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  “What’s Kasaya’s reason for escape?” he asked. “Or have you lured him from his home so you’ll have a partner in tru-ancy?”

  “He’s worse off than I am-if that’s possible. His mother started in on him the instant he set foot in their house.” A sudden laugh burst from Hori’s lips. “She’s found a suitable young woman, and she insists he take her as his wife.”

  Bak could not help but laugh with him. Kasaya was a good-natured individual of fine appearance, but was not overly endowed with intelligence. Women of all ages adored him, and he responded to their needs until they-or their parents-mistook his friendship for more serious intent. He had barely evaded permanent entanglement more than once while they had dwelt in Buhen.

  A new thought silenced Bak’s laughter. He would be the man Kasaya turned to if he needed a voice of authority to escape the fate his mother had planned for him. Shuddering at the very idea, he crossed a patch of drying grass to the horses he had, against all sound reason, refused to part with when exiled to Buhen.

  He did not know if the animals recognized him or not. After all, he had been away more than two years. But, when first he had gone to them the previous evening, both had accepted him without hesitation. When he had come out to groom them at daybreak, they had seemed to glory in the touch of his hand as he caressed their muzzles, brushed their sleek coats, combed their long manes and tails. He had not hitched them to the chariot-he had first to make sure time had not damaged its various parts-but he doubted they would accept the lightweight two-wheeled vehicle as quickly as they had him. His father, Ptahhotep, a physician, had no use for a chariot, preferring to walk, so the animals had rarely left the paddock in which they spent their days or the shed where they were kept at night.

  “Do you think Amonked will ask you to seek out the man who stole the jewelry from the old tomb?” Hori asked.

  Bak eyed the youth across the horses’ backs. He had thought Hori had outgrown the urge to play an active role in tracking down men who offended the lady Maat. Apparently not, thus this early morning visit. “He’s the Storekeeper of Amon, Hori, not a police officer.”

  “He could go to the man who’s responsible and suggest you investigate.”

  “If moved to do so, I suppose he could.”

  “Would you accept?”

  Bak grinned-at himself as much as the boy. “What do you think?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” Hori’s wide-eyed eagerness left no doubt as to how he felt. “You’d need my help, wouldn’t you? Mine and Kasaya’s?”

  “Bak!” Ptahhotep called.

  The physician came around the modest white house that stood twenty or so paces from the paddock. He had gone off on an early morning call and was returning by way of a raised path between fields. Close on his heels walked a slight young man a year or two younger than Hori wearing a calf-length kilt down which ink had been spilled. An apprentice scribe, Bak guessed.

  The pair crossed an open plot of scrubby grass in front of the portico that ran the length of the house, which was shaded by date palms and a tall sycamore. Bak had been given the house and the small section of land as a reward for solving a crime when first he had gone to Buhen. He looked upon the property with mixed emotions. It was a reward he had earned but not the gold of valor he longed for.

  Praying the scribe had brought a message from Amonked, doubting a summons would come so early, Bak crossed to the wall to greet them.

  “This is Huy,” Ptahhotep said. “He’s come to take you to Amonked.” Anyone who saw the physician and Bak together could not help but know they were father and son. The older man was slimmer, to be sure, his hair faded to white, his forehead and the corners of his eyes and mouth wrinkled.

  But in spite of the toll the passing years had taken, the resemblance was there for the world to see.

  Bak offered a silent prayer of thanks to the lord Amon.

  Deep down inside, he had feared Amonked might ignore his message, thinking he had come to the capital in search of pa-tronage. He vaulted over the wall, paused, exchanged a quick glance with Hori, a promise of sorts. Like the youth, he had no desire to spend a quiet month in Waset.

  Amonked clasped Bak by the shoulders like an old and valued friend. “Welcome to Waset, Lieutenant. I felt sure you’d stop to see your father on the way to Mennufer-and I dared hope you’d come to see me.”

  “You knew of our new posting?” Released by the older man, Bak stepped back, laughing. “Of course you did. You may’ve left behind the land of Wawat, never to return again, but if I’ve learned nothing else about you, I’ve learned that your interest, once attracted, never wanes.”

  Smiling his pleasure at what he rightly took as a compliment, Amonked laid an arm across Bak’s shoulders and ushered him into the shade of a portico built across the front of a storehouse of the lord Amon. “It’s true. I never fail to read the abbreviated daybooks Thuty sends north to Waset.”

  Huy followed at a respectful distance, awaiting fresh orders. The building, which consisted of ten long, vaulted magazines, stood near a quay that allowed cargo to be off-loaded from ships moored reasonably close to the many warehouses of the god. Eight of the structure’s doors were closed and sealed, while two stood open, releasing the odors of grain and cooking oils. Five scribes sat on reed mats at the far end of the portico, scribbling on papyrus scrolls.

  Basking in the warmth of Amonked’s welcome, Bak dropped onto a low stool and studied the man he had come to see. He was rather plump and of medium height, and sat on a chair befitting his status as Storekeeper of Amon, with plenty of colorful pillows for comfort. He wore the simple calf-length kilt of a scribe and a minimum of colorful beaded jewelry. Unashamed of his thinning hair, he wore no wig. He had not changed, Bak was glad to see, since washing away the sand and sweat of Wawat to return to this easier, more comfortable life.

  “First things first,” Amonked said, and ordered Huy to bring close a low table on which sat two stemmed bowls, a jar of wine, and bowls of fruit. “Tell me of Buhen and all that’s happened since last I saw it.”

  Sipping a rich, flower-scented wine, Bak first thanked him on behalf of Commandant Thuty and himself for the promises he had kept. He went on to speak of the many individuals Amonked had come to know during his long journey south. The Storekeeper of Amon, in turn, invited Bak to his home to renew acquaintance with those who had accompanied him to Wawat. A gentle breeze and the soft cooing of doves blessed their reunion.

  When finally they had caught up with the news, Amonked set his drinking bowl on the table and his face grew serious.

  “You wish to report an offense against the lady Maat, so said your message. A vile deed that must be resolved here in Waset.”

  Bak pulled loose from his belt the square of linen in which he had carried the ancient jewelry. Untying the knot, he spread wide the fabric and held out the open package. He had a brief moment of regret that the bracelets and rings no longer lay in the honey. The presentation would have been more dramatic, a jest he felt sure Amonked would have appreciated.

  “I found these while inspecting southbound trade goods passing through Buhen,” he said.

  Amonked took the package and lifted out a golden bracelet encrusted with turquoise and carnelian. After reading the royal oval and the symbols inside, he studied the other five objects.

  Grave of face, he said, “The jewelry of a royal consort or princess, without doubt. A woman close to Nebhepetre Montuhotep, the first of a long line of kings to make Waset their seat of power.” He laid the square of cloth and its precious contents on the table by his side. “Tell me how you found the jewelry and who had it.”

  Bak explained in detail and spoke of the subsequent inter-rogation. He summed up the result in one brief sentence:

  “I’m convinced Nenwaf knows no more than he told us.”

  Eyeing the jewelry, Amonked’s expression grew dark and unhappy. “This isn’t the first time such items have been found on board a ship bound for some distant lan
d. Of the eighteen objects the inspectors at the harbor have retrieved, some, like these, were taken from a royal tomb, while others came from the burial places of individuals whose names we don’t know. They’re all quite beautiful and valuable, objects once worn by the long-dead nobility.”

  Bak whistled. The jewelry discovered would be a small fraction of the total amount stolen. The situation was more serious than he had imagined. “Were all the pieces taken from the same burial ground?”

  “That we don’t know. The four smugglers apprehended knew no more than your Nenwaf did.” Amonked picked up his drinking bowl. “Even if the jewelry taken from a non-royal tomb contained the owner’s name, we probably wouldn’t know its location. Some objects are of a style common to the reign of Nebhepetre Montuhotep and his immediate successors; the rest are of a less refined workmanship, somewhat later in origin, possibly made at a provincial capital.”

  Bak understood the problem. Records so old were hard to find-if they existed at all. A portion of the intervening time had been plagued by famine and war, turning the land of Kemet upside down and the archives into places of chaos.

  “Nebhepetre Montuhotep’s memorial temple and tomb are in western Waset. Would not the women close within his heart be buried nearby?”

  “Other men’s thoughts have followed the same path, Lieutenant.” Amonked plucked a cluster of grapes from a bowl on the table and plopped one into his mouth. “Lieutenant Menna, the officer who stands at the head of the men who guard the cemeteries of western Waset, has been given the task of laying hands on the thief. Thus far he’s had no luck. Oh, he finds an open tomb now and then, small and poor, certainly not one in which jewelry of this quality would be found.” He spat a seed into his hand. “If anyone can resolve the problem, he can. He’s held his position for more than three years, and he knows the area well.” Beckoning Huy, he added, “I’ll summon him. You must get to know him.”

  While he issued orders to the apprentice, the beat of drums and the rhythmic song of oarsmen announced the departure of a cargo ship. As it pulled away from the quay, another similar vessel approached the dock to moor in its place. The quay seldom stood empty at this time of year, Bak knew. The harvest was over and the time had come to share a portion of the year’s bounty with the royal house and the lord Amon. The men who toiled day after day, carrying the offering from the laden ships to the god’s storehouses, sat on the ground beneath a cluster of palms, awaiting the next cargo. One man was whistling, a few played a game of chance, the rest were chatting and laughing, men who saw each other daily but never ran out of words.

  Amonked’s extensive knowledge of the thefts roused Bak’s curiosity. After the youth hurried away, he said, “You aren’t the man responsible for the investigation, are you?”

  “Not at all. My task, one given to me recently by Maatkare Hatshepsut, is to watch over the construction of Djeser Djeseru, her memorial temple.” Amonked eyed the grapes again, but refused to be tempted. “My sole interest in the robberies is that they could be taking place right under the noses of the men who are building the temple.”

  “I’m to remain in Waset a month or more, until Commandant Thuty comes north from Buhen.” Not wanting to appear too eager, Bak took a date from a bowl, pretended to study it. “I’d be glad to help.”

  Amonked looked amused, as if he had seen through the casual facade. “No doubt you would, and you’d do the task well, but I’ve another I feel more urgent.”

  Bak’s heart sagged within his breast. Hori would be disappointed. By the breath of Amon! So was he.

  “It’s a task you may not find as much to your liking,”

  Amonked admitted, “but one that must be resolved before other lives are lost.”

  Lost lives? Bak tamped down a surge of hope. To feel joy at other men’s misfortunes was not seemly. “Yes, sir?”

  “Djeser Djeseru has been plagued by a series of accidents, beginning shortly after construction began a little over five years ago. A few at first, but the numbers have escalated.

  Several men have died. A much larger number have suffered injury, some more serious than others. I suspect deliberate intent, and I want you to investigate.”

  Bak did not know what to say. Construction sites were in-herently dangerous places. Accidents happened all the time, some caused by careless men, others by the whims of the gods. How could he be expected to learn the reason behind each and every mishap that had occurred over five long years?

  More important, the temple was Maatkare Hatshepsut’s proudest creation, a place she held close within her heart.

  How would she react if she learned a man she had exiled to the southern frontier was treading its paving stones? Would she send him back to Buhen, a place he had come to love?

  Or, far more likely, to some far-off and remote post where he would be lost to the world forever? He wanted nothing to do with the task.

  Amonked must have read his thoughts. “You need not fear my cousin, Lieutenant. You’ll report to me alone and to no one else.”

  “If she questions my presence?”

  “I’ve but to remind her of your skills as a hunter of men.

  Can she turn you away? I think not.”

  Bak took a sip of wine, one of the best vintages he had tasted in a long time. He was not entirely satisfied with the promise. He trusted Amonked, but he doubted even the Storekeeper of Amon, as close a relative as he was, could stand up to the most powerful sovereign in the world when she sent her heart down a specific path, as she had when she had exiled Bak. Yet how could he refuse? “Exactly how many men have been hurt or slain?” Maybe the number of accidents was no greater at Djeser Djeseru than anywhere else.

  “Thirteen have died: two foremen, nine ordinary workmen, a scribe, and a guard. Seven have been seriously injured, never to return to their tasks at the temple. That number includes my scribe Thaneny, whom you knew in Wawat.”

  “I remember him well, sir.” A good man, Bak recalled, one whose mutilated and stiffened leg had testified to the seriousness of the accident that had nearly taken his life.

  “Several more men have been badly hurt,” Amonked said,

  “but none so disabled they couldn’t go on to other, less demanding tasks. Of course, there’ve been innumerable lesser accidents, three or four a month, I’d guess.”

  Bak had to admit the numbers seemed excessive. He had nothing to compare them to, but if he were responsible for a task with so many dead and injured, he, too, would be concerned. “What do the workmen say about the mishaps?”

  Amonked screwed up his face in distaste. “They blame a malign spirit.”

  No surprise there, Bak thought. Men of no learning were superstitious, finding it easier to blame misfortune on the mysterious rather than other men or the gods. “Have tools turned up missing? Have the men been paid in short measure? Has the quality of workmanship been wanting?”

  “Is corruption a concern, you mean?” Amonked shook his head. “I’ve scribes who go through the scrolls each time I receive a report. They check every inventory that pertains to the project, searching for theft of property or equipment, and they conduct their own random inventories. They look into tales of bad morale, quarrels between men, reports of personal theft, and all the other minor crimes that befall a project so large. They’ve found nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “You trust them.”

  “I’d place my life and my honor in their hands.”

  Bak did not doubt Amonked’s judgment of his scribes, but honest men ofttimes missed the rotten core hidden within the fruits of men’s labors. “I’ll walk the same path for a short distance lest they’ve missed something. Other than that, you’ve not left me much to work with.” His smile was wry, containing a minimum of humor. “Nothing but a malign spirit.”

  A rotund man with a black mole on his chin walked under the portico. He spoke briefly with the chief scribe, who ushered him to Amonked and introduced him as the captain of the ship that had just arrived. They s
poke of the cargo, mostly wheat and barley, and of other matters related to the shipment. Listening with half an ear, Bak watched the crew of the vessel prepare to unload and the foot traffic on the busy street, which gave access to the numerous warehouses within Amonked’s domain. A flock of chattering sparrows darted among the passing feet, snatching grain that had spilled from a bag earlier in the day.

  He spotted Huy coming toward the warehouse at a fast pace and with him a tall, well-formed man who carried a baton of office. The guard officer investigating the tomb robberies, Bak assumed.

  Amonked bade good-bye to the ship’s captain, waited for the pair to draw near, and introduced Bak to the newly arrived officer. Lieutenant Menna, as he had guessed.

  “You two should get on well together,” Amonked told Menna. “Lieutenant Bak has stood at the head of a company of Medjays at the fortress of Buhen for over two years. He’s a most talented investigator.” Pointing to a portable stool Huy drew close, he added, “I’ve told him of your own knowledge.”

  While Menna sampled the wine and fruit, Bak studied him surreptitiously. He was a man of thirty or so years, freshly oiled and smelling of a scent he had used after bathing. His kilt was the whitest of whites, his broad beaded collar and bracelets gleamed. His belt buckle, the grip of his dagger, and his baton of office glistened. Bak doubted he had ever met a man so careful of his person. He wondered how he looked after tramping through the sandswept cemeteries of western Waset for hours on end.

  Amonked handed Menna the precious objects lying in the square of cloth. “Lieutenant Bak found this jewelry on a cargo ship moored at Buhen. If not for him, these pieces would now be adorning the wife of some minor Kushite king.”

  After looking closely at each object, Menna tapped with a finger the name within the ring of protection. “I’ll wager these came from the same tomb as the cowrie necklace and girdle the inspector found on a ship moored in Mennufer two months ago.”

  “I’d not be surprised.” Amonked’s voice hardened. “This abomination must stop, Lieutenant. You must find that tomb.