Path of Shadows lb-8

  Path of Shadows

  ( Lieutenant Bak - 8 )

  Lauren Haney

  Lauren Haney

  Path of Shadows

  Chapter One

  “Get him! Now!”

  The words rang through the air, carrying an edge of cruelty.

  “We’ll teach him a lesson,” another voice, equally vicious, snarled. “Show him a thing or two.”

  Lieutenant Bak, officer in charge of a unit of Medjay po lice until recently posted on the southern frontier, was in stantly struck by the meanness he heard. His head snapped around and he looked along the waterfront. His Medjay ser geant Imsiba and Lieutenant Karoya, head of the harbor pa trol, followed his glance. They saw three men in the distance, standing at the mouth of what they knew was a dead-end lane. The object of their hatred had to be trapped inside.

  A third voice shouted, “Cast him back into the desert he came from.”

  “Not enough!” the first man snapped. “We must send a message to others like him. They’ve no right to defile the streets our sovereign treads.”

  Exchanging a quick glance of mutual agreement, Bak, Im siba, and Karoya raced up the broad, open street, lined on their right by ships moored along the riverbank and on their left by several blocks of interconnected buildings.

  “Let’s geld him,” the second man yelled.

  “Yes!”

  The three ruffians, so intent on their victim they failed to notice the approaching men, slipped into the lane.

  Bak slowed as he neared the opening and raised a finger to his lips, urging silence. Followed closely by his companions, he crept to the corner and peered down the narrow passage that, hugged between two rows of adjoining buildings, lay in deep shadow. Though the three scoundrels blocked the way, he could see at the far end a man clad in a brownish kilt, with a wrap of a darker color around his shoulders. He held a long shepherd’s staff horizontal to the ground as if to bar their way. Behind him, a woman stood half-hidden by a laden donkey, clinging to its rope lead.

  “Look what he’s brought with him!” one of the ruffians chortled. “As dirty as the desert she came from, but a choice bit nonetheless.”

  “Get him out of the way,” the most dominant of the three said, brandishing a short whip that ended in several thongs knotted at the ends to hurt more. “Then we’ll take her.”

  “You’ll take no one!” Bak, his tone as hard as granite, stepped into the broad shaft of sunlight that reached into the mouth of the passage. He was a man of medium height with short-cropped dark hair and broad, muscular shoulders. Se nior to his two companions, he carried only his baton of of fice. A symbol of power that, when used with purpose, could be a deadly weapon.

  The men swung around, startled. Their leader, the quickest to recover, sneered, “Who are you to tell us what to do?”

  “Drop your weapons!” Karoya moved up beside Bak, brandishing his spear and holding before him, so none could mistake his authority, the black-and-white cowhide shield of the harbor patrol. The young Medjay officer was tall and slim, with a tribal tattoo on his left upper arm.

  Imsiba took his place beside them. The Medjay sergeant, the tallest of the three, was as lithe and graceful as a leopard.

  He carried a long spear and the black shield the men of Bak’s company had chosen as their own while posted at the frontier fortress of Buhen.

  “Are we supposed to be afraid of three men?” the leader of the ruffians scoffed. “Bah! The odds are in our favor.”

  Bak had to smile at how highly the man overrated himself and his friends.

  One of the men said, “Kames, maybe we’d better…”

  Kames laughed harshly. “Don’t worry, my timid friend.

  We’ll give them something they’ll not soon forget.” He swaggered toward the policemen, raising the whip and slap ping the hard-packed earth on which he walked.

  “One’s a harbor patrolman, Kames.”

  “So?”

  Bak shifted his grip on his baton and eyed the trio, the leader approaching with malicious purpose, his friends drawn along behind, one willing if not eager to participate, the other dragging his feet. He cocked his head as if measur ing the men he faced. “How long will it take the three of us to teach them to respect their fellows? A count of ten? Fifteen?”

  “Ten or less, I’d say.” Karoya grinned at Imsiba. “Will you offer up your weapon, or shall I?”

  “He knows you’re official and most likely thinks I’m not.

  If he believes he’s disarmed the better-trained man, he’ll be come overconfident.”

  “I’ll provide the distraction,” Bak said. With so many don key caravans crossing the southern frontier, he and his men had often used the technique of which they spoke to disarm drovers who applied their whips too freely to man and beast.

  Suddenly he stubbed his toe. Karoya caught his arm, sav ing him from falling and giving Imsiba time to slip a couple of paces ahead.

  Kames, imagining a weakness where none existed, ran forward. Mouth clamped tight with purpose, eyes glittering, he drew the whip back, shoved aside the point of Imsiba’s spear, and struck out at the sergeant with all his might. Im 4

  Lauren Haney siba ducked sideways and, at the same time, Karoya leaped forward and thrust his spear diagonally between assailant and intended victim. The lashes wrapped themselves around the point and shaft. Kames tried to jerk the whip free. Karoya twisted his spear, winding the lashes tighter. Bak moved in and slammed his baton down on the man’s head. The scoundrel tumbled in a heap, senseless.

  Bak leaped past his fallen opponent and ran with Imsiba toward the two remaining men. The sergeant whacked the nearest on the side of his head with the flat face of his spear point, felling him. Bak lunged forward to disable the third man, who had turned away in a futile attempt to escape. The man with the shepherd’s staff bounded toward him, holding the simple tool as if it were a club. The ruffian could not have missed the fury on his face. Panicking, he swung around again and raced toward Bak, who rammed his baton hard in the pit of his stomach. With a whoosh of escaping air, the man dropped to his knees and bent double, moaning.

  Karoya walked to the mouth of the lane and gave a loud, piercing whistle, summoning the men who reported to him.

  The sound of pounding feet heralded their approach and within a short time, they hauled away the three scoundrels.

  As quiet descended on the lane, the man they had aided bowed his head in a show of gratitude. He was tall and thin, emaciated almost, and darker than Imsiba. His kilt was made of leather and the rough shift covering his shoulders was worn and ragged. His hands were callused by hard labor, his bare feet toughened by a lifetime of walking on sand and rocks. He looked to be about thirty years of age, but was doubtless younger. Bak recognized him as a nomad from the

  Eastern Desert.

  “We owe you our lives.” The man spoke slowly as if the tongue of Kemet was unfamiliar to him-as it undoubtedly was. Nomads sometimes grazed their animals along the fringes of the valley, but rarely came into the city.

  “You owe us nothing,” Bak said. “We’re policemen. It’s our duty to serve the lady Maat, to see justice done.” Maat was the goddess of right and order.

  “They would have slain me. As for my wife…” The no mad nudged the donkey, urging it against the wall so he could place a protective arm around the young woman. She stood, her head bowed, her hand resting on her swollen stom ach and the unborn child within. “She would have suffered a different kind of death.”

  She must have understood a few words, for she glanced up to receive his brief, reassuring smile. Her hair and shoulders were covered by a length of red fabric, framing a remarkably pretty face. Her eyes fluttered toward the men who had come to their rescu
e, then she turned her head away, whether out of modesty or embarrassment Bak did not know.

  Nomad women customarily remained with their flocks, while their men presented themselves to the world when nec essary. Bak wondered what had prompted this man to bring his wife with him. The question sat on the tip of his tongue, but he could not decently pry. “When will you return to the desert?”

  “We were getting ready to leave when they came.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Bak, a police officer passing through

  Waset. I stand at the head of a company of Medjays who at present have nothing to do. If you’ll permit me, I’ll send for a few of them. They can ease your path through this city.”

  The man stood proud and unyielding. “I thank you but no.

  We’ve been here four days and this is the first…” The woman laid a trembling hand on his arm and gave him a pleading look. “We’ll accept your kind offer,” he said.

  “I’m grateful for your help,” Karoya said. “If I’d had to summon my men, those vile rogues would either have heard my whistle and gotten away or, in their eagerness to hurt a man they considered of no account, would’ve…” He shrugged. “The lord Amon alone knows how far they’d have gone.”

  “You couldn’t have faced them alone,” Imsiba said in a grim voice.

  “Thanks to the gods, we came upon them when we did.”

  Bak veered around a scattering of reddish pottery shards ly ing in a puddle of oil spilled by one of the many merchants who had come to Waset for the recent celebration of the

  Beautiful Feast of Opet. During the festivities, a greatly ex panded market had lined the waterfront. Now back to nor mal, a dozen or so stalls served the needs of the nearby dwellings and the sailors passing through. “That kind of senseless hatred can drive a man into an uncontrollable and vicious frenzy, almost impossible to rein in.”

  The three friends walked on in companionable silence.

  Thoughts of what could have happened were driven away by the pleasure they took in each other’s company and the spo radic breeze that almost made bearable the stifling midday heat. The ships moored along the waterfront rocked gently on swells so shallow they barely rippled the river’s surface.

  Their hulls creaked, a loose corner of sail flapped against a yard. Ducks, their heads hidden under their wings, rested in the shade cast by the vessels, while a lone egret walked from rock to rock along the water’s edge, searching for insects.

  Sailors assigned to guard duty sat with drooping eyes or lay snoring in any bit of shade they could find.

  “When do you sail north to Mennufer?” Karoya asked.

  “The day after tomorrow, I suspect.” Bak looked upstream toward the large cargo ship Imsiba’s wife had recently pur chased, the vessel that would carry them to their new post and a life far different from that on the southern frontier. Two smaller ships moored nearby would accompany them, carry ing men and supplies too numerous for the one vessel.

  “Commandant Thuty must first appear before our sovereign,

  Maatkare Hatshepsut herself, to offer obeisance as the new commandant of the garrison there. The vizier suggested he report tomorrow morning to the royal house.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I’ll miss you.”

  “I, too, will feel a loss.” Bak, who disliked saying good bye, made his voice light, teasing. “We’ll surely meet an other time. Perhaps you’ll someday be posted in Mennufer.”

  Karoya chose to ignore the jest. “I’d counted on going hunting with you in the desert. If I ask Commandant Thuty to come along, do you think he’d delay your departure?”

  “Best we leave right away,” Imsiba said, only half joking,

  “before Amonked finds another excuse to keep Bak in

  Waset.”

  Amonked was cousin to Maatkare Hatshepsut. He had grown fond of Bak, and had also come to depend upon him to solve any serious crime occurring in the southern capital.

  Thuty, who was determined that Bak and his Medjays would serve with him in Mennufer, would not rest easy until he was well on his way to his new post, with officer and men by his side.

  “Amonked bade goodbye to all of us last night,” Bak said.

  “You were there; you heard him.”

  “Nonetheless…”

  Bak had to laugh. What could possibly happen at this late date to prevent his accompanying his Medjays and his com mandant to Mennufer?

  “I’m amazed at how many possessions you men have col lected since arriving in Waset. You’ve been here a month, no longer.” Scowling, Bak looked around the courtyard of the building where they had been quartered since coming from

  Buhen. Much of the area was stacked high with baskets and chests and bundles. “I’ve always believed women to be more easily lured by wares than are men. I see I err.”

  The entire company of Medjays stood among their belong ings, looking everywhere but at him, unable to meet his eyes.

  “I know you were on the frontier for a long time, far from a market displaying the innumerable desirable objects found in Waset, but you’ll find as many if not more available in

  Mennufer. I suggest you get rid of…”

  Moans, groans, and yelps of dismay cut him short.

  Sergeants Psuro and Pashenuro exchanged a glance, each silently urging the other to speak up for the men. Bak won dered how many of the bundles belonged to them.

  Pashenuro, a short, stout man, second among the Medjays to Imsiba, cleared his throat. “Sir, you gave the men garrison tokens to use as they wished during the Beautiful Feast of

  Opet. It’s to their credit that they chose to buy objects they especially like or can use in the future rather than waste them on beer or women.”

  “We thought it best to use the tokens here, sir, close to the garrison that issued them.” Psuro, thick of body with a face scarred by some childhood disease, looked as if even he was not convinced by that feeble argument.

  Bak smothered a smile. “Commandant Thuty and his wife will not be pleased to find no space left on deck for their household goods.”

  “They’re already on board,” Imsiba said, striding through the portal from the lane, “as are my own household items. I fear all heavy objects you men have acquired must be stowed in the holds of the smaller ships, the rest wherever we can make room.”

  The chubby police scribe Hori, followed by the large, floppy-eared white dog the youth had rescued as a puppy, hurried through the entry. “You’re all packed? Good. We’re ready to load your belongings, everything but your sleeping pallets and cooking bowls. Keep them here with you; you’ll need them tonight.”

  Bak stood aside to watch his men gather up and carry off the weapons in the police arsenal and their personal belongings. His own clothing and weapons had been loaded earlier, along with Hori’s possessions and the few police records they had brought from Buhen. He planned to cross the river at dusk to spend the night and bid goodbye to his father and the two fine chariot horses he had kept as his own when he had been exiled to Buhen. He had thought to take them with him to Mennufer, but had decided to wait to see what the fu ture held. A future of promise, he was sure. He felt sad about parting from his father, but looked forward to the journey north and a new life in the northern capital.

  As he watched the men and listened to their chatter, so comfortable in his presence they had no need to guard their tongues, his heart swelled with an affection he knew they shared. Thanks to the generosity of Commandant Thuty, they had all been given the opportunity to remain together and serve in Mennufer as a single unit.

  A tall, tough-looking Medjay policeman strode toward the exit. He carried a thick bundle of spears on his shoulder and held a wooden cage containing two doves, which he treas ured above all things. At the sound of footsteps in the lane outside, he backed away from the portal.

  Thuty walked into the courtyard, let his eyes slide over the

  Medjay, who was too burdened to salute, and stopped in front of Bak. “Here you are, Lieut
enant. We’ve been looking for you.” He was a short, broad man with well-defined muscles that rippled beneath his oiled skin. His mouth, normally hard-set, was more unyielding than usual.

  Troop Captain Nebwa, second-in-command to the com mandant, crossed the threshold behind his superior officer, clapped the Medjay on his free shoulder, and nodded at Bak.

  With the way ahead clear, the policeman carried spears and birds out into the lane.

  Nebwa was a coarse-featured man who had no patience for the small things in life. As a result, his appearance suf fered. His broad-beaded collar hung askew and a strap on his sandal was pulling loose from the sole. His failure to smile was as telling as Thuty’s dour expression.

  Bak studied the pair, puzzled. “I thought you’d be at the garrison, sir, bidding goodbye to the men you know.” And in troducing Nebwa to men in Waset who could aid his future progress in the army. The troop captain had grown to man hood on the southern frontier and had been posted there throughout his military life. He was a child where the politics of advancement were concerned, and Thuty had been giving him an intensive course not merely on surviving but on thriv ing in a difficult environment.

  Thuty glanced around the rapidly emptying courtyard at men who, in his lofty presence, had lost the power of speech.

  His eyes settled on the hearth and the pot nestled among glowing coals. A strong smell of lamb and onions wafted from the container. “Is that stew, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir. Would you like some?”

  “Haven’t tasted a good Medjay stew since we left Buhen.”

  While the commandant and Nebwa seated themselves on the ground and dipped chunks of bread into the thick meaty concoction, Bak broke the dried mud plugs from three jars of beer and sat down with them. Thuty was clearly troubled and

  Nebwa none too happy. What could be bothering them?

  Thuty had been looking forward to his exalted new position, and Nebwa, who had been promised a promotion, would cer tainly share in Thuty’s added importance and influence.