“Ah,” Nefertem said, dropping onto his stool. “He can talk.”
Flinging User a hasty look of thanks, Bak shoved himself back against the wall that enclosed the well, startling a lizard that darted across the hot sand to the shelter of a broad-leafed vine. “Are we correct in believing Minnakht died rather than tell you of the gold you sought?”
Ahmose tore his eyes from the stick User continued to toy with. “I’ve searched the Eastern Desert for a lifetime, think ing to become a wealthy man. I know this land holds vast riches, and I knew that someday…”
User cleared his throat, urging him to omit the prologue.
The prisoner’s quick response was gratifying. “I bumped into Minnakht in Waset-a year ago, that must’ve been-and he let slip hints of his good fortune. I thought to learn his se cret. Later he would say nothing, and in my anger I slew him.”
“Have you not failed to fill in the details of your black deed?” Bak asked in a hard voice. “When first we met, you told me you were brought across the sea, dropped on the shore, and were accosted by men who beat you and left you to die. Was that tale Minnakht’s rather than yours?”
Ahmose hesitated, but finally nodded. “Yes.”
User’s mouth twisted in contempt. “You met him as a friend, then set upon him, bound him so he was helpless, and beat him to death. What kind of man are you?”
Ahmose’s mouth clamped tight, which in itself was an ad mission of guilt.
Nefertem made a sound deep within his throat, part angry growl, part heartfelt pain. The nomads seated around them, who had thought of Minnakht as one of themselves, glared at the prisoner and murmured angry words. Wensu and Ani,
Amonmose and Nebenkemet looked shocked and saddened.
The old man who cooked for Nefertem scurried forward.
For a moment Bak thought he meant to slay the prisoner. In stead he spat on his face, turned his back to him in a gesture of contempt, and rotated the gazelle over the hearth.
As the old man retreated, Bak pressed on, not bothering to hide his disgust for so cowardly a murder. “Why did you send Senna to Minnakht’s father? Why did he not simply dis appear in the desert?”
“I thought to convince Inebny that his son was truly dead,”
Ahmose said, wiping the spittle onto his shoulder, “and
Senna wished to collect the livestock and supplies he was due. It never occurred to us that the commander would find a man to take up the search-you, a seasoned police officer and that he’d insist Senna serve as your guide. Or that you’d join User’s caravan.”
“I doubt we would have if a dead man hadn’t been found when first we came upon them.” Bak’s voice grew hard, grim. “You slew that man, did you not?”
Ahmose hesitated. User shook the stick at him like the long finger of a teacher reprimanding a pupil. The tip had turned black as the heat dissipated, a fact the prisoner had to have noticed. Still, he answered with a nod.
“Who was he?”
“He was a soldier, Paser by name, a friend of Minnakht.
He’d seen us together in Waset, heard us talk of the Eastern
Desert and gold. I thought never to see him another time, but when he appeared at that well, I knew he must die.”
User jabbed the stick in among the burning embers. “How did you slay him without leaving footprints?”
Ahmose curled a lip, betraying a superiority he was in no po sition to feel. “I’m far more a man of the desert than Minnakht ever was. He regularly returned to the land of Kemet, shrugging off his life as a desert wanderer, while I often dwelt throughout the year with Senna’s clan.” His eyes slid toward Bak. “I know more of tracking than you or your Medjays will ever know,
Lieutenant, and I know how to hide any sign of my presence.”
Bak glanced at his men, who looked as if they themselves were ready to commit murder. “From then on, you thought to watch us night and day.”
Ahmose smirked. “The watching man, you called me.”
Noting the pride he took in the appellation, Bak said, “You carried off well the look of a nomad.”
“I dared not risk being seen by the people who came to the wells to water their flocks-they’d have known I wasn’t one of them-and most of the transitory pools had dried up. I’d not bathed for some time. When Senna told me you believed me a nomad, I thought your error would serve me well.”
He was so smug Bak had to resist the urge to strike him.
“Why slay Dedu?”
“By then I was wearying of your pursuit. No matter what
I did to discourage you, you refused to give up. So I thought to pass myself off to you as Minnakht. I couldn’t risk Dedu seeing me. I knew him from long ago, and he wouldn’t have forgotten.”
“You were the man who destroyed his daughter’s future,”
Bak guessed. “You’re the father of her child.”
Ahmose let out a barklike laugh. “When Dedu realized I meant to slay him, he tried to play on my sympathies by telling me I had a child, a girl. I didn’t believe him, and I don’t believe you.”
“You slew your daughter’s grandfather, Ahmose.”
A look of self-doubt-or possibly pain-flitted across Ah mose’s face. He erased it with a thin smile. “Dedu would never have told you, a stranger, a secret so painful to him.”
“Believe what you wish,” Bak said with a shrug. “You’ll never have the chance to see the child.”
The two boys who had traveled north earlier in the day walked into the oasis. Bak could see nothing but the don key’s head, feet, and tail, so heavily laden was it with dry twigs gleaned from the bushes that grew in the nearby wadis.
Looking curiously at the gathering of men, the youths left the laden animal in the shade of a tree and hurried to the house to learn what they had missed.
“Why slay Senna?” Bak asked, “a man you claim was your longtime friend?”
“You know why. He pushed you into the face of the flood, trying to slay you. Sooner or later you’d have gotten the truth from him.” Ahmose’s mouth twisted into a cynical smile. “I once saved his life-you saw the scar on his shoulder-so I suppose I could say it was mine to take.”
“What of Rona?” Bak demanded.
The prisoner glanced toward Psuro, sitting with Nebre,
Kaha, and Minmose, their expressions dark, threatening. He lowered his voice, as if he hoped to prevent their hearing. “I held no ill will toward him. He saw me slay Senna.”
Bak wanted to smash Ahmose in the face. Nebre, burning with rage, leaped forward, trying to reach the bound man.
Psuro, no less furious, grabbed the Medjay’s arm, halting him, and snapped an order to Kaha and Minmose, forbidding them to move.
“You met me and we talked,” Bak said, suppressing his anger with an effort. “If I hadn’t insisted you join our cara van, which was made up of far too many men who’d know you weren’t Minnakht, would you have followed us across the Eastern Sea?”
“I knew, when I failed to join you as I promised, that you’d guess the truth.” Ahmose wiped his face on his shoulder a second time, as if he could still feel the spittle. “Senna had told me you’d talked with Nefertem. I suspected you’d joined forces, and I dared not slay you in this wretched desert. I thought to follow you into that alien land, where I could slay you and slip away, with no fierce tribe of nomads prepared to avenge your death.”
Leaning forward, elbows on knees, Nefertem spoke in a voice as soft and rumbling as the purr of a lion. “Tell me of my father, Ahmose. You took his life, did you not?”
Not a man present could mistake the threat, and Ahmose was no exception. “I know nothing of his death.”
User jerked the stick from the hearth and held its flame-red end within a hand’s breadth of the prisoner’s eyes. “We want no lies, Ahmose.”
The bound man cringed. Whether he feared most the tribal chieftain or the explorer, Bak could not begin to guess. “In the beginning I believed that if I was to learn where Min nakht had found gold, Senna had to get close to him. He had to serve as his guide. But as long as your father lived, he would accept no one else.” Ahmose saw the fury on Nefer tem’s face and quickly looked away. “I placed poison in his waterbag. I meant him to die right away, but he drank too small an amount. He lingered long enough to go home, and there I heard he died.”