Bak thought back, trying to recall actions once taken for granted, now suspicious. “I’ve seen him often at the quay, 228 / Lauren Haney meeting cargo ships laden with garrison supplies, including weapons. As the first man on board, he probably took what he wanted from among the bundles destined for the armory and altered the list of contents. Then he must’ve slipped the weapons in among the objects to be stored in a warehouse, where no one would’ve been the wiser. My question is: How skilled is he with a bow?”
“I’ve yet to find a man who’s seen him use one,” Hori said.
Imsiba stiffened; he snapped off a curse in his own tongue.
“I must go to Sitamon at once.”
“No!” Bak grabbed his arm. “She could speak out of turn, and that we can’t risk.”
“If he harms her…” The Medjay’s anger was palpable.
Psuro burst through the fortress gate. The stocky Medjay spotted them and raced along the terrace to meet them. “Sir!
Userhet has vanished. He entered the sacred precincts of the lord Horus of Buhen and a short time later, he walked out the pylon gate. He’s not been seen since.”
“He’s bolted!” Bak was elated. His plan had borne fruit.
“Hori, go summon the boy Mery. And you, Psuro, must load onto our skiff food, water, and weapons and the rope and tools you’ll find in my office. Then stay with the vessel. You’ll travel south with us.”
“Can I now go to Sitamon?” Imsiba demanded.
“No. You must go instead to the physician. Your wound needs cleaning, a fresh poultice, a new bandage.” Bak laid a hand on the Medjay’s shoulder, smiled. “Don’t fret, Imsiba.
I must report to Thuty, and while I’m there I’ll speak with mistress Tiya. She’ll be happy, I’m sure, to invite Sitamon and the boy into her household, keeping them there until Userhet is safely within our grasp.”
Chapter Fifteen
“We looked everywhere for the skiff, sir.” Pashenuro, the short, brawny Medjay sergeant next in line after Imsiba, stood stiff and uncomfortable, chagrined. “We never thought he’d leave it on the riverbank, lying in plain sight among the vessels the officers use for sport.”
Bak looked across the harbor in the general direction of the boats in question, but from where he stood on the quay he could not see them. Water lapped the smooth white stones at his feet, rocking the skiff moored alongside. Tangled together in an untidy heap were the food and drink, weapons, and tools Psuro had stowed on board.
Exasperation crept into his voice. “Have you never heard, Pashenuro, that the best place to hide an object is among like articles?”
The Medjay flushed. “Yes, sir.”
Bak eyed the massive fortress wall facing the harbor, its facade stark white in the midday sun. Thin shadows delin-eated projecting towers and accented details of the battlements; black rectangles marked openings through the towered gates. Atop tall flagstaffs that rose before the pylon gate, four red pennants fluttered and curled in a lazy breeze. A dog wailed somewhere inside the city, setting Bak’s teeth on edge.
“Userhet was last seen walking out the pylon gate. Why wasn’t he spotted when he shoved his skiff into the water?”
“He was, sir, but as he carried a bow and quiver, he was taken for an officer.”
“A bow?” Surprise gave way to satisfaction. A fleeing man does not take along a weapon for which he has no talent.
“He left the sacred precincts of Horus of Buhen empty-handed.”
Pashenuro nodded. “Our men are even now searching for a hiding place outside the walls of this city.”
Bak saw Imsiba hurrying Psuro and Mery out the fortress gate. “When you locate it, summon Hori. I want a record of each and every item you find there.”
“Yes, sir.” Pashenuro shifted his feet and took a fresh grip on his spear. “I feel a witless oaf, sir, not thinking to look closer at the officers’ skiffs.”
“We thought to let him go anyway,” Bak admitted, “to give him his head and let him lead us to the place where he hides the contraband.” But we didn’t expect to follow so far behind, he thought, or to lose him before we started.
“We’ll go first to the cove.” Bak ducked, letting the lower yard swing overhead as Imsiba adjusted the sail to catch the breeze. He could see ahead the patch of boiling water at the collapsed end of the ledge where Wensu and Roy had met the headless man. The headless man who now had a name: Userhet. “If we find no tracks heading out to the desert, we’ll sail on to the backwater Ahmose described, the place where Userhet hides his skiff.”
“What if we come upon Wensu’s ship? He has six men.
We’re only three.” Psuro spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, a warrior untroubled by the odds.
“Four!” Mery grabbed a sling from among the weapons piled in the boat and pantomimed firing off a rock. “My father taught me to use this, and I’ve practiced a lot. You can count on me.”
Smothering a smile, Bak answered Psuro. “I doubt the gods will be so generous as to drop Wensu into our hands, but if they do, so much the better. I promised Userhet to Commandant Thuty, and I’d like nothing more than to give him the Kushite as well.”
“Nebwa sent men to Kefia’s farm,” Imsiba said, his eyes locked on the frothing waters ahead, “and he sent a couple to Ahmose’s island. A good, loud shout will no doubt bring them should we need them.”
The breeze shoved the skiff upriver and the skilled use of sail and rudder drove them past the rapids. They rounded the mound of boulders, and the cove opened out before them. Moored hard against the ledge was a traveling ship, small and graceful, a vessel of elegance and beauty. The head of the divine cow, its horns twisted in the Kushite fashion, decorated the prow. Imsiba sucked in his breath, Psuro gaped, Mery stared wide-eyed.
Snapping out a curse, Bak signaled a retreat, hoping to slip away unseen. The cove was the last place he had expected to find Wensu. With word no doubt spread all along the river that this mooring place was no longer safe, the man’s wits had to be addled for him to return.
Imsiba tugged at the braces to haul the sail around. The ledge stole the breeze and the heavy fabric began to flutter.
Psuro took up the oars, but too late. Momentum carried them into the cove. A man on board the larger vessel yelled a warning, destroying any hope they might have had of making a surprise assault from another direction.
Sailors ran to the rail of Wensu’s ship to peer over the side. Six by Bak’s count, all as dark as night, men from far to the south of the land of Kush. They wore skimpy loincloths, with daggers and axes suspended from their belts, and carried long spears. A man hurled his weapon. It sliced through the water to vanish in the depths. A second man flung his spear, striking the prow with a solid thunk. The weight of the shaft dragged it down, tearing the point free, and it, too, fell into the river. Bak, kneeling low, hastened to distribute weapons among his fighting force, which suddenly seemed small and vulnerable, easy targets for the men standing on the higher deck.
“Put in among the boulders,” he commanded. “We’ll be safer there than in this open boat. And from there, we should be able to climb onto the ledge.”
Psuro paddled with a will, swinging the ungainly skiff around. Imsiba lowered the upper yard and gathered the sail into an untidy mess, getting it and both yards out of the way.
Mery scrambled around the bottom of the vessel, searching for the bag of smooth, rounded stones Psuro had loaded on board for the sling.
Bak donned thumb and wrist guards, picked up a bow, jerked an arrow from a quiver, and seated the missile. With the skiff unsteady beneath him and his own lack of skill, he had little hope of striking the enemy. To discourage a concentrated assault of spears would satisfy him. Bracing himself against the mast, he took aim as best he could and released the arrow. The sailors ducked away from the rail and the projectile sped by. The men reappeared, laughing. Mery let go with the sling. A man took a quick step back and clutched his head, dazed. Bak acknowledged the feat with a smile and fired off another arrow. It struck a man in the thigh, dropping him to his knees. His shipmates ducked back from the rail, abandoning their vantage point, and dragged the wounded man away.