The Right Hand of Amon (27 page)

He stood up, strode to her, and caught her by the shoulders, lifting her to her feet. "Listen to me, Meret! You must be open and honest with me. If you aren't, many men may die, men innocent of wrongdoing."

She stared, her eyes huge, frightened.

He shook her none too gently, forcing a nod from her. "Tell me how Woser and Aset and Nebseny behave when they're all in one room." He could see she didn't understand. "Do they tread lightly around each other? Do they each seem to have a guilty secret, but look with suspicion at the other two?"

"How did you guess?" she whispered, overcome by awe.

He planted a big kiss on her sweat-salty forehead and released her. "Kasaya," he called, striding toward the treeS and the path that led back to Iken, "take good care of this woman. Unless I'm sadly mistaken, she's halved the number of questions I've been asking myself."

"I pray you've guessed right," Kenamon said. The elderly priest hurried along the street at Bak's side, walking in the shade of a row of white-plastered buildings. The deep shadow gave added depth to the lines of worry spanning his brow. "If each of the three is protecting the other two, perhaps none are guilty."

Bak drew the old priest into an open doorway, getting out of the way of a sweaty gnome of a man and his clattering train of five donkeys laden with burnished red pottery jugs. "If I can eliminate one man from my list of suspects, I'll think myself smiled on by the gods. If I can eliminate

two, I'll feel as if the lord Amon himself has taken me by the hand."

"And if one of the two, either Woser or Nebseny slew Puemre?"

Bak smiled. "I doubt I'd survive the shock of so easy a solution."

"What of mistress Aset?"

"If my thoughts have led me down a true path, she's served as the idol around which her father and her betrothed have danced."

"The commander should long ago have handed her over to a sterner man."

The last of the donkeys trotted by, and they hurried on. The street was busy at this early and cooler hour, buzzing with the chatter of soldiers and traders, people with business inside the fortress. They strode past only two women, an officer's wife and her servant, the latter carrying an empty basket, on their way to the market.

Reaching an intersecting street, they edged past a contingent of new recruits, ten young men so raw they still smelled of the farmyard, and a grizzled spearman rushing them along at double pace. Beyond, the garrison officers and their sergeants were streaming out of the commander's residence, leaving a meeting Bak had heard had been called to discuss the presentation of arms when Amon-Psaro's entourage marched up to the gate of Iken. Bak greeted those he knew with a nod: Huy, Senu, Inyotef, and Nebseny. The archer looked through him as if he did not exist.

"I wish you better luck with Woser than you'll have with him," Kenamon murmured, nodding toward Nebseny. "He's a sttibbom young man, and protective of his own." "Aset is the key, my uncle, of that I'm convinced."

Bak and Kenamon entered the building and hurried down a long hall to a stone-paved, pillared courtyard on the ground floor. A lanky guard stood near the doorway, yawning, eyeing all newcomers with the disinterested look of a man who had never faced trouble and never expected to do

so. Several scribes could be seen through an open portal, scrolls spread across their laps, pens scratching on the smooth surfaces. Woser stood in the doorway of the room he used as his office, glaring at a trader who was plainly disgruntled, a lithe young man wearing a broad beaded collar, bronze bangles, and a glittering ring on every finger.

"I'll listen to no more of your complaints," Woser said. "You must find another place for your animals, and that's final."

The trader's face reddened, his eyes flashed anger. "I have forty-eight donkeys, Commander, weary from their long journey north. I'd hoped to rest them here. Now I'll have to push them further, all the way to Kor."

"So be it." Woser was plainly in no mood to sympathize with man or beast. "King Amon-Psaro's entourage travels with a large number of pack animals. They'll need every paddock we can provide."

With an irate grimace, the trader pivoted on his heel and stomped away.

Woser glared at Bak, noticed the elderly priest behind him, formed a tired smile. Beckoning them into the office, he slumped into his armchair. "I must admit, I'd like nothing better at this moment than to turn Amon-Psaro's entourage around and send them back where they came from. One would think the lord Amon would be more trouble to entertain, but no. He stands in the mansion of the lady Hathor, silent and regal in his shrine, while we turn this city upside down for a savage king from a savage land."

"Amon-Psaro was raised to manhood in the royal house in Waset," Kenamon pointed out. "I doubt he's any less civilized than we are."

"We'll soon see." Woser eyed Bak. "Huy tells me the island fortress is rapidly becoming habitable. You're to be commended."

"I've a willing and hardworking crew." Without waiting for an invitation, Bak drew a stool from among a clutter of scroll-filled baskets and offered it to Kenamon, who sat down in front of the commander. He preferred to stand, so Woser would have to look up to him. "We've not come to speak of the fortress; we wish to talk of the night Puemre was slain."

Woser's fingers tightened for an instant around the arm of his chair, then relaxed. "What can I tell you? I met with my officers to discuss the lord Amon's journey to Semna. After we made what plans we could, they left, and I went to my bed and slept."

"What of your daughter? Was mistress Aset in her "Certainly." The answer came too quickly. The justification required more thought and an abashed smile. "She's long been a woman, but I still think of her as a child. I look in on her each night, just as I did when she was a babe. I pray you won't tell her. She'd not be pleased if she knew."

Bak could imagine the scene Aset would create if she caught her father peering at her during the night, snooping she would probably say. He walked to the door and called out to the guard. "Go upstairs to the residence and bring mistress Aset to her father's office."

Woser leaped to his feet, eyes smoldering. "You can't ... !"

"Sit down, Commander!" Kenamon's usually placid voice resounded with authority. "Lieutenant Bak must do his duty as he sees fit, and you must allow him to proceed."

Woser dropped into his chair, his face pale and tight. Kenamon was a highly placed priest, one whose wishes could not lightly be denied. "You've no right to question my daughter, Lieutenant, no reason. She had nothing to do with Puemre's murder."

Hearing the soft patter of sandals in the courtyard, Bak looked around. Aset was hurrying along the row of pillars, her eyes on him, her face as tense and worried as her father's. The guard followed close behind. Either he did not quite trust her to obey the summons or, more likely, he was consumed by curiosity.

Bak turned on Woser, his voice barely more than a whisper, his tone rock-hard. "If you utter one word before I say you may, I'll charge you with murder and treason."

"Murder and. . ." Woser, looking startled, glanced from Bak to Kenamon. "What?"

"He has every right," Kenamon said grimly, "and sound reason."

Aset edged past Bak, half-blocking the door. Spotting the strain on Woser's face, she barely looked at the priest. "What's wrong, Father? What's he. .." She glanced toward Bak. "What's he been saying?"

"Go find Lieutenant Nebseny," Bak told the guard. "Bring him here as quick as you can."

"Yes, sir." The guard, whose face had come to life, his boredom displaced by curiosity, excitement, and purpose, pivoted and strode away.

Aset looked at first one man and then another. The summons of Nebseny in addition to herself had clearly unsettled her, undermining her confidence. When her eyes landed on her father, searching for support, he shook his head, his meaning unclear. From the confused look on her face, the message was as lost on her as it was on Bak.

"Mistress Aset,, your father claims you were in your bed the night Lieutenant Puemre was slain." Bak raised his hand, cutting off a response, and guessed, "You weren't, I know, nor were you even in this building."

"Who told you that? One of the servants?" She raised her chin in defiance, belying the tremor in her voice. "It's a lie. I was here through all the night, as was my father."

Kenamon gave her a somber look and seemed about to speak but, like Bak, he heard the quick footsteps on the stone pavement outside. Whatever he meant to say, he reserved for later.

Bak, watching Aset, saw out of the corner of his eye a grim-faced Nebseny veering around three scribes standing in the middle of the court, arguing about the meaning of an obscure glyph. The temptation to trample on the young officer's feelings was too great to resist.

"I suppose Lieutenant Nebseny slept here that night as well," he sneered. "Did he share your bed, I wonder? Or did Puemre come back to keep you company?"

Nebseny burst through the door, grabbed Bak's shoulder, and swung him around. "You swine!" He drew back his fist, murder in his eyes, and swung.

Bak, only a little surprised by so foolhardy a reaction, blocked the fist with an arm. Moving with a speed born of many long hours of practice, he grabbed Nebseny's wrist, jerked him off-balance, and twisted him around, shoving his hand high between his shoulder blades, forcing a moan from his lips.

Kenamon sucked in his breath, shaken by the sudden violence. Woser slid to the edge of his chair, poised to aid his young friend. The scribes in the courtyard, chattering like jays, scurried across the pavement to peer through the door. The guard stood paralyzed and confused, not quite sure who was in charge.

"Don't hurt him!" Aset cried. "Please!"

Bak recalled the way she had hovered over Nebseny when he and the archer had crashed into each other several days earlier. He was fairly sure that if he hurt the young man badly enough, she would tell the truth. But that was not his way. He pushed the hand higher, eliciting another moan, and shoved Nebseny hard. The archer stumbled across the room and fell to his knees at Woser's feet.

Bak noticed the scribes at the door and the guard. "Leave us. There's nothing here to see."

"Go back to your duties," Woser said, standing, giving them a strained smile. "This is a misunderstanding, nothing more."

The scribes drifted away, whispering among themselves. The guard relaxed, choosing to take his commander's

words at face value. Bak stood grim and silent, waiting until they could no longer be overheard.

"You've been lying from the outset," he said at last, his eyes darting from one stunned face to another. "Not just to me, but to each other. Now I demand the truth."

"I beg you to speak up," Kenamon said. "If you don't soon talk with honesty and candor, I fear for all of Wawat and the land of Kemet itself."

Woser, his face clouding with worry and puzzlement, dropped into his chair and eyed the old priest. Nebseny, scrambling to his feet, glanced at Bak, his commander, and Aset, confusion vying with the anger and shame of his precipitous defeat.

"We were all three here in this house," Aset said, the challenge clear in her voice. "You can't prove otherwise." Bak wanted to shake her good and hard. She was forcing his hand, making him go further than he had meant to go. "Commander Woser, Lieutenant Nebseny, I'm charging you both with the murder of Lieutenant Puemre, with the intent to commit treason against the royal house." He kept his voice hard and cold, grating almost. "Mistress Aset, you'll stand with them before the viceroy, charged with assisting them in their crimes."

Nebseny snorted. "You must be mad."

"Don't scoff, young man," Kenamon said quietly. "We know Puemre had knowledge of a plot which could wrongly be laid at the door of the royal house-and cause all manner of mischief in this barren land of Wawat."

"The charge is a sham." Woser glared at Bak. "You're so fearful of Puemre's father, so desperate to lay hands on his slayer, that you're striking out in all directions."

The old priest shook his head sadly. "My heart bleeds for you, Commander. You'd willingly give your life for your daughter, yet you blind yourself to the truth."

"How can I know what's in fact the truth? This so-called policeman has given me no specifics."

"Have you earned my confidence?" Bak demanded. "You failed to report Puemre's death, and you've blocked my path to his slayer from the instant I stepped through the gate of this city." He took a turn across the room, swung around, strode back to stand in front of the commander, towering over him. "I'd like to think you're merely protecting your daughter, a foolish young thing who always gets her way by bending your affections to her will, a silly child who would lie to the lady Maat herself to protect both you and her betrothed." He swung toward Aset and snapped, "Can you deny my charge, Mistress?"

She flung her head high, refusing to answer. Nebseny eyed her, a flush spreading across his face, as if for the first time he realized she might actually care for him. Woser squirmed in his chair, ashamed of so great a weakness in his own heart and household.

"The penalty for treason is death, Commander." Bak made his voice ominous, and at the same time prayed Woser would not call his bluff.

"I've not betrayed my gods or my land, and I see no way you can prove I have." Woser closed his eyes and spoke with resignation. "But to be charged with so heinous an offense would ruin what's left of my life, and that of my daughter and the man as close to me as a son. I'll tell you what you wish to know."

"Father!"

Woser silenced the girl with a wave of his hand. "As you've guessed, Lieutenant, on the night Puemre was slain, I left this residence soon after my officers departed. I went to a woman I know in the lower city, one who'll tell you I stayed with *er through the night. Her servants know of my coming and going. They, too, will vouch for me. As will the watchman assigned to that sector of the city."

Aset stared openmouthed. If Bak had not expended so much effort in getting Woser to talk, he would have laughed, but he smothered the urge, fearing he would risk his hard-won advantage.