Bak walked away, pleased for his friend, yet uneasy. Imsiba had promised not to warn Sitamon that Userhet, a man she trusted, was a suspect in the slaying of her brother, and the promises he made, he kept. But if the overseer was indeed a murderer, one who had slain two men to silence them, would he hesitate to take another life if he feared he might lose a woman he desired?
Turning down the lane that ran along the base of the citadel wall, Bak shook off the thought as fanciful. As far as he could see, Userhet’s foremost passion was himself.
He walked close to the wall, letting a stream of soldiers pass in the opposite direction. They stank of sweat; rivulets of moisture stained dusty bodies and limbs. The narrow, confined lane was stifling, untouched by the breeze stirring the air atop the buildings. The heat and the stench drove him through the northernmost gate to the terrace overlooking the harbor.
On the upper level, shaded so late in the day by the fortress wall, the breeze was strong and soothing, carrying the smell of the river and its occupants. The sky was pale blue tinted with a pink that would deepen and spread as the sun closed on the western horizon.
The sentry standing at the base of the gate grinned. “I see Sergeant Imsiba’s found himself a lady, sir.”
“You’ve seen him today?”
The man nodded toward the smooth stretch of river downstream from the harbor. “Out there, sir, in the skiff with the red sail.”
Bak looked out across the minuscule swells rising and falling on the river’s surface, catching the pink of the sky and losing it time after time. Sure enough, there in the boat he saw Imsiba’s large dark form, the slender figure of a woman wearing a white sheath, Sitamon, and the small, pale child leaning over the hull, dangling a leafy tamarisk branch into the water.
He strode on along the terrace, smiling to himself, forgetting for a while that two men lay dead at the hands of another and the vizier would soon arrive, asking many questions he had yet to answer.
Chapter Thirteen
Bak and Imsiba sailed south to Kor at first light. The Medjay was in good spirits, his self-esteem restored by his evening with Sitamon. He spoke little of her, but when Bak commented upon the fresh, neat bandage on his arm, he admitted in a voice vibrant with both pride and pleasure that she had medicated and rewrapped the wound.
The river was placid and the breeze fair, driving them upstream at a brisk pace. In less than half the time it would have taken to walk the distance, they lowered their sail and beached their skiff not far below the crowded harbor on a stretch of riverbank still soggy from the retreating floodwaters. Imsiba headed downstream toward a row of fishing boats lining the water’s edge, where the men were gathering in nets they had spread out to dry overnight.
Bak walked to the harbor, where vessels of all sizes were tied up two- and sometimes three-deep along a quay overlooked by decaying mudbrick battlements. The announcement of Thuty’s release of caravan and river traffic, made too late to sail the previous day, had added lightness to the footsteps of the men who toiled there and music to their voices. Their joy was infectious, creating an optimism he prayed would be rewarded.
The larger ships rode the swells much as they had for nearly a week, their decks piled high with trade goods, their crews idling away the hours. Their captains stood in clusters on the shore, chatting animatedly. From talk Bak overheard, they were speaking mostly of Commandant Thuty’s party and, as he had hoped, making no effort to depart.
On the smaller vessels, nearly naked sailors scurried around the decks, preparing to set sail. Their masters, men of meager means impatient to go on about their business, practically danced with joy as they shouted out orders. These boats, nautical beasts of burden, hauled local products up and down the river, stopping at villages to take on board or deliver the necessities of life. No party for their captains, no rubbing shoulders with men of high station who knew only luxury, not endless toil.
Bak spotted a bald, spindly-legged man he recognized, one whose sturdy ship plied the waters between Buhen and Ma’am. “I’m looking for Wensu, the Kushite. Master of a small trading ship he brings down the Belly of Stones. Do you know him?”
“I know of him.” The man scratched his head, frowned.
“I’m afraid you’re out of luck, Lieutenant. He set sail close on a week ago. Haven’t seen him since.”
Bak’s good humor seeped away and he bit back a curse.
He should have learned long ago never to look blindly to the gods for favors. “Do you know where he went?”
“He was here one sunset and gone the next daybreak.
That’s all I can tell you.”
“Wensu.” Nebwa spat over a broken section of battlemented wall, accenting the contempt in his voice. “The wild man from Kush.”
Bak stood with the coarse-featured officer atop the fortress wall, looking out at the waterfront. Beyond flowed a river of burnished gold, a rippled mirror of the eastern sky made brilliant by the rising sun Khepre.
“We hoped we’d find him here in Kor, his ship held like all the others, but now I find he’s been gone for close on a week.” Bak had no wish to alienate his friend, but try as he might he could not keep the accusation from his voice, the blame.
Nebwa gave him a long, irritated look. “If you think back, Lieutenant, you’ll remember that we began searching every ship and caravan several days before Mahu’s death and Thuty’s decision to stop all traffic. I spotted Wensu talking with Mahu the first day I came to Kor and I haven’t seen him since. And I’m not surprised. Wensu, like any intelligent smuggler, slipped away the moment he realized how thorough our inspections were. I’d bet a jar of the finest wine of northern Kemet that he’s even now sailing the waters south of Semna, free and clear.”
Nebwa’s sarcasm rankled, as did the truth of his words.
Bak gave him the best smile he could manage. “I spoke from disappointment, my brother, not from malice.”
The term of affection brought a crooked smile to Nebwa’s face. “And I from frustration,” he admitted. “I long to return to Buhen, to my wife and child. To smiling faces, not men who turn away, fearing I’ll find further reason to hold them in this wretched place.”
“I suggest you get down on your knees before all the shrines in Kor and seek the deities’ favor.” Bak’s smile was tenuous, unable to hide how serious he was. “If Imsiba and I can locate the tomb Intef found, with luck it’ll not only be filled with smuggled items, but will offer a place to lay in wait for the headless man. Not until we’ve snared him will we see an end to this unforgiving task.”
“I’ll do more than pray,” Nebwa said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll send patrols up the trail along the Belly of Stones with orders to look for Wensu. If he’s as smart as I think he is, he’s out of our reach in the land of Kush, but we can’t afford to take the chance. We might hide a small problem from the vizier, but not one so large all the world knows.”
Bak preferred not to dwell on the consequence of failure.
“What’s this man Wensu like?”
“He’s a sailor without peer, they say. A man reared on the desert, but more at home on the water than on land.” Nebwa noted Bak’s weary look, smiled. “I know. That much you’ve heard before.” He rubbed his chin, raspy with the previous day’s growth of beard, and looked deeper within 198 / Lauren Haney himself. “He’s a small, dark version of Captain Roy, if the truth be told, befriending none but the men in his crew and confiding in no one.”
“The headless man, I assume, is one of my suspects and Wensu, I feel sure, is his tool. Yet twice you’ve called him smart.”