in the land of Kush."
Could she be telling the truth? Bak wondered. The war she referred to was the last the army of Kemet had fought in this wretched land. Male children of defeated kings, boys who might one day sit on the thrones of their fathers, were commonly taken to Waset to live in the royal house. Raised with the children of the highest men in the land, adopting their ways, making firm friendships, they more often than not returned to their homelands as staunch allies of the conquering nation.
Hearing voices in the lane outside, Bak tipped his stool back and peered through the door. Imsiba stood a dozen or so paces away, talking with a trio of spearmen. Bak swallowed his beer in a single gulp and stood up, ready to leave. "As for me..." Nofery sneaked a glance in his direc
tion, smirked. "I was young and beautiful then, desirable to many men. Amon-Psaro among them."
The smirk convinced him: she was trying to dupe him for the second time in one day. Giving her his most charming smile, he bent over and pinched her cheek. "You were never young and beautiful, Nofery."
She stared at him with an expression so forbidding he thought for a moment she would slap him. Then she started to laugh, great hearty guffaws that set in motion every roll of fat beneath her long white shift.
Bak, feeling a bit guilty for making fun of her, pulled her to her feet. "Come, old woman. Imsiba is outside. I trust he's spent much of the afternoon questioning those poor wretches Seneb brought from the south. If so, he's earned a reward. A jar of beer should suit him, the best you have."
"You want me to go to Iken." Imsiba's voice was flat, his expression disapproving.
Bak shoved aside a basket of crusty, fist-sized loaves of bread and sat down on the second step of the open stairway leading to the roof. Fine dust drifted aimlessly in a sliver of sunlight falling from above. "The commandant said. ,send a courier,' and you're the man I've selected."
"What of Seneb? I've not yet finished questioning those who traveled with his caravan."
Bak had thought out exactly what he wanted, and he was not about to retreat before the Medjay's assault. "Am I not able to question them as well as you?"
Imsiba scowled at the world in general. Bak settled back on the stairs and glanced around his quarters with the unconscious satisfaction of one who had experienced life in a barracks. The room in which they sat was small and plain, with a hard-packed earthen floor and white plastered walls. One stool stood just inside the entrance, the other in a corner amid a clutter of rush baskets overflowing with scrolls, a writing pallet, paint and water pots, all the tools of Hori's trade. One rear door led to Bak's bedchamber, the second to the scribe's room. A large white dog with a broad muzzle and sagging ears sprawled between the two, his legs and bushy tail twitching in response to a dream.
Surrendering to the inevitable, Imsiba dropped onto the stool by the entrance, his back to the narrow, sun-baked lane. "What am I to do once I'm there? Or, more to the point, what are your special instructions over and above delivering the message of Lieutenant Puemre's slaying?"
Bak gave his friend a look of mock innocence. "You question my motives, Imsiba?"
"I know you too well, my friend, to look only on the surface of any task you give me that's out of the ordinary." Bak plucked a loaf from the basket and, breaking into laughter, threw it at the Medjay, who caught it with easeand a reluctant smile.
"One day I'll disappoint you, but not today." Sobering, Bak leaned forward, elbows on knees. "If the man who took Puemre's life has been caught, the matter is closed, and all I ask you to do is satisfy my curiosity. Who slew him in so foul a manner and why? For what reason did he fail to register here in Buhen? What story lies behind the belt clasp?"
Imsiba shook his head. "If the slayer has been caught, a message would've come to Commandant Thuty long before now,
Could she be telling the truth? Bak wondered. The war she referred to was the last the army of Kemet had fought in this wretched land. Male children of defeated kings, boys who might one day sit on the thrones of their fathers, were commonly taken to Waset to live in the royal house. Raised with the children of the highest men in the land, adopting their ways, making firm friendships, they more often than not returned to their homelands as staunch allies of the conquering nation.
Hearing voices in the lane outside, Bak tipped his stool back and peered through the door. Imsiba stood a dozen or so paces away, talking with a trio of spearmen. Bak swallowed his beer in a single gulp and stood up, ready to leave. "As for me..." Nofery sneaked a glance in his direc
tion, smirked. "I was young and beautiful then, desirable to many men. Amon-Psaro among them."
The smirk convinced him: she was trying to dupe him for the second time in one day. Giving her his most charming smile, he bent over and pinched her cheek. "You were never young and beautiful, Nofery."
She stared at him with an expression so forbidding he thought for a moment she would slap him. Then she started to laugh, great hearty guffaws that set in motion every roll of fat beneath her long white shift.
Bak, feeling a bit guilty for making fun of her, pulled her to her feet. "Come, old woman. Imsiba is outside. I trust he's spent much of the afternoon questioning those poor wretches Seneb brought from the south. If so, he's earned a reward. A jar of beer should suit him, the best you have."
"You want me to go to Iken." Imsiba's voice was flat, his expression disapproving.
Bak shoved aside a basket of crusty, fist-sized loaves of bread and sat down on the second step of the open stairway leading to the roof. Fine dust drifted aimlessly in a sliver of sunlight falling from above. "The commandant said. ,send a courier,' and you're the man I've selected."
"What of Seneb? I've not yet finished questioning those who traveled with his caravan."
Bak had thought out exactly what he wanted, and he was not about to retreat before the Medjay's assault. "Am I not able to question them as well as you?"
Imsiba scowled at the world in general. Bak settled back on the stairs and glanced around his quarters with the unconscious satisfaction of one who had experienced life in a barracks. The room in which they sat was small and plain, with a hard-packed earthen floor and white plastered walls. One stool stood just inside the entrance, the other in a corner amid a clutter of rush baskets overflowing with scrolls, a writing pallet, paint and water pots, all the tools of Hori's trade. One rear door led to Bak's bedchamber, the second to the scribe's room. A large white dog with a broad muzzle and sagging ears sprawled between the two, his legs and bushy tail twitching in response to a dream.
Surrendering to the inevitable, Imsiba dropped onto the stool by the entrance, his back to the narrow, sun-baked lane. "What am I to do once I'm there? Or, more to the point, what are your special instructions over and above delivering the message of Lieutenant Puemre's slaying?"
Bak gave his friend a look of mock innocence. "You question my motives, Imsiba?"
"I know you too well, my friend, to look only on the surface of any task you give me that's out of the ordinary." Bak plucked a loaf from the basket and, breaking into laughter, threw it at the Medjay, who caught it with easeand a reluctant smile.
"One day I'll disappoint you, but not today." Sobering, Bak leaned forward, elbows on knees. "If the man who took Puemre's life has been caught, the matter is closed, and all I ask you to do is satisfy my curiosity. Who slew him in so foul a manner and why? For what reason did he fail to register here in Buhen? What story lies behind the belt clasp?"
Imsiba shook his head. "If the slayer has been caught, a message would've come to Commandant Thuty long before now,
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