Hori burst into the room with Psuro in tow. Both men carried cowhide shields, curved rectangles slightly wider at the arched top than at the bottom, reaching from knee to shoulder. The youth carried two, one a creamy white and the other light brown, while those the stocky Medjay brought were reddish, red and white spotted, black, and black and white spotted. They were so new they still gave off the slightly acrid smell of recently tanned hides.
Grateful for the distraction, Bak rolled up the report, tossed it into a basket with several others, and scrambled to his feet.
“Let’s see them,” he said, taking the shields from Hori and leaning them against the coffin.
Psuro added his four, forming a bright cowhide wall in front of the man-shaped chest. The stocky Medjay modeled 168 / Lauren Haney them one by one, holding shield and spear at rigid attention as he would during the vizier’s inspection. Bak stood before him, trying to decide which would make the most dramatic appearance.
“You look a dutiful man, Lieutenant.”
Bak glanced toward the door. “Userhet! What brings you to my humble place of business?” He smiled, softening the words lest they be taken as flippant.
“I thought to find you at the quay, but I see you’ve found a more peaceful occupation than searching a few fishing vessels.”
Bak kept his smile in place, ignoring the sarcasm. “Peaceful, yes, and less offensive to the nose.”
Crossing the threshold, the handsome overseer glanced pointedly at Hori and Psuro. “I’ve come on a matter of some importance, Lieutenant.”
The vizier’s visit, Bak guessed. “My men can be trusted to hold their tongues.”
“Nevertheless…”
Bak lifted the brown shield, baring the foot of the coffin, and handed it to Psuro. “You must either tell me of your errand now, or go on about your business and come back another time. As you may’ve heard, a man of note is journeying upriver, and I wish my Medjays to make a good impression.”
Userhet’s mouth tightened at the rebuff, but he held his ground. “The commandant’s wife sent a servant to my quarters, inviting me to her party.” He gave Hori and Psuro a quick look, as if Bak’s oblique reference to the vizier had left him confused as to whether or not they had been told the identity of the man soon to arrive. “To have so lofty an individual in Buhen will be a memorable experience, but it could easily turn disastrous.”
“In what way?” Bak took the brown shield from Psuro’s hand and replaced it with the black one, exposing the coffin at knee level.
“You’re an intelligent man, Lieutenant. You know as well as I that the garrisons of Wawat owe their existence to trade, yet neither cargo vessels nor caravans have been allowed to move for the past five days.”
“This is by far the best,” Bak said to Psuro. “Take the others back to the garrison arsenal and draw new black shields for the inspection.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bak stepped aside, giving Psuro and Hori room to obey.
From his new position, he saw that Imsiba had returned to the entry hall and had stopped again to speak with the men on duty. Bak beckoned, but the big Medjay grimaced and shook his head, refusing to enter while a man he disliked remained. Hori walked along the row of shields, picking up one and then another and stacking them on Psuro’s out-stretched arms.
“You’re not the first to voice concern,” Bak said. “I believe the commandant is even now reevaluating his stance on the movement of traffic.”
“I thank the lord Amon!” Userhet glanced toward the pair collecting the shields. “As you can well imagine, I harbor in my heart a deep concern for Buhen, but I must admit I’ve a secondary interest as well.”
“Oh?”
Userhet’s eyes widened, darted toward Bak. “By the beard of Osiris! That’s a coffin!”
Hori and Psuro exchanged a furtive look and came close to laughing. The men on duty in the entry hall covered their mouths to stifle mirth. Imsiba hid a smile in a frown of disapproval. Bak glanced from one to another, trying to understand. Then it came to him: the men had somehow found a way of using the coffin as the focal point for making bets, probably wagering on each new viewer’s likely reaction.
He was not averse to gambling, but the men were getting carried away. The time had come, he decided, to restrict their bets to knucklebones. “We could find no better place to put it, so here it sits.”
Userhet walked close to read the deceased’s name.
“Hmmm. A man of no special worth, I see. A scribe probably.”
170 / Lauren Haney
Hori and Psuro, shaking with silent laughter, hurried out to the street with their burden. Someone in the entry hall sputtered. Bak shot a warning glance their way. Userhet was not a man to take lightly a joke at his own expense. “You spoke of a second reason for wanting traffic to move.”
“I must know how much longer Mahu’s ship will be held in Buhen.” Userhet turned his back on the coffin and gave Bak a self-satisfied smile. A smug smile, Imsiba would have called it. “Mistress Sitamon has turned to me for advice about her brother’s affairs. Letting so large a vessel lie idle is not good business.”
Bak stole a look at Imsiba, remembering the pleasure his friend had shown when the lovely young widow had come with the broth. He hoped the Medjay had failed to hear, but no. Imsiba stared at the overseer, the hurt plain to see on his face.
“She told me she asked him for advice.” Imsiba prowled the room, distraught. “She didn’t say she’d placed her affairs in his hands.”
“I doubt she has,” Bak said, hoping to calm his friend.
“You heard him say as much yourself.”
“Today perhaps, but what of tomorrow? You know how persuasive he can be.”
“No, I don’t.” Bak dropped onto the coffin and eyed Imsiba with a blend of impatience and sympathy. “You appear to know him far better than I. Since you can’t bear to stand in the same room with him, how have you gained so vast a knowledge?”
The Medjay walked to the door and stared unseeing into the entry hall, where two men, potters if the grayish flecks of dried mud on their arms told true, had come to report a theft of charcoal, silencing the knucklebones. He whirled suddenly, his face stormy. “Userhet’s one of your suspects, my friend. If he proves to be a slayer of men, Sitamon’s life could be in danger.”
“He’s one of five suspects. A man more apt to be innocent than guilty.”
“Are you still gnawing that bone, Lieutenant?” Hapuseneb strode into the room with an assurance only wealth can give.
“I suggest you cast your net wider. It’s true that those of us unfortunate enough to have played knucklebones with Mahu are each and every one involved in trade, but many others along the river have both the means and the wit to smuggle contraband.”
“You’ll find my scribe Hori in a room at the back of this building,” Bak said in a wry voice. “If you’ve names to offer, we’ll search the men out and apply the cudgel.”
Hapuseneb burst into laughter. Glancing around, he located a stool against the wall, drew it forward, and sat down.
The potters hurried out of the building, looking no happier than when they had arrived. The entry hall remained silent, the knucklebones stilled for a more entertaining game of chance.
“I’ve come fishing,” Hapuseneb admitted. “I’ve heard whispers of a visit from the vizier, and I’ve been invited to a party worthy of the great man himself. He is coming, isn’t he?”