Still he hesitated, thinking of the boys he had seen emerge from the rapids that morning, wishing he had one of their goatskins to help him stay buoyant. Erasing so useless a thought from his heart, he gritted his teeth and dived into the water with a mighty shove of his feet. The current caught him, and at the same time his momentum carried him to the skiff. He grabbed the prow. His added weight tore the rope free and the vessel began to swing around, moving swiftly toward the boiling waters, sweeping away any vague idea he might have had about climbing aboard. With a renewed sense of urgency, he caught the rope and, summoning forth his most powerful strokes, propelled himself toward the shore. The skiff seemed to come alive, trying to jerk out of his grasp, but he was a strong swimmer and the distance was short.
As he clod on the row of trees, he found the bottom and stood up. He had been swept so close to the rapids, he could feel the mist carried on the northerly breeze. He waded to dry ground, his knees shaking from effort and tension. The skiff was like a fractious colt, tugging and bucking behind him. Wiping the water from his face, he pulled the vessel close against the shore, where the current was not so strong, and sat on an outcropping rock. He needed to catch his breath-and to offer thanks to the lord Hapi for allowing him and the skiff to reach dry land and safety.
"Lieutenant!" A shout muffled by the rapids.
Bak glanced around, thinking for an instant he had imagined the call. Pashenuro was scrambling down the steep slope behind him. Three other men, one carrying a coiled rope on his shoulder, were hurrying after the Medjay through the brush and water-torn rocks clinging to the incline below the fortress wall. A rescue mission.
"Are you alright, sir?" "How did you know…?"
Even as he formed the question, his eyes traveled up the tall mudbrick wall towering behind them and came to rest on the broken corner where most of the men were working. At least half the crew was perched on the scaffolding and parapet, yelling and clapping, though no sound reached him over the booming rapids. He had to laugh. He had been too intent on rescuing the skiff to notice he had an audience.
Pashenuro waved, signaling them to get back to work. "We tried to reach you sooner, sir, thinking we might help, but you were too fast for us."
The mooring rope tugged at Bak's hand, reminding him that his task was not yet over. The breeze blowing across his wet shoulders urged him not to tarry; night would soon be upon them.
He hastened to thank them for coming to his aid, added, "I'm too close to the rapids to attempt to raise the sail. I'll need this man's help… " He nodded at the man with the coiled rope, a lanky spearman named User. "… to walk the skiff up the channel as far as the landing. The rest of you can go back to your tasks. You're needed more inside the fortress than here."
Pashenuro and his companions hurried away. User secured his rope to the skiff and splashed knee-deep into the river. With Bak beside him, they waded upstream, boat in tow, stepping with care, probing the depths for hidden rocks or roots or cavities. They stumbled and slipped and once User would have fallen headlong if Bak had not caught him. The boat snagged on flooded bushes and rocks. A snake swam by. A pair of brownish geese skimmed the water's surface.
How many times Bak glanced at the rope in his hand, he had no idea, but suddenly he stopped, giving it all his attention. Much of the end was smooth and even, not frayed and ragged as it would have been if it had worn through. The chill that radiated from his spine had nothing to do with the fact that he was et from head to toe. Someone had cut part way through the rope, releasing the skiff. For what purpose he could not imagine. To keep him on the island? Or had a mistake been made? Had the knife been too sharp, cutting deeper into the fibers than intended? Had someone meant him to climb into the skiff and, before he had time to raise the sail, the rope would snap and he would be carried to his death in the rapids?
He plodded on, saying nothing to his companion. He saw no need to plant worry and fear in User's thoughts and therefore in the whole of Pashenuro's work crew, nor did he want word to spread far and wide that someone was trying to slay him. First, he thought, the warning had been issued: the man with the sling. Next a definite attempt on his life: the snake in his bed. And now this. Puemre's slayer had come a long way in only three days.
At the landing, Bak spotted a short length of rope hanging from the post where he had moored the skiff. He thanked User and sent him on his way, untied the bit of rope, and thr'hw it into the vessel. Before climbing in, he checked the boat thoroughly, looking for signs of tampering. The halyard, he discovered, was snagged in the block at the masthead, making the sail impossible to raise until the tangle was cleared. The rope could have snarled on its own, but he was too suspicious now even to consider the possibility. Finding nothing else amiss, he cast off, raised the sail, and headed back toward Iken, every sense alert for trouble. Not until he had passed the southern tip of the long island did he relax enough to give his full attention to the bit of rope he had thrown on board. As he expected, the end was smooth and even, with a clump of frayed fibers looking like the whiskers of a cat poking out of one strand.
He adjusted the sail, filling it with air, and settled down beside the rudder to think. The skiff had been tied to the post when the next-to-last supply boat was being unloaded. He remembered seeing it there. No one would have cut the rope then. The landing had been like an anthill, with dozens of men on deck and on the path to the fortress gate. The last supply boat of the day had been anchored upstream, waiting for a mooring closer to the path. The rope must have been cut as the first boat was sailing away and the second moved into its place. Both crews had been busy then, preoccupied with their tasks and less apt to notice.
As for who had cut the rope, only one of his suspects had been on the island: Senu.
No, Bak thought, too obvious. Senu was too intelligent a man to point a finger at himself. Or had he deliberately made himself look guilty, hoping Bak would suspect everyone but him?
As Bak adjusted the sail and shifted the rudder, aiming the skiff toward the calm waters between the two quays, the lord Re bade his final good-bye to the world of the living and sank into the netherworld for the twelve hours of night. Red and orange streaks rose upward, lighting the sky, darkening the long shadow of the escarpment that cloaked the lower city. The burst of light brightened the vessels moored in the harbor, turning the cedar hull of a sleek traveling ship a rich red-brown and bringing to life the gaily painted forecastles and cabins of three cargo vessels.
In the reflected light, which gave the water's surface a golden glow, Bak spotted a dark figure swimming near the end of the quay. An arm emerged and waved. He waved back, though he had no idea of the swimmer's identity. Spotting an opening between Inyotef's skiff and a fishing boat, he went about the business of docking his own small vessel.
By the time the skiff was secure for the night, the sun had set and the sky was turning gray, revealing a pale crescent moon amid dim specks of light. He prayed Kasaya had thought to bring food to their quarters from Kenamon's kitchen. The youthful Medjay had no talent for cooking; even a simple stew was beyond his ability. After the strenuous and stressful day, Bak had no desire to cook for himself or to search out something to eat, yet he yearned for a large and sumptuous meal.
Inyotef's head popped up from the water between the skiffs. "You've had a long day, Bak. Didn't I see you at dawn, sailing out of the harbor with Huy?"