Why men such as Ani and Wensu, so obviously of the city, had chosen to travel so far from home, Bak could not imagine.
A sharp whistle drew Bak’s attention to the well. The don keys had drunk their fill and the nomad was leading his small herd toward User’s camp. Amonmose, Nebenkemet, Wensu, and Ani hurried to meet him, thinking to oversee the loading of their belongings, Bak assumed. The signal had been
Psuro’s, summoning Senna, Rona, and Nebre. The trio hur ried to the well to water the donkeys in Bak’s small string of animals.
“Other than Senna, do any of your men speak the tongue of the nomads?” User asked.
“One man tells me he can get by.”
“You’re fortunate.”
Bak did not like User’s ominous tone. “Are you hinting that Senna may abandon us, as some say he did Minnakht?”
“I know the nomads in this area hold him to blame. They would, since he isn’t one of them and Minnakht vanished while under his care. Do I personally think him guilty of wrongdoing? I’ve no idea.” User watched one of the drovers lift several bundles one after another, testing their weight to be sure none was too heavy for a donkey. The man who had watered the animals began to load them. “All I’m saying is that not many nomads speak the tongue of Kemet. I’ve learned a few words over the years, but not enough. If any thing were to happen to my guide and the drovers, I’d not lose my way. But should we need help, I doubt I could ex plain what we need.”
Bak could see the weakness troubled him. “Which man is your guide?”
“The one wearing the faded red leather kilt. Dedu is his name.”
Bak watched Dedu for a few moments. The guide, some years older than the drovers, toiled among them as an equal.
He liked that. It signified a man secure within himself. Thus far, Senna had helped with the donkeys but had offered no as sistance to Minmose. As if the many small household tasks were beneath him.
The sun rose fully above the ridge, sending long rays through the wispy branches of the tamarisks. A slight breeze blew the smoke from a makeshift hearth across the small en campment, carrying with it the odor of charred bread. A don key brayed; its rear hooves shot through the air as it tried to shake off its load.
One of the nomad drovers separated a gray donkey from the rest and led it across the sand to a spot twenty or so paces away from the trees and slightly farther from the well and
User’s camp. He stopped near a clump of bushes, spoke a few words in his own tongue, a murmur from so far away, and re peated himself in a louder voice. Receiving no answer, he shouted to User, “He sleeps, sir.”
“A man camped there through the night,” User explained.
“A stranger.” Scowling, he strode across the sand. “You’d think by this time, we’d have awakened the dead.”
Certain no man could have slept through a yell as loud as that of the drover, Bak hastened to catch up. Stopping with
User beside the nomad, he stood at the edge of a small shal low cavity in the sand on the downwind side of the bushes. A man lay flat on his stomach within the hollow, his face turned away, arms and legs in a line with his body. A water jar, a goatskin waterbag, a couple of baskets in which to carry sup plies, and a bow and quiver filled with arrows lay on the sand near him.
Too many flies were swarming around, Bak noticed, and the donkey was easing backward, pulling at the rope halter the drover held. He guessed the worst and muttered an oath, earning surprised glances from the two men beside him. “A stranger, you say?”
“He showed up at nightfall, watered his donkey and hob bled it with ours, and otherwise kept to himself.” User snorted. “Amonmose came out here and tried to strike up a conversation. You’ll have noticed how much he likes to prat tle. Well, he got nothing in return but a few grunts.”
The explorer was talking too much, a sure sign that he sensed something wrong.
Calling out to the man, User knelt beside him. He got no more of a response than the drover had. He clutched a shoul der, tried to shake him awake. Snapping out a sudden oath, he jerked his hand away and scrambled backwards. “He’s cold!”
Bak knelt where User had been. He waved off the flies buzzing around, laid a hand on the dead man’s shoulder, and felt the coolness of death. Giving himself no time for qualms, he eased backward and rolled the body onto its back. From the amount of stiffness, he guessed the man had been slain sometime early in the night, long before he and his Medjays had reached the well.
Clearly a man of Kemet, the dead man was about twenty five years of age, of medium height and build. Other than his large dark eyes, fully open and turned Bak’s way, his features were nondescript. His hair was dark and cut short. His deeply tanned body was well formed and his lower arms and wrists thick, like those of an archer. He wore a tunic, a knee-length kilt, and leather sandals. A thin gold chain encircled his neck and from it hung a golden amulet, the sign of life. The sheath tied to his belt was empty, the dagger missing.
“Is this Minnakht?” Bak asked.
“No.” User cleared a roughness from his throat, repeated.
“No. Minnakht is taller, not so plain, not so…” His voice tailed off and he shook his head. “No.”
The flies began to settle around an encrusted wound below the dead man’s breastbone. His life’s blood had flowed onto the thin woven mat beneath him, leaving a large red-brown stain. The weapon-probably his own dagger-had been withdrawn and carried off. The sand around him had been thoroughly churned up, making it too soft to hold footprints.
Looking at the man’s sandals, Bak wondered if he could be the one who had left the footprint Kaha had found on the hillside overlooking the wadi. “Did he plan to travel on with your caravan?”
“I told him he must. No man should go off by himself into this wilderness.”
Bak glanced at the nomad drover, who was slowly backing away, as anxious to leave as the donkey was. “He came with a single animal?” he asked User.
“Like you and your men, he traveled light.”
“Did any of the men with you know him?”
“They all greeted him as a stranger.” User ran his hand back and forth over the sand, wiping away the feel of death, and stood up. “A nomad must’ve slain him. To rob him, I’d wager.”
“You don’t trust your guide? Your drovers?” Amazed, Bak also rose to his feet. How could any man travel in so risky a place with men on whom he felt he could not rely. The thought brought a cynical smile to his lips. He had allowed himself to be led into the desert by Senna, a man he was not sure he could trust.
“I’ve known Dedu for many years. He wouldn’t slay any man, nor would the drovers he brought with him. They’re his kin.” User’s smile was grim. “A nomad family camped sev eral hundred paces up the secondary wadi. A couple of young girls brought their goats to the well shortly before dusk, and I glimpsed at least one woman up there.”
“You noticed no men?”
“I didn’t. That doesn’t mean they had none with them.”
“His name is nowhere to be found.” Bak replaced the con tents of the baskets, mostly foodstuffs, a few dried herbs that could be used for medicines, and a few personal items such as a razor and comb. The bare essentials needed for a journey.
“I suggest we bury him here and now.” User swatted at a fly that had strayed from the body. “Many a man has van ished with his family none the wiser. An unfortunate occur rence, but what else can we do?”
“We’re a few hours’ walk from Kaine. I suggest you wrap him up as best you can and have one of your drovers take him back. Someone there may know who he is.”
“Yes,” User nodded. “Let someone else worry about him.”
Bak eyed the men standing at the edge of the hollow. Ani and Wensu were staring at the body as if never before had they been so close to death. Ani looked appalled by what he saw; Wensu’s face registered distaste. Amonmose appeared saddened by the death, yet curious. Nebenkemet looked on with the composure of a man inured to all life had to offer.