Path of Shadows lb-8 Page 5

  Psuro’s, summoning Senna, Rona, and Nebre. The trio hur ried to the well to water the donkeys in Bak’s small string of animals.

  “Other than Senna, do any of your men speak the tongue of the nomads?” User asked.

  “One man tells me he can get by.”

  “You’re fortunate.”

  Bak did not like User’s ominous tone. “Are you hinting that Senna may abandon us, as some say he did Minnakht?”

  “I know the nomads in this area hold him to blame. They would, since he isn’t one of them and Minnakht vanished while under his care. Do I personally think him guilty of wrongdoing? I’ve no idea.” User watched one of the drovers lift several bundles one after another, testing their weight to be sure none was too heavy for a donkey. The man who had watered the animals began to load them. “All I’m saying is that not many nomads speak the tongue of Kemet. I’ve learned a few words over the years, but not enough. If any thing were to happen to my guide and the drovers, I’d not lose my way. But should we need help, I doubt I could ex plain what we need.”

  Bak could see the weakness troubled him. “Which man is your guide?”

  “The one wearing the faded red leather kilt. Dedu is his name.”

  Bak watched Dedu for a few moments. The guide, some years older than the drovers, toiled among them as an equal.

  He liked that. It signified a man secure within himself. Thus far, Senna had helped with the donkeys but had offered no as sistance to Minmose. As if the many small household tasks were beneath him.

  The sun rose fully above the ridge, sending long rays through the wispy branches of the tamarisks. A slight breeze blew the smoke from a makeshift hearth across the small en campment, carrying with it the odor of charred bread. A don key brayed; its rear hooves shot through the air as it tried to shake off its load.

  One of the nomad drovers separated a gray donkey from the rest and led it across the sand to a spot twenty or so paces away from the trees and slightly farther from the well and

  User’s camp. He stopped near a clump of bushes, spoke a few words in his own tongue, a murmur from so far away, and re peated himself in a louder voice. Receiving no answer, he shouted to User, “He sleeps, sir.”

  “A man camped there through the night,” User explained.

  “A stranger.” Scowling, he strode across the sand. “You’d think by this time, we’d have awakened the dead.”

  Certain no man could have slept through a yell as loud as that of the drover, Bak hastened to catch up. Stopping with

  User beside the nomad, he stood at the edge of a small shal low cavity in the sand on the downwind side of the bushes. A man lay flat on his stomach within the hollow, his face turned away, arms and legs in a line with his body. A water jar, a goatskin waterbag, a couple of baskets in which to carry sup plies, and a bow and quiver filled with arrows lay on the sand near him.

  Too many flies were swarming around, Bak noticed, and the donkey was easing backward, pulling at the rope halter the drover held. He guessed the worst and muttered an oath, earning surprised glances from the two men beside him. “A stranger, you say?”

  “He showed up at nightfall, watered his donkey and hob bled it with ours, and otherwise kept to himself.” User snorted. “Amonmose came out here and tried to strike up a conversation. You’ll have noticed how much he likes to prat tle. Well, he got nothing in return but a few grunts.”

  The explorer was talking too much, a sure sign that he sensed something wrong.

  Calling out to the man, User knelt beside him. He got no more of a response than the drover had. He clutched a shoul der, tried to shake him awake. Snapping out a sudden oath, he jerked his hand away and scrambled backwards. “He’s cold!”

  Bak knelt where User had been. He waved off the flies buzzing around, laid a hand on the dead man’s shoulder, and felt the coolness of death. Giving himself no time for qualms, he eased backward and rolled the body onto its back. From the amount of stiffness, he guessed the man had been slain sometime early in the night, long before he and his Medjays had reached the well.

  Clearly a man of Kemet, the dead man was about twenty five years of age, of medium height and build. Other than his large dark eyes, fully open and turned Bak’s way, his features were nondescript. His hair was dark and cut short. His deeply tanned body was well formed and his lower arms and wrists thick, like those of an archer. He wore a tunic, a knee-length kilt, and leather sandals. A thin gold chain encircled his neck and from it hung a golden amulet, the sign of life. The sheath tied to his belt was empty, the dagger missing.

  “Is this Minnakht?” Bak asked.

  “No.” User cleared a roughness from his throat, repeated.

  “No. Minnakht is taller, not so plain, not so…” His voice tailed off and he shook his head. “No.”

  The flies began to settle around an encrusted wound below the dead man’s breastbone. His life’s blood had flowed onto the thin woven mat beneath him, leaving a large red-brown stain. The weapon-probably his own dagger-had been withdrawn and carried off. The sand around him had been thoroughly churned up, making it too soft to hold footprints.

  Looking at the man’s sandals, Bak wondered if he could be the one who had left the footprint Kaha had found on the hillside overlooking the wadi. “Did he plan to travel on with your caravan?”

  “I told him he must. No man should go off by himself into this wilderness.”

  Bak glanced at the nomad drover, who was slowly backing away, as anxious to leave as the donkey was. “He came with a single animal?” he asked User.

  “Like you and your men, he traveled light.”

  “Did any of the men with you know him?”

  “They all greeted him as a stranger.” User ran his hand back and forth over the sand, wiping away the feel of death, and stood up. “A nomad must’ve slain him. To rob him, I’d wager.”

  “You don’t trust your guide? Your drovers?” Amazed, Bak also rose to his feet. How could any man travel in so risky a place with men on whom he felt he could not rely. The thought brought a cynical smile to his lips. He had allowed himself to be led into the desert by Senna, a man he was not sure he could trust.

  “I’ve known Dedu for many years. He wouldn’t slay any man, nor would the drovers he brought with him. They’re his kin.” User’s smile was grim. “A nomad family camped sev eral hundred paces up the secondary wadi. A couple of young girls brought their goats to the well shortly before dusk, and I glimpsed at least one woman up there.”

  “You noticed no men?”

  “I didn’t. That doesn’t mean they had none with them.”

  “His name is nowhere to be found.” Bak replaced the con tents of the baskets, mostly foodstuffs, a few dried herbs that could be used for medicines, and a few personal items such as a razor and comb. The bare essentials needed for a journey.

  “I suggest we bury him here and now.” User swatted at a fly that had strayed from the body. “Many a man has van ished with his family none the wiser. An unfortunate occur rence, but what else can we do?”

  “We’re a few hours’ walk from Kaine. I suggest you wrap him up as best you can and have one of your drovers take him back. Someone there may know who he is.”

  “Yes,” User nodded. “Let someone else worry about him.”

  Bak eyed the men standing at the edge of the hollow. Ani and Wensu were staring at the body as if never before had they been so close to death. Ani looked appalled by what he saw; Wensu’s face registered distaste. Amonmose appeared saddened by the death, yet curious. Nebenkemet looked on with the composure of a man inured to all life had to offer.

  Senna seemed mildly troubled, while Dedu and the drovers looked as if they wanted nothing more than to turn their backs and go on their way. Except for Psuro, who stood slightly apart from the other men, the Medjays had come and gone.

  “Are you certain you never saw this man before yester day?” Bak asked, not for the first time.

  As a single unit, they chorused a
denial.

  “You surely don’t believe one of us slew him,” Ani said.

  “Who are you to question us?” Wensu sneered. “You’re a soldier, not a police officer.”

  Bak was not yet ready to divulge to these men that he and his Medjays were policemen.

  “He never once revealed his name.” Amonmose shook his head as if mystified that any man could die unknown. “Sit ting around our fire last night, we talked about him, made guesses as to who he might be and what he was doing out here alone. That’s one reason I came to him, tried to strike up a conversation. I felt sorry for him, thought he could use some companionship.”

  “I’d wager a donkey and foal that a nomad took his life,”

  User said. “One of those people camped up the wadi could easily have slipped past us in the dark and crept upon him to rob him.”

  “Rob him of what?” Bak asked. “The golden amulet he still wears?”

  “As none of us know what he brought with him,” Ani said,

  “how can we know what might’ve been stolen?”

  “If you’re so determined to play policeman, Lieutenant, I suggest you question those nomads.” Wensu slapped his leg with his fly whisk, a habit Bak was beginning to find exceed ingly irritating. “If they didn’t slay him, they’ll certainly know who did. Another nomad who crept out of the desert in search of wealth.”

  A convenient theory, Bak thought. One highly question able if this man’s death was somehow tied to the disappear ance of Minnakht. He had no reason to think it was, but experience had taught him not to trust coincidences. This death occurring here and now when a half-dozen other men had set out on the same trail Minnakht had taken looked sus piciously like a coincidence.

  “The footprint I saw yesterday was not made by these san dals.” Kaha, kneeling at the dead man’s feet, ran his finger around the edge of a sole. “These are almost new and show no sign of wear. The print on the hillside was made by a san dal well worn, its sole beginning to curl to fit the foot of the man wearing it, and the outside edge had a slight cut near the small toe.”

  Bak studied the lifeless face, wondering exactly who this man was and why he had come into the desert alone. If he had not left the print, who had? Another man traveling alone?

  “You must go to User’s camp, Kaha, and study the footprints left by the men who spent the night at this well.”

  Nodding his understanding, the Medjay rose to his feet.

  “You wish to know if any of them made the print on the hill side, or if someone else was watching from afar.”

  “That, yes, and I also wish to learn if any nomad left the vicinity of the well to snoop around User’s camp or the place where this man was slain.”

  “I doubt a nomad slew him, sir.”

  Inclined to agree, Bak looked thoughtfully at User’s camp, which was in a state of disarray. About half the donkeys were loaded, while the rest awaited water jars and supplies with the enduring patience of most beasts of burden. The explorer was arguing with his nomad guide and the drovers. The other men were standing around in idle expectation that they would soon be on their way.

  “We’ve come upon two groups of men recently merged to form a single unit,” he said, “their intent to cross the desert on a route never before used by any man other than a few no mads and Minnakht. As if that doesn’t tickle the imagination sufficiently, we also have two men who chose to travel alone through this wilderness, one who’s disappeared and the other who’s dead. That doesn’t merely tickle, Kaha. It causes an itch that must be scratched.”

  Grinning, the Medjay walked off to do as he was bidden, passing along the way User, a drover, and a donkey. From the resentful expression on the nomad’s face, Bak guessed he was the one selected to take the body back to Kaine. Beyond the trio, Dedu had begun to issue orders, setting his kinsmen to their tasks.

  A distant movement drew Bak’s glance up the secondary wadi. He spotted Nebre’s tall, slim figure, returning from the nomad camp at a good fast pace. As soon as User and the no mad spread out a sheet in which to roll the body, he hurried eastward to meet the Medjay, preferring to speak with him alone than to air his suspicions to all the world.

  “The nomads are gone, sir.”

  “So early in the day?”

  Nebre wiped a thin film of sweat from his face. “Nothing remained but a few footprints and the marks of a crude shel ter. The fire was cold. I’d guess they moved out long before dawn.”

  “They left in a hurry.”

  “So it would seem.”

  With Nebre beside him, Bak walked slowly toward the well, mulling over the news. Would the nomads have left in such haste if they had nothing to hide? “User said two young girls took their goats to the well. Other than their tracks, did you see any others along the way?”

  “None.”

  “How many people were in the nomad camp?”

  “It was a family group: one woman, the two girls who cared for the flock, a child learning to walk, and I found signs of a baby crawling on the ground.”

  “No sign of a man?”

  “I found no footprints of a man, sir, neither a husband nor an intruder.”

  Bak smiled. Nebre had read his thoughts. The slain man could have forced himself on the woman and she in turn re paid him with death. “Unlikely slayers, that family, wouldn’t you say?”

  “The odds are much against their guilt, sir.”

  Bak looked down the wadi toward the well. He knew noth ing of the men traveling with User’s caravan. They all had pleaded innocence, but might not one among them be a mur derer? “I’ve asked Kaha to study the footprints in User’s camp to see if any match those he saw on the hillside yesterday and to search for signs of a nomad intruder. After he’s finished, you and he together must make a wide circuit of the well and the campsites. I want to know if any outsiders have come near.”

  Bak parted from Nebre and hurried to the well, where

  Senna and Rona were filling the goatskin waterbags. Upon learning that they had almost finished the task, he went on to the campsite where he and his men had spent the night. He found Psuro and Minmose dividing the last of the supplies among the donkeys. Assured that all was well with the pack ing, he told the sergeant of the tasks he had given to Nebre and Kaha.

  “What’s the point of seeking tracks?” Psuro asked. “We must travel on.”

  “Two thoughts have occurred to me. One is the possibility that this death is in some way related to Minnakht’s disap pearance. The second is of more immediate concern. If a slayer is lurking about who has no regard for right and order, for the lady Maat, we’d best learn the truth and take precau tions. Would you like to wake up some fine morning and find one of us slain in our sleep?”

  Psuro dropped a bag of dates into a basket and gave him a long, speculative look. “You suspect one of the men traveling with User?”

  “I think it a possibility.”

  The sergeant knew Bak very well. “And you wish to snare the slayer.”

  “Minnakht has been missing for two long months. What are the odds that he still lives?”

  “I’d not wager a grain of sand that we’ll find anything other than a shallow grave, and probably not even that.”

  “Now we’ve come upon a dead man. Do you not think we should include his slayer in our quest?”

  “Where do you go from here, Lieutenant?” Amonmose hefted his goatskin waterbag, checking to be sure it was full.

  He was not wearing his usual cheerful smile.

  “We plan to travel northeast, following a series of wadis through the desert mountains. I suspect our route is similar to yours.”

  Amonmose’s face lit up. “If that’s the case, why don’t you come with us? The bigger the caravan, the safer we’ll be.”

  Bak liked the suggestion. To travel with User’s caravan would answer two of his needs. It would offer the safety of numbers and give him the chance to know better the men traveling with the explorer. “Do you fear an attack, Amon mo
se? Or are you afraid there’ll be another slaying?”

  “In all the years I’ve crossed this desert, I’ve never known the nomads to be dangerous. True, the tribes fight each other, but the people themselves are generous and kind, especially to a stranger. I’ve traveled farther to the south, to be sure, but

  I’m certain the nomads here are no different.” Amonmose laid down the waterbag and picked up another. “Something’s happened out here. I feel it in my bones.” He managed a thin smile. “No, it’s more than a feeling. In Kaine I learned that

  Minnakht has vanished. A seasoned explorer he was, one who took no unnecessary risks, a man reputedly beloved of the nomads. Now we find a stranger murdered in our midst. I don’t like it, sir.”

  “Are you about ready?” User asked, approaching Ani. The jeweler stood a half-dozen paces away, holding his rolled sleeping mat as if not quite sure what to do with it.

  “User, listen to this,” Amonmose called out, overriding

  Ani’s response. “Lieutenant Bak plans to travel a route much the same as ours. I’ve asked him to come with us.”

  Looking annoyed, User urged Ani to hurry and hastened to join Bak and Amonmose. “The smaller the caravan, Amon mose, the faster we’ll travel and the easier it’ll be to find for age for our donkeys. Did I not tell you that yesterday when you asked to accompany us?”

  “You did, yes. But considering the circumstances, don’t you think it to our advantage to join forces? Bak and his Medjays are well armed and trained to fight, while the rest of us are civilians. I can’t speak for Ani or Wensu or for Nebenkemet but I, for one, have no aptitude in the use of weapons.”

  User planted his fists on his hips. “Considering what cir cumstances? The dead stranger? Bah! His death had nothing to do with us.”

  Amonmose’s mouth tightened, betraying the determina tion that had led him to build a fishing fleet in an unlikely and formidable location. “Lest you’ve forgotten, User, no one has seen Minnakht for at least two months, which probably means he’s dead and buried.” User opened his mouth to rebut but the big man plowed on. “A merchant in Kaine told me an other young explorer has also disappeared in this desert.”