and ours is a good one.”
Her voice caught on the last words and a low, eerie moan rose from deep within her throat. She bowed her head, a single tear swelled to a flood, and sobs rocked her body.
Bak found Imsiba outside, exploring the animal lean-to and a paddock enclosed by a low mudbrick wall. A dun-colored cow, big-bellied and soon to give birth, shared the shelter with a sow and her sleeping piglets. Four donkeys stood in the sun, munching straw, swishing flies with their tails. One brayed for no apparent reason; another answered from a distant farm. Geese and ducks scratched in the wet earth where water had spilled from a red pottery bowl in which five downy yellow ducklings swam in erratic circles.