Bak swerved into the street that ran alongside the guardhouse. The first thing he must do, he decided, was speak with Hori. The scribe, with his frank and open countenance, would be the ideal person to go from one man to another, trying to learn how well the five who had played knucklebones with Mahu could shoot the bow and arrow.
Chapter Eight
Thinking over what he had learned-or, to be more precise, what he had not learned-from Kay and Userhet, Bak swerved toward the door of the old guardhouse. As he plunged across the threshold, he failed to see in the dark in-terior another man coming his way: Nebamon, who had also played knucklebones with Mahu. Bak’s foot came down hard on the trader’s instep, while Nebamon’s down-turned head thudded into Bak’s nose.
Bak sprang backward and snarled an oath. Identifying the startled trader, he tempered the words with the best smile he could manage through the pain. “Nebamon! Just the man I wanted to see!”
Grabbing the doorjamb, the white-haired trader lifted a sandaled foot and rubbed his injured toes. “I’ve heard your enthusiasm for the task at hand often knows no bounds, Lieutenant, but did you have to disable me to reach your goal?”
“You gave as good as you got,” Bak said, blinking back tears. “Whatever you came for, I doubt it worth a broken nose.”
Nebamon had the grace to flush. The trader was slightly taller than Bak and slimmer. His face was thin, his nose aquiline, his eyes pale blue, betraying an ancestor from some faraway land to the north of Kemet. He wore a simple white kilt and multicolored bead bracelets, anklets, and broad collar of good quality. His patrician appearance was decept-ive. He was a trader, plain and simple, a man who sailed a single ship above the Belly of Stones and hired other men to haul his merchandise around the rapids to Kor and north to Abu.
As he seldom traveled deep into Kush where the more exotic and valuable items could be found, his success was limited.
Five grumbling, cursing sailors burst through the fortress gate, sped on by a pair of black, broad-muzzled dogs nipping at their heels. Two Medjays followed, hurrying them up the street at spearpoint. The sailors were sweaty and dirty. One bled from the nose, another limped, a third had a swollen lip. As they drew near, Bak spotted bleeding knuckles and broken teeth. The sliver of shadow beside his feet told him midday had not long passed. Too early in the day for a brawl, he thought, but with shipping at a standstill and many men idled, fighting was inevitable.
Beckoning Nebamon to follow, he stepped well away from the door, giving his men plenty of room to shepherd their prisoners into the guardhouse. As the last of the five vanished through the portal, Bak raised a hand to the Medjays and smiled, signaling a job well done. Since the entry hall would be noisy and reeking of sweat, he thought it best not to follow them inside until the rabble was cleared away.
“What brought you to the guardhouse, Nebamon?”
“You found a dead man in the desert, I’ve heard.” The trader’s tone was curt, businesslike. “A hunter, they say. A man slain with his own weapon.”
“The desert patrol found a body, yes.” Bak was not surprised at the way the tale had become twisted. “The hunter Intef. Did you know him?”
“No, but I’ve seen him often enough: a man walking before two or three donkeys loaded with game.” Nebamon scowled.
“He’s the second man slain at the hands of another in less than…What? Two days? Frankly, I’m concerned.”
“As am I.”
“According to whispers I’ve heard in the streets of this city, you’ve no idea who the slayer might be. No men to question, no path to follow, not a thing of substance to point the way.
To speak bluntly, you’ve reached a dead end.”
Bak bit back a sharp retort. The charge was unfair-he had barely begun his search-but it rankled nonetheless.
Perhaps that was Nebamon’s purpose: to poke and prod until anger loosened the tongue. Better that than to think the rumor widespread. “I’m not as close as I’d like to be,” he admitted, “but the tale you tell is too hopeless by far.”
The clip-clop of hooves sounded in a side lane. A portly man hastened around the corner, leading a train of donkeys, each laden with four huge beer jars. “Out of the way!” he bellowed.
Bak drew Nebamon off the pavement to let the donkeys pass. One of the few open spaces in Buhen, the sandy plot behind the old guardhouse was cluttered with partly worked stone slabs, lengths of wood, and several stacks of mudbricks.
The materials would one day be used to repair the unused end of the block, consisting of several large rooms not presently assigned a purpose.
“How can an honest man go about his business with death lurking in every direction?” Nebamon demanded. “Even if we could move our trade goods-which we can’t, thanks to Troop Captain Nebwa-we’d not dare consign them to a caravan. All who travel the desert trails fear for their lives.
Nor are we safe inside the walls of this garrison!”
Bak bit back an oath. He should have expected something like this: men of faint heart turning a whisper into a scream.
“Two deaths so close together seems ominous, I grant you, but the timing was merely a whim of the gods.” He hoped he sounded more certain than he felt.
“Nonetheless…”
“Intef was slain with a purpose,” he said more emphatically, “and Mahu for a different reason altogether.”
Nebamon gave him a sharp look. “The tusk, you mean?”
“So it would seem.” Bak watched the last of the donkeys pass by and a boy with a stick bringing up the rear. “I’ve been told a man approached Mahu the night before he sailed to Kor, asking him to take illicit cargo on board his ship.
The incident occurred in Nofery’s house of pleasure.”
“We played knucklebones that night! In the alcove. He and I and…” Nebamon’s eyes widened. “Are you saying 120 / Lauren Haney one of us slipped that tusk on board his ship? One of us took his life? You can’t be serious!”
Bak was surprised at Nebamon’s acumen. Of his five suspects, the trader was the last he would have expected to leap so fast to the logical conclusion. “Did you by chance hear any talk of smuggling that evening?”
“I may have.” Nebamon frowned, trying to remember, then shrugged. “This is the frontier, Lieutenant. One can’t take a breath without hearing tales of smuggling.”
“You saw no one whispering in Mahu’s ear?”
“Other than him, five of us played that game. Not a man among us is faint of heart-you’ve but to watch us bet to know that-but I can’t believe any of us would be brazen enough to make such an offer with so many men in so small a space.”
“Or to a man as upright and honest as Mahu.” Bak did not realize how cynical he sounded until Nebamon laughed. “I don’t mean to belittle him, but I’ve grown weary of hearing those words.”
“His virtue could grow tiresome,” the trader said, sobering.
“Each time I complained that he wanted too great a percent-age of the merchandise he hauled downriver for me, I was firmly reminded how safe the objects were in his hands and how careful he would be to turn each and every item over to my agent in Abu.”
Bak’s eyes narrowed. “He asked for more than was his due?”
“Never. He valued his reputation too highly.” Nebamon crossed to the pavement, walked a few paces up the street, paused and looked back. “He never once cheated me-and for that, he never failed to demand the maximum the market would bear.”
Bak watched the trader go, seeing him in a new light. He had heard him described as weak, a poor businessman, and he had accepted those tales as true. Now he questioned that picture. Nebamon was bright and quick to see beyond the obvious-not a man to underestimate.