Bak, stifling a yawn, stood in front of Nebmose's house, letting the chill morning breeze awaken him. He had gotten some sleep, thanks to Psuro and Kasaya, but not enough. The night had passed without incident; the occupants of the governor's villa had slept in peace. He doubted the police presence had made a difference. Hatnofer had died because she had been close in importance to Djehuty.
He eyed the small, neat garden that surrounded the family shrine inside the main entrance to the property. Venerable trees, thick bushes, and lush flowering plants filled the space with color. Birds chattered from on high, while tiny, fuzzy ducklings swam with their mother on a small, shallow pool and frogs sat on lily pads, soaking up the sun. Bees waded in pollen, humming an ancient tune while they harvested the sweet juices hidden inside the flowers. Bak could well imagine how impressed a distinguished visitor might be, striding through the gate after a long, wearisome voyage. The garden was like the Field of Reeds, where the justified dead spent eternity.
He followed the path to the shrine, a small, white-plastered structure with a cornice painted red and green. A narrow flight of four steps carried him to an entrance flanked by red columns. He had expected the building to be empty. Instead he found an ancestor bust on a limestone plinth. A fresh offering of flowers lay at the base of the red-painted, summarily formed figure with the head of a man. The last of the family might be gone, but someone remained to care. Leaving the shrine, he crossed the garden to the gate, which was almost as high as the wall around the compound and securely barred on the inside. He opened it and looked out onto one of the many lanes that ran through Abu. Two neighbors' gates, both on the opposite side of the lane, had been cut through walls equally tall and solid. The few windows he saw there were narrow and very high, admitting light and air, but allowing no view of the world outside. The far end of the lane vanished in a jumble of small, sometimes squalid dwellings. As was usually the case in Kemet, the poor touched elbows with the wealthy, but seldom met face-to-face.
Returning to Nebmose's- compound, he barred the gate behind him and hurried around the house. Beyond the empty stables and the granaries, he found a dusty yard in which a cluster of palms were being smothered by tamarisks. The mouth of a well gaped open in front of a squarish building containing four long, narrow storage magazines with a portico in front. Three of the chambers were empty; the fourth contained a chariot with a broken axle. He strode to a narrow gate shaded by the warring trees, lifted the pole that barred entry, and pulled it open. The lane outside was narrow, meant solely for foot traffic. Toward the south, it disappeared in a huddle of small houses. In the opposite direction, it passed the governor's villa and dwindled to nothing among a patchwork of fields that covered the northern end of the island.
Disappointed in spite of low expectations, he swung the gate shut, dropped the bar in place, and walked back to the house. Hatnofer's slayer could have come and gone unseen through the front entrance or the back, or from Djehuty's villa. Other than the audience hall and the visitors' quarters, the rooms were all used for storage. The house had been empty of life, the woman alone-or so she had thought. Anyone could have slain her.
"It seems a terrible waste, doesn't it?"
Bak, standing in the doorway of the stable, eyeing a long row of empty stalls, started and swung around. The governor's son Ineni stood behind him, looking past him into the `shadowy building.
"In days gone by, when I served as a charioteer with the regiment of Amon, I dreamed of a stable like this each time I had leave to go home." Bak gave the young nobleman a wry smile. "My horses, a worthy team but creatures of no discernment whatsoever, were content with the lean-to where my father housed his donkey."
A brief smile lit Ineni's face. He stepped around Bak and led the way down the dimly fit corridor. Each stall, built of mudbrick with an arched ceiling, would have held two horses. Now the wooden gates were gone, as were the leather trappings that had hung from the walls and the chariots that had stood in the yard outside. The building had been swept clean and nothing remained but a few bits of straw, traces of grain, and dark stains on the hard-packed earthen floor, which still gave off a faint odor of manure. A waste it was, agreed Bak, an abomination to allow so useful a building to lie idle.
"I came here often as a child," Ineni said. "The horses were some of the finest in Kemet, the stallion from the faroff land of Hatti. They were beautiful, spirited, the stuff of dreams. I longed to become a charioteer." He stooped, picked up a straw, and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. "But the gods stepped in, and now I'm a farmer." He laughed-at himself, Bak felt sure. "Don't misunderstand. The life of a farmer suits me. I manage my father's fields with a skill not many men can claim."
Bak was surprised. Not because Ineni's family had an estate, perhaps more than one, at a distance from Abu. Most noblemen lived off the labor of those who toiled on land far from the cities where they spent most of their days. Not one in a thousand would call himself a farmer.
"What happened to the horses?" he asked.
"When my father took this villa as his own, he had me move them to our estate in Nubt, a half day's sail north of here. They're there yet, as are their descendants."
Bak paused in front of an empty stall and asked with reluctance, fearing the answer, "What happened to the horse that took Lieutenant Dedi's life?"
"I… " Ineni hesitated, then evaded the question. "My father ordered me to have it slain."
Bak eyed the young farmer closely. "Did you obey?" Getting no answer, glimpsing defiance in Ineni's downcast eyes, he said, "Horses were my life for more than eight years, Ineni. I cherished my team, and if anyone had suggested I slay them, I'd've cut off my hand first, the hand I use to thrust my spear."
Ineni's eyes darted to Bak's face, searching for a lie. Evidently satisfied, he glanced toward the open doorway and lowered his voice lest anyone hear. "As soon as I took the poor, terrified beast out of the stall, away from the scent of death, he quieted. My father had insisted he was mad, but I could see he'd simply been consumed by fear. I had him taken that night to our estate in Nubt, and there he will remain, alive and well. My father need never know."
Bak nodded approval. "He'll not hear the tale from me." They reached the end of the corridor and turned back, sharing the silence and a vision of the stable as once it had been. Somewhere in the dark, a cat growled. A half-grown rat shot out of a stall and down the passageway a pace ahead of a huge orange tomcat. As the rodent raced into the sunlight outside the door, the cat leaped with a ferocious snarl. Clamping its teeth into its kicking and squeaking prey, it trotted off.
"Why, do you believe, was Hatnofer slain?" Bak asked. Ineni gave a short bark-like laugh, rending their brief camaraderie. "You surprise me, Lieutenant. You told us yesterday, did yoW not, that the next to die would be one who walked close to my father. Have you since decided you erred?"
Bak chose to ignore the sarcasm. "She died because of her importance in this household, of that I've no doubt, but you are equally important. As are Amonhotep, Antef, Simut, and Amethu. Why was she chosen over the rest of you?"
"I see no mystery there. She was small and no longer young. And she walked alone into an empty building, easy prey."
Bak opened the gate to the govemor's compound and glanced into the yard containing the well. Two young women, servants he had seen in the kitchen at daybreak, stood chatting near the top of the steps leading down to the water. One balanced a large, heavy jar on her head, the second held an empty container by the neck. Glimpsing Ineni, the former hurried toward the kitchen and the latter hastened down the steps to fetch water.
Bak made no comment until he and Ineni were midway along the row of granaries, when the servants were too far away to hear. "Was the sergeant who died, Senmut, small and no longer young?"
"He was as tall as you," Ineni admitted with a crooked smile, "and he prided himself on his strength."
"Yet there was no sign of a struggle." "None."
Bak stopped in the shade near the rear door of the house, and gave his companion a curious look. "You seem unmoved by Hatnofer's death. Wasn't she a mother to you, as she was to Khawet?"
Ineni's laugh was harsh, derisive. "My mother was a servant, Lieutenant. She was young and beautiful, I've been told, and he took her as his own the day she walked into this villa. Hatnofer hated her from that time forward, and she had no more use for me. When my mother died giving birth to a stillborn daughter, I was sent to our estate at Nubt. There I was raised by a houseful of servants, all of whom I think of as parents."
The tale was not unusual, but moved Bak nonetheless. "Do you go often to Nubt?"
"I'd be there now if my father hadn't summoned me." Ineni snorted. "Sometimes I think he fears his own shadow."
Bak eyed him curiously. "Aren't you yet convinced he has reason to fear? Five people have died thus far."
Ineni walked to the door and lifted the latch. "If I'd been so inclined, I'd have slain Hatnofer many years ago. Sergeant Senmut was a braggart, a man who believed himself above all others in any endeavor he chose to pursue. The guard Montu… Well, he seemed a nice enough fellow, but he drank to excess and he loved to talk. He could say more about less than any man I ever met."
"What of Lieutenant Dedi? And the boy Nakht?"
"Dedi was young and full of himself, not one to take too seriously, I'd have thought. But who knows? Maybe someone resented his
… His enthusiasm." Ineni lifted the latch and shoved the door open. "Nakht is a puzzle. The child was small and slight, gentle. An innocent. Why he had to die, I can't begin to guess."
Nor could Bak. If Hatnofer had been slain because she was small and vulnerable, the child's death could be explained in the same way. However, neither Senmut nor Montu had been small men, and both had been stabbed without a struggle. Five deaths, with not a man or woman or child offering resistance to the assailant. Bak could think of no way to accomplish such a feat unless the man who slew them had blinded them with magic. Or, more likely, with familiarity.
"I must admit my relief when I learned another had been slain and I could rest easy." Amethu hiked up his long white kilt, bunching the fabric over his bulging stomach, and dropped onto a portable stool. "Does that sound heartless, Lieutenant?"
"You're not the first to voice the thought," Bak said, "and I doubt you'll be the last."
The steward gave him a fleeting smile, his thoughts on the task before him: the weekly distribution of grain to those who toiled in the governor's kitchen.
Bak knelt beside him in a strip of shade cast by Nebmose's villa-how quickly he had come to accept the local name for the dwelling-watching servants empty one of the granaries. One man knelt before an opening twice the size of a man's head located at the base of the tall conical tower. Another man, who had climbed down an interior ladder, swept the remaining wheat into a basket and poured a golden stream through the hole, gradually filling the larger basket his companion held. Dust billowed from the cascading grain, making the man outside cough. Amethu noted the amount on a bit of broken pottery. Later, Bak knew, he would total the various quantities and record them on a scroll.
"I'll miss Hatnofer," the steward said. "She was one of the few people in this household to know the value of keeping accurate accounts. The rest of them…" He gave a longsuffering sigh. "They just don't seem to care. They take an item from a storage room, don't bother to note its removal or to tell anyone, and then complain when they go in search of another like item and find none."
"Was she as diligent in managing the household and its many servants?"
"To a fault, some would say." Amethu frowned. "I don't mean to be critical, but you'll find out soon enough. She was not well liked. Too stem and unforgiving. Too demanding. But she kept the household running as smooth as a welloiled chariot wheel. She'll be greatly missed."
"What of mistress Khawet? Can she not oversee the servants?"
"Enough!" Amethu scrambled to his feet and hurried to the man kneeling at the base of the granary. He reached into the basket, withdrew a handful of wheat, and let it trickle from one hand to the other. His mouth pursed in disapproval. "We can't distribute this. It's full of sand. We'd have a rebellion on our hands."
He flung the grain to the ground and took a fresh handful. Sifting it through his fingers, he shook his head. "Unacceptable. Set this basket aside and move on to the next granary. After you've gathered enough wheat for today's needs, come back here, sweep this one out, and pour all this dirty grain into the storage chamber where we're saving the seed for planting."
"Yes, sir," said the man outside, his voice echoed from within.
Amethu returned to his stool and bowed his head in what Bak took to be a prayer. When at last the steward raised his eyes, he again shook his head, this time in vexation. "They never learn. Never. A foreman should sit out here, not me, but the last time I entrusted this task to another man, we had sand in our bread for a week."
Bak held his tongue. Gritty bread- was endemic to the army. "We were speaking of mistress Khawet, of her ability to take over Hatnofer's duties."
"Khawet is a nice woman. I've known her from a babe. The question is: can she oversee a large and busy household in addition to satisfying her father's many demands? Not to mention the demands of a husband."
"She has no children."
"A pity." Amethu paused to watch the servant climb out of the granary and drop onto a shoulder-high platform that joined the empty structure to the one beside it. Hurrying down a stairway that descended to the ground, he knelt beside his partner, who had broken the seal that attested to the integrity of the full granary. "I've long been of the opinion that Hatnofer's problem was her failure to conceive. She was a woman of good humor and sweetness in her youth. A few years ago, as life began to pass her by, her disposition soured. Now I see Khawet traveling, the same path, and I fear for her."
From what Bak had seen of Djehuty, he was more than enough child for any woman. Or perhaps he was being unfair. "You've been with Djehuty for many years, I see."
"My father was his father's steward. I grew to manhood in this provincr, learned to read and write in the governor's villa. When my father left this worldly realm, Djehuty's father appointed me to his place, as was right and proper."
"Can you think of a reason anyone would want him dead? Would kill and kill again to plant fear in his heart?" Amethu looked distinctly uncomfortable. "He's stepped on toes What man hasn't?"
"Has he come down so hard he'd merit death?"
"He's basically a good man, Lieutenant." Amethu cleared his throat, as if the next words were caught there. "Oh, he can be thoughtless at times. Selfish and petty. Altogether a most aggravating individual. But as he intends no ill, all who know him forgive him."
Especially those who walk the corridors of the governor's villa, Bak thought. Men who wield a moderate amount of power and live in far greater comfort and style than their neighbors. Those who owe their lofty positions to Djehuty and dare not speak out lest he replace them with others more agreeable.
"If you truly believe a murderer walks these corridors, why are you not living within these walls?" Simut's voice pulsed with frustration as he tried to balance vehemence and the need to speak softly so his students would not hear his words. "Why do you not send for Medjays-not from Buhen, for the journey would take too long, but from the capital? Men with dogs who'll patrol the rooms night and day?"
"If I were to summon additional men, Djehuty might well be slain long before they arrive." Bak spoke softly, as reluctant to draw the boys from their studies as the chief scribe was. "Have you never watched a cornered animal, forced to strike rather than bide its time?"
A chunky boy of ten or so years looked up from a pottery fragment on which he had been writing and sneaked a peek in their direction. He and a dozen or so other youths ranging in age from ten to fourteen sat cross-legged on the floor of the open courtyard, scribal pallets beside them, pieces of broken pottery or slabs of limestone in their laps. A boy of about twelve sat before them, dictating from a'scroll the maxims of a long-dead sage. A younger group of boys sat beneath a shallow portico, copying words from a list of household objects. A slick-haired black dog lay in a shady corner, nursing four spotted puppies.
"Not so loud!" Simut's hiss traveled across the courtyard, drawing the eyes of all his students. "Now look what you've done."
"Boys are born to be curious," Bak said, forcing himself to exercise patience. "If you don't want them disturbed, come away with me. There's an unoccupied room not a dozen paces from here."
Simut gave him a horrified look. "Do you have any idea what would happen if I left these children alone? They'd run amok, that's what they'd do."
Remembering his own youth, Bak had to agree. Boys forced to study day after day, copying dry texts from times gone by, had far too much energy to sit still and quiet when left unattended. "I'll be brief then."
"Do so."
The scribe's attitude grated, bringing forth a question Bak normally would have approached slowly, the one that had set Amethu on the defensive. "Do you know of any reason anyone would want Djehuty dead?"
Simut gave him a sharp look. "Why ask that question of me?"
"How long have you served as a scribe in Abu?" The question was rhetorical, meant to point out Simut's long tenure in the governor's villa.
The scribe chose to take the query at face value. "I learned my profession in this very — courtyard. That's why you see me here now. I feel no end of fulfillment in teaching other boys as I once was taught. When their regular tutor ails, or has another task he must do, I freely give of my time." He paused, nodded his satisfaction-with himself, Bak assumed. "I've toiled in this building ever since. I began as a lowly apprentice writing letters for farmers, as the boys you see before you wiW most likely do, and my life has been filled to the brim from that time until now. I can climb no higher."
"Far more lofty positions are available to scribes in the capital," Bak pointed out.
Simut raised his head high so he could look down his nose at one so lacking in understanding. "Abu is my home, the home of my wife and my children and their children. The home of my father and his father before him."
The scribe, Bak noted, had begun to speak with greater ease. Talk of himself suited him. "With so many years in the governor's villa, you must've heard complaints about Djehuty, some serious enough to be called transgressions."
Simut sat quite still, then sniffed. "If you're interested in gossip, young man, I suggest you visit a few of the local houses of pleasure."
"I want the truth, not the ramblings of men besotted by beer." Bak adopted his most serious demeanor. "Need I remind you that I'm here at the vizier's request?"
"I was told he suggested Djehuty send for you." The scribe raised his voice in triumph. "That's quite a different matter."
"When a man as lofty as the vizier…" Realizing he, too, was speaking too loud, Bak glanced toward the students. All were staring, including the boy supposed to be dictating. Bak grabbed the scribe's arm and towed him through the nearest door into a short hallway. "Simut! In nine days' time the slayer will strike again, his next victim Djehuty. Do you want the governor's death forever on your conscience?"
"I've every confidence you'll soon learn what you need to know, Lieutenant, but you won't hear it from me." Simut shook his arm free and stalked back to the courtyard.
Bak passed through the unimpressive mudbrick pylon gate of the mansion of the lord Khnum and walked along a rough path that carried him toward the river. At the end, he came upon thirty or so nearly naked men, reeking of sweat, toiling on a small, dilapidated shrine that overlooked the water. Half the crew struggled with slabs of stone, laying new pavement over the old. Others were erecting sturdy stone columns in place of rotting wooden supports, while the remainder repaired crumbling walls. Good-natured banter, a man whistling a lively tune, the rhythmic beat of a mallet on stone could not silence a multitude of sparrows in the trees.
Bak walked to the edge of the steep, rocky slope. Below, several small boats skimmed the water, their sails spread wide like the wings of birds free to fly where they wished. He longed to be down there with them, to feel the breeze stirring his hair and to hear water whispering against the hull. Shaking off temptation, he forced his thoughts back to the puzzle he had traveled so far to solve.
Djehuty had committed an offense-that much Simut had implied-and sooner or later someone would reveal its secret. What the secret was, Bak could not begin to guess, but its grievous nature was apparent. Few men would look into the face of death rather than admit a wrongdoing.
Bak had left the scribe to his students, determined to learn what Djehuty had done. Only then could he establish whether or not that particular offense could have led to five deaths, with a sixth looming. If so, he could go on from there. If not, he must search for another reason for murder. He had to smile. It sounded so easy. However, experience had taught him that a course of action that on the surface appeared smooth and direct more often than not was filled with obstacles.
After a hasty midday meal, he had hurried to the garrison, a jumble of barracks buildings and houses located near the southern edge of Abu. The old, much-repaired, and oftaltered structures blended into the city. Unlike Buhen, no high, fortified wall surrounded them. Evidently the river had been thought, in days long past, to offer sufficient protection from the enemy.
Troop Captain Antef, the sergeant on duty had told him, had gone to the granite quarries. When he would return, no one could say.
Bak had hastened back through the narrow, crowded streets to the mansion of the lord Khnum, thinking the chief priest might-like Amethu and Simut-be a long-time resident in Abu, but unlike them a man bound to speak the truth, leaving no secrets buried in silence. He had again been faced with disappointment. The priest who had greeted him was young, new to the mansion and the town. His elderly predecessor had, not six months before, departed his worldly life and gone off to the Field of Reeds. The younger man could offer nothing of value.
A skiff speeding northward caught Bak's attention. The sail was down and two men were rowing, adding thrust to the current's downstream pull. Troop Captain Antef was one of the pair. Just the man Bak wished to see-and he appeared to be heading for the landingplace.
Bak had no idea how long Antef had dwelt in Abu, but few professional soldiers remained in one place for long. The queen's nephew and stepson Menkheperre Thutmose, who shared the throne but not the power, had begun to rebuild an army long neglected by the royal house. Ranking officers of proven incompetence were being removed and men could no longer inherit positions of authority from their fathers. Newly reorganized regiments were led by men who moved from place to place, proving themselves proficient and versatile.
He also assumed that, although required to report to Djehuty, Antef's real master resided elsewhere, probably in the capital. With little or nothing to lose, he might well divulge Djehuty's secret-if he knew it.
Bak trotted along the path above the river, praying the officer could-and would-help. Several women who had gathered at the well to gossip eyed him with curiosity, as did a pair of lovers lying deep in the shadows of a willow tree. He reached the stairway at the landingplace as Antef's skiff bumped stone. The troop captain leaped ashore and shoved the boat back into the current. His companion rowed on downstream.
Spotting Bak at the top of the stairs, Antef raced upward. "Lieutenant!" He clapped Bak hard on the-'back. "Have you come to greet me in friendship? Or to shackle my wrists and carry me off to the desert mines?"
Slipping out of arm's reach, Bak forced a smile. "Have you committed an offense deserving of so drastic a punishment?"
The troop captain's good humor evaporated, his eyes flashed anger. "I've kept my men so long at the granite quar- ries they no longer know how to soldier. If they'd ever have to stand on the field of battle, they'd not last a half hour. That's not an offense; it's an outrage."
They passed through the gate, nodded to the guard standing before the gatehouse, his spear raised in salute, and strode up the path toward the governor's villa. Antef walked fast, his anger driving him forward.
"You deserve no punishment for that," Bak said. "Unless I'm mistaken, mining the stone is Djehuty's responsibility." "As is the well-being of the garrison." Antef expelled a cynical snort. "The granite travels north on a barge, bound for the capital, while our troops stay here. Which is the most likely, Lieutenant, to gain the attention of those who walk the corridors of power?"
Bak well understood the problem. Their sovereign, Maatkare Hatshepsut, cared for nothing but the smooth flow of products traveling downriver to the royal house. Like Antef's soldiers, the men who manned the fortresses on the frontier, making sure trade objects continued to move north, were of no importance. Only when the flow was disrupted did they attract attention-and angry messages from the capital.
"You don't like Djehuty," he said.
"He has no more common sense than the granite we ship north." Antef shoved open the door of the governor's villa and strode into the anteroom, a light and bright chamber with two lotus-shaped columns supporting a high ceiling. "Unfortunately, for this enforced labor at the quarry I can blame no one but myself. If I'd had sufficient wit when first I came to Abu…" He paused, gave a low, bitter laugh. "Amonhotep can usually talk him around, but not in this case. I pushed too hard, spoke when I should've remained silent. The swine'll diver forgive. More important, he won't forget. And my men are made to suffer."
Could this be Djehuty's offense, Bak wondered, the reason so many people had been slain? Surely not. Ordering the army to continuous service at the quarries was a decision the governor could justify, for the stone would be shipped to the most important building projects in Kemet, the mansions of the gods, in most cases. Bak sympathized with Antef and his troops, as would any soldier, but he could offer no way out. "Five people have died and the next, I feel sure, will be Djehuty. Do you know of any tie that might've bound the victims together? Anything Djehuty might've done to warrant their deaths as well as his own?"
Antef hesitated a long time and finally said, "You'd best ask Amonhotep."
Bak gave him a long, thoughtful look. His answer was more forthright than those of Amethu and Simut but came down to the same thing: he had an idea what might have brought about the murders, but he would not be the first to step forward with the information. "If he won't tell me what I need to know, Troop Captain, I'll come back to you. And I'll expect the truth."
"I've been told you and your Medjays have moved into a house outside the walls of this villa." Antef's tone turned derisive. "Do you feel safer there, Lieutenant?"
"A suggestion has been made that I summon a unit of Medjays from the capital to patrol this compound. What do you think, sir?" Bak kept his voice level, pleasant, as if unaware of the lack of trust the proposal implied.
Antef's expression hardened. "If it's men you need, come to me. I've more than enough. Good, trustworthy men who long to be soldiers, not beasts of burden in the quarry. I can have them armed and on duty within the hour. A man in every room and every hallway, if need be."
Bak was tempted to accept the offer, at least in part, but before he could begin to negotiate terms, Ineni's voice whipped across the room.
"I won't have my home overrun by soldiers!" The young nobleman, who had been standing unseen in a doorway at the back of the anteroom, listening, strode toward the two officers. "We've plenty of guards, men who've been in our service for years. I'd trust them with my life."
As Hatnofer must have relied on them, Bak thought, and the other four who were slain. He resolved to speak with Amonhotep, under whose command they served, to make sure the guards stayed alert, their vigilance never faltering. "They're nothing but farm boys," Antef sneered, "trained to use a plow, not a spear."
Ineni's mouth tightened. "Set ten of our men against ten of yours, and we'll see who's most apt to win a battle." "Why put our men to the test? Why don't you face me man-to-man? Weapon of your choice."
"Silence!" Bak stepped between the two. "Haven't you seen enough death over the past few weeks?"
"The man's a fool," Antef muttered. Ineni glared.
Bak had sensed animosity between the two when first he had met them. He could not begin to guess its source, but he had a feeling their mutual dislike was long-standing. "I suggest you each go your separate way, staying well clear of the other. How can I lay hands on a slayer if I'm forever distracted by you?"
"I have to report to Djehuty," Antef grumbled, swinging away and hastening to the portal through which Ineni had come. Khawet shoved the door fully open. He took a quick step back, barely saving his nose.
"Oh, Troop Captain Antef, I'm so sorry." She reached out to touch his arm, then quickly withdrew her hand. "Are you alright?"
"Of course." His voice was gruff; a flush spread across his face. A blind man could have seen the admiration he held for her. He seemed not to know what more to say, so he gave her a quick nod. "I must go."
After he disappeared, she glanced across the room. Her gaze settled on Bak and Ineni, and she hurried between the columns to stand before her husband. "Father's been looking for you." Her* voice had turned chilly, the warmth it had held for Antef lost. "He's seeking an explanation as to why you haven't brought another young steer to Abu for slaughter."
"I told him…" Ineni glanced at Bak, grimaced. "My father knows nothing of farming."
Khawet gave her husband a too-sweet smile. "You know something of plowing and planting, I grant you, but my father has ten times ten more worldly experience and knowledge."
Flushed with anger, Ineni pivoted on his heel and stalked to the rear door, aping Antef in every way though he probably had no idea he did so. Khawet watched him go, her expression almost wistful. Did she in fact love him? Bak wondered, or was she merely wishing she had someone else, the troop captain, maybe?
The smile she turned on Bak was soft, gentle, friendly rather than flirtatious. "Yesterday I was too upset to thank you properly for coming, Lieutenant, but today… Well, I can't tell you how relieved I am that you're here. My father has told me of the pattern you saw in the slayings. That you, a stranger to Abu, should notice what no one else could see gives me a confidence I thought never to feel. I'm certain you'll lay hands on the slayer before he can…" She hesitated, added, "… before he can go on with whatever he plans."
Bak liked her smile, her pleasant manner, but cautioned himself to be wary. Whether she had noticed her husband in the room initially he had no idea, but she had certainly shown Antef more warmth and consideration. If her behavior had been intentional, if she made a habit of using one man to anger the other, no wonder the pair could not get along.
Bak remained in the anteroom, waiting for Djehuty to finish with the daily reports of the men on his staff and to hear the last of the petitioners. If he was to pry the truth from the governor, he could not do it with an audience hall full of onlookers.
To speed the passage of time, he reviewed the day thus far, ending with the confrontation between Antef and Ineni, two strong men who disliked each other enough to fight yet were very much alike. Both greatly resented Djehuty for disrupting the tasks to which they had devoted their lives. He had been thinking of them, as with all who stood close to the governor, as potential victims, men who might have died if Hatnofer had not been selected by the slayer. Should he be thinking of them instead as men who might harbor so great a hatred in their hearts they would slay Djehuty?