"I'm fairly certain the storm is the key to the murders, but you mustn't allow my belief to blind you to other possibilities."
"Yes, sir," Psuro and Kasaya said in unison.
Bak fastened his belt clasp over the small, neat knot holding his kilt in place and stepped into woven-reed sandals. "More than anything else, I'd like to talk to someone who came back alive, one who saw more of his fellows during the tempest than did Lieutenant Amonhotep."
"When I wandered around the caravan encampment yesterday, I talked to more than a dozen traders." Psuro, long ago up and dressed, sat down on the stairway and lifted several leaves covering a tightly woven basket brought by the old woman he had hired to cook for them. The yeasty aroma of fresh bread wafted across the room. "A few had heard of a company of soldiers lost in the desert, but in a vague sort of way. None connected the tale to Abu."
"Not surprising," Bak said, tugging down the hem of his kilt, making it even all around. "Most are outsiders, men who remain only long enough to pass on to a ship the trade goods they've brought from far to the north or south." He reached for an intricate bronze chain from which hung several faience amulets, the most prominent among them the lord Horns of Buhen and the lady Maat. "No, you must query men and women who've lived in this province for many years. Not an easy task, I warn you. Half the people I spoke with yesterday resorted to talk of the gods or demons or some other malign force when I mentioned the storm. And the two guards, Kames and Nenu, hinted that the men in the garrison may've been ordered to remain silent."
Psuro offered a round, crusty roll to Bak and threw a second to Kasaya, sitting cross-legged on his sleeping pallet. The young Medjay caught it with a grin. "If I'd come back from that storm alive and suddenly I saw my fellow survivors falling to the earth like overripe fruit, I'd turn my back on Abu and walk as fast and far as I could."
"Nakht and Lieutenant Dedi weren't survivors," Psuro scoffed. "They weren't even here then. They were both too young to march off to battle. So who would think to connect them to Montu and Senmut?"
Kasaya, not in the least miffed, shot the roll back to Psuro. "Lieutenant Bak did."
Psuro raised his arm, preparing to return the missile. Bak gave him a long, hard look. With a sheepish smile, the stocky Medjay lowered the roll, broke it apart, and took a bite.
"Go see the chief scribe, Psuro. I asked him yesterday to prepare a list of all who survived the storm. He should have their names ready and waiting." Bak glanced around, searching for the document Commandant Thuty had prepared, giving him authority in Abu. He intended to visit the garrison records center and take a look at scrolls unavailable to the average officer. If Troop Captain Antef was not there, or if he refused to give permission, Thuty's message should open the door. "Mark off those who're no longer among the living and find out what happened to the remainder."
"And pray to the lord Amon that at least one man still lives," Kasaya said. "
"And that he lives close by," Psuro added.
Garrison headquarters was located in a row of interconnected houses across a narrow lane from the two-story barracks building. The dwellings had been altered over the years by the addition or removal of walls, and doors had been cut to allow free movement throughout the block. The sole structure that remained relatively unchanged was the commander's residence, an unadorned two-story house with offices on the ground floor and living quarters above.
After spending over a year within the high, fortified walls of Buhen, Bak had trouble reconciling himself to the idea of a garrison without walls, one surrounded by places of business and crowded residential blocks. Especially since Abu had once been the southernmost city in the land of Kemet, a frontier city from which armies set off for what were then wild and untamed lands farther south, paving the way for trading expeditions led by the stout-hearted governors of the province. Men Djehuty wanted very much to claim as ancestors.
A guard posted in the entryway of the commander's residence directed him through the columned audience hall to a rectangular chamber in which a half dozen scribes toiled. There he introduced himself to the chief scribe, who sat on the floor facing the others. The lesser scribes studied him furtively, any stranger a welcome distraction.
"I understand Troop Captain Antef has gone to the quarry," Bak said.
"That's right, sir. He left soon after daybreak. There was an accident. A heavy section of stone fell on a man's leg." The chief scribe, a slight man of medium height with a small birthmark on his neck, scowled in a vain effort to conceal his distress. "If the tale the messenger told was accurate, the limb is crushed and he'll lose it."
And probably his life, Bak thought with a shudder. Such injuries were almost impossible for a physician to treat. Only the gods. could intervene. "I'll speak with Antef later, then. In the meantime, i'd like to look at several documents you're sure to have filed away among your records."
The scribe shook off his distraction over the injured soldier and frowned. "I'm sorry, sir, but without the troop captain's approval, you can see nothing."
Bak handed him the scroll prepared by Thuty. The clerk read the document and read it again a second time. With an almost imperceptible sigh of resignation, he rolled it up and gave it back. "What do you wish, sir?"
"First, the daybook containing entries about a sandstorm that occurred five years. ago, the storm from which most of the men in this garrison failed to return. I'd also like to see the official report of the catastrophe. And I wish to look at the daybooks for the past two months." Those would include the entries made on the days the deaths occurred in the governor's household and any related items of interest.
The scribe allowed himself a brief, curious glance. "If you'll wait in the audience hall, sir, I'll bring them right away."
Bak followed his suggestion, seating himself on a wooden bench built against one wall of the hall. Scribes came and went, sergeants reported to junior officers, the chief armorer came in to complain about the poor quality of spears received from the capital. Most glanced Bak's way and dismissed him, thinking him just another officer passing through Abu.
In a surprisingly short time, the chief scribe presented him with a basket containing several scrolls and hastened back to his flock. Bak thumbed through the documents until he found the official report of the tempest, labeled year five of the reign of Maatkare Hatshepsut, harvest season. Djehuty, as garrison commander, had prepared the scroll more than a week after the storm, after the last of the survivors had returned to Abu. It went into considerable detail, a bland, sometimes officious accounting, giving away nothing that would discredit Djehuty or his troops. No surprises there.
He took up the appropriate daybook and scanned its entries. References to the storm were short acid succinct. The loss of over one hundred men and more than sixty donkeys was dealt with in a cursory, almost offhand manner that angered him in its easy dismissal of their lives.
Setting aside the documents related to the storm, he pulled the remaining scrolls out of the basket and sorted them by date. They proved to be disappointing, to say the least. Since none of the victims were assigned to the garrison and none of the murders had occurred there, the incidents were not referred to in any way.
Bak climbed a gradual slope, a rolling stretch of golden sand softened by the passage of many feet and warmed by the morning sun. Ahead, a hump of reddish stone protruded from the barren landscape, breaking the horizon to the left and right for at least two hundred paces. Men reduced to stick-like figures by distance and heat waves toiled on the face of the outcrop, one of several granite quarries located in the desert south of Swenet. A smaller assemblage, stripped down to loincloths, clustered on the sand at the base of the rock face, surrounding a large object impossible to see with so many men shielding it from view. Two stood slightly apart-Troop Captain Antef, Bak assumed, and a scribe.
As he drew near, plodding ankle-deep through the sand, another man, a sergeant most likely, emerged from among the workmen-troops from the garrison pressed to do duty at the quarry. Striding toward Antef, the man spotted Bak and pointed. The troop captain swung around, placed his hands on his hips, and shook his head. Bak could not see his features, but disgust was apparent in his stance.
He was surprised Antef would show disregard for a fellow officer in front of his men. He felt sure the aversion was not directed at him but at the task he must perform, the questions he must ask. Nonetheless, he resented being the recipient of such a display. Feigning indifference, he narrowed the gap between them. The men on the outcrop paid no heed to his approach; those close by sneaked glances his way; curious.
"Troop Captain Antef," he said. "May I have a word?" "Lieutenant Bak," Antef said, aping the police officer's tone. "A word, — yes. I've no time for a lengthy discourse." Bak looked pointedly at the men on the outcrop, all going about their business under the expert direction of a half dozen chief quarrymen, and the men standing nearby, idling around what looked like a greater than lifesize, unfinished statue of the lord Osiris or, more likely, Maatkare Hatshepsut as one with Osiris. Details of face and figure had not yet been carved and it lacked the final polish, both of which would be done when it reached its final destination in faroff Waset.
Antef's mouth twitched, as if he realized how pompous he had sounded, but he maintained his cool and serious demeanor. "Djehuty has promised this accursed statue will sail today. I'm here to see that it does."
"One of your men suffered an accident, I was told. I assume it wasn't as serious as I was led to believe."
Antef glowered at the' statue. "This wretched image rolled onto him. Thanks to the lord Khnum, the sand beneath him was soft and he suffered only a blow to his pride and a bruise big enough to earn him softer duty in Abu for a few days."
Relieved the man was unhurt, Bak said, "My questions may distract you now and again, but they'll not keep you from your duty."
Again Antef's mouth hinted at a smile. Bak had a feeling he would enjoy this man's company under different circumstances.
"Ask what you like." Antef's eyes darted toward two men hurrying up the slope, carrying wooden shovels on their shoulders. "If I find you in the way, you'll leave, like it or not."
"As the man responsible for this garrison, would it not be to your advantage to see the scales of justice balanced as soon as possible?"
Without a word, Antef strode away. He slipped through the line of men encircling the statue and walked around the rough-cut head to meet the pair who had brought the shovels. Bak followed at a distance, staying outside the ring of men. A sledge, two low runners connected by sturdy crosspieces, lay on the far side of the statue. The fresh-worked granite had taken on the pinkish-red hue especially desired by the royal house of Kemet. Clear crystals embedded among the colored granite glittered in the sunlight.
"You know what you must do. You've done it often enough." Antef looked around the circle. "Move that thing out of the way…" He pointed at the sledge. "… and dig a long, shallow trench alongside the statue. Bury the sledge up to the crosspieces, and we'll drag the image onto it." He strode through the circle and drew Bak away, where they could speak without being heard. "Yes, Lieutenant, I am responsible for this garrison. 1, not you, should've been entrusted with finding the slayer."
"I've no doubt you're a worthy officer," Bak said, trying to balance tact and honesty, "but you've had no experience looking into the hearts of men who turn away from the lady Maat, taking what they will, including other men's lives."
Antef eyed him with scorn. "I've served in the army since I was a youth of fifteen years. I've spent my nights in the barracks and my days on the, practice field. If ever we should march off to war, I'd dwell in a tent on the field of battle. I know men, Lieutenant."
"Ordinary, god-fearing men have little in common with the vile criminals I've tracked and snared."
Antef's mouth tightened. "Men are men, I tell you." Bak could see that no amount of persuasion would convince him otherwise. "Did you give any thought to the ten-day intervals between deaths?" he demanded. "Or the progressively higher rank of those who were slain?" "No," Antef growled. "Too many of the deaths appeared accidental to add up details."
"Did it ever occur to you that two of those who died were survivors of the sandstorm that decimated the garrison five years ago, and two others were the sons of survivors?"
"I knew Montu and Senmut lived through the storm." Antef's expression grew thoughtful. "And Nakht's father… Well, yes, I knew he did, too." His eyes darted toward Bak. "Dedi's father as well?"
"He was a 13eutenant here in Abu." Bak went on to relate what he had learned from Simut's records.
"Troop Captain Antef!" the sergeant called.
Antef shook his head as if to clear it of all he had just learned and strode toward the men gathered around the statue. Bak stayed well back, out of the way of those who would shift the heavy stone figure.
A couple of men got down on hands and knees to clear sand from beneath the statue. They bared five wooden blocks that had been placed under the image as it was freed from the parent stone, leaving a gap through which they slipped four heavy ropes. These were tied around the statue and laid parallel to each other across the sledge and the sand.
The sergeant barked an order. The circle broke up and the men formed lines along the ropes, ten to each team, facing away from the statue. After checking to make sure no line would snarl, the sergeant called out another order.
The men pressed forward, muscles bulging, sweat pouring from bodies and faces. The ropes grew taut, the statue moved slowly across the blocks toward the sledge. A man slipped and fell, tripping those around him. Three ropes grew slack, while the fourth remained taut. The image began to twist on its axis. Antef snapped out an order to release the last line. The men let go as if their fingers burned. The rope, no longer under tension, writhed in the sand, sending men scuttling out of its path. The statue lay still, flat on its back on four of the five blocks of wood.
Antef gave Bak a quick smile of relief, muttered a hasty prayer of thanks to the lord Khnum that no damage had been done, and gave the men time to rest. A few dropped where they stood; the remainder trudged across the sand, heading toward a group of donkeys laden with goatskin water bags.
The troop captain leaned back against an irregular wall of granite, bruised by the dolorite mallets used to widen the space between it and the block of stone that had become the statue. "I've heard tales of men who lived through sandstorms or were lost in the desert for days an end without food or water. Journeys through the belly of Apep, they were, marking them for life. Why would anyone wish to slay men who suffered so much?" Apep was a serpent demon of the netherworld, representing the forces of chaos and evil.
"Why would anyone slay their sons, youths who had nothing to do with the storm or its outcome?" Bak asked, sitting down on the statue's legs.
Antef stared at his clasped hands, unable to find an answer. Then he looked up with narrowing eyes. "You've said nothing of Hatnofer, I notice."
"As yet, I've found no tie binding her to any who survived."
"Not surprising. She could be warm enough when she wanted, friendly even, but she held all who knew her at a distance." Antef gave Bak a wry smile. "If I were you, I'd not cling too tight to that theory of yours. She may well prove its undoing-and yours."
The thought rankled and so did Antef's smirk. "I know you were a stranger to Abu until you replaced Djehuty as commander of this garrison. I also know," Bak added, stretching the truth, "that you lost someone close in that storm."
Antef gave him a long, measuring look. "I wasn't aware that information so personal could be found in garrison or provincial records."
"I've the basic facts, but I need the details." Bak was not about to betray Khawet to this man he felt sure loved her. "Ah, yes. I begin to understand. You've gone a step beyond identifying the victims as men who survived the storm. Now you're out to lay blame on men close to those who died."
"I'm seeking the truth."
Antef gave a sardonic laugh and stood up. "You'll find many forms of truth here in Abu, Lieutenant."
"So I've noticed." Bak rose to face him. "Would you prefer I hear of your loss from someone else? Or from you?" Antef stared expressionless at the younger officer, betraying no hint of his thoughts, letting the silence grow between them. The muf led thud of mallets carried through the air, background to a chattering flock of swallows raiding an anthill built in the crack of a weathered boulder. A few of the troops had begun to straggle back, but most looked in no hurry to return to their task.
"Come," Antef said. "I've something to show you." He struck off through the sand, staying close to the granite outcrop. Where they were going Bak could not imagine.
"I lost an uncle in the storm." Antef glanced down, watching where he placed his feet. "How much shall I tell you? Shall I assume you know nothing and give you every detail?"
Bak could have sworn the officer was hiding another smile, teasing. "I'll leave that to your good judgment."
A man uttered a string of oaths. They glanced around, saw a short, muscular individual kneeling on a nearby ledge, holding a mallet in one hand, sucking a finger on the other. A soldier, Bak assumed, impressed to do duty as a stonemason, clumsy with the tools of a trade he surely resented.
The troop captain walked on, untroubled by so common an occurrence. "As a boy, I lived on a small estate near the provincial capital of Zawty. My father plowed and planted for our master; my mother served*our mistress. I had no future beyond the land. Until my uncle, who long before had entered the army, took me into his household in Mennufer. He was an officer, an infantry lieutenant, and so he desired me to be. Close on twenty years ago, when I reached an age to enter the army, he was posted here in Abu. He brought me with him. Djehuty was here at the time, a lieutenant temporarily assigned to the garrison while he awaited a more desirable post. He refused to have me, saying he had enough young and green spearmen from Abu without taking on one from afar. My uncle had no choice: he sent me back to Zawty and the life I thought I'd left behind forever."
"No wonder you dislike Djehuty!"
"Fortunately, the gods chose to smile on me." Antef veered around a slick-haired white dog sniffing a pile of oily leaves that must earlier have held a workman's morning meal. "A friend of my uncle, a lieutenant in Mennufer, offered me a place in his unit. With his guidance and a natural aptitude for the art of war, I rose rapidly through the ranks. My uncle returned to Mennufer and life went on. I'd already attained the rank of troop captain when he was posted again to Abu. You know what happened: he vanished in the storm."
"Did Djehuty remember you when you came back?" "No, nor would he care if he had." Antef gave a hard, cynical laugh. "In his eyes, I was-and may still be-of no greater value than a donkey or an ox, to him no different from the men you see there." He swung his hand in an arc encompassing the quarry from one end to the other.
Bak eyed four men down on their knees on a rock surface flattened by some previous removal, a square column, perhaps, or an obelisk. Using as a guide a cord stretched across the stone, pounding chisels with heavy mallets, they were cutting a row of slits in the granite. Wooden wedges protruded from finished slits farther along the cord. After this back side of the block was fully notched, water would be poured on the wedges, making them swell to fracture the stone.
"These men are soldiers, too?" he asked, surprised. "This is the work of craftsmen!"
"Oh?" Antef's voice dripped sarcasm. "Why would Djehuty summon experienced quarrymen? Men he'd have to feed and house in addition to my troops?"
Expecting no answer, he strode on, his anger propelling him forward so fast Bak had to walk double time. They rounded a high, stubby finger of granite and came upon a circular bay excavated from the parent outcrop. A ridge sheltered the spot from the rest of the quarry, isolating it. If not for the distant thud of mallets, Bak would have thought himself far away and alone.
Antef ushered him toward a large red granite block, rectangular in form, with rounded comers at one end and the other end squared off. Even before he saw the partially hollowed interior, he recognized the object as an outer coffin. Only royalty could command the use of hard stone for an eternal resting place. This had to be for one of Kemet's joint rulers, either Maatkare Hatshepsut or Menkheperre Thutmose. The queen, most likely, since construction of her memorial temple was well on its way to completion.
He walked closer, wondering where the men were who should have been hollowing it out and preparing it for ship ment north to the capital. A ragged crack midway along the length of the box gave him the answer. The break ran through both walls and what remained of the core, dividing it into two pieces. The coffin had been abandoned for good reason.
Resting his hands on the edge, he eyed the fault. "Maatkare Hatshepsut must not have been pleased when she learned she'd never rest in this."
"This magnificent folly was ordered by and for Senenmut, her most trusted advisor. She knows nothing about it, and I pray to the lord Khnum she never will."
Bak whistled. He had heard tales of the steward's arrogance, but not one came close to this.
Antef's voice turned contemptuous. "Djehuty agreed, all smiles and bows, that we'd do the work and remain mute. A fool paying homage to one who could fall from the lofty heights in an instant, taking all in his wake with him."
Bak better understood the troop captain's anger. The load he had to bear was heavy indeed. "From what I've heard of Senenmut, when he sets his sights on a thing, he doesn't easily give up."
Antef nodded, understanding him perfectly. "Even now, a new coffin is being cut at a quarry north of Abu. Quartzite it is. Not as spectacular as the one before us, but more than adequate. A coffin fit for royalty."
Bak eyed the officer thoughtfully. "Why do you tell me this? You've made no secret of the fact that you don't trust me. Are you hoping I'll pass word of this outrage to the capital?"
"You apparently believe I could, without a qualm, slay five innocent people to repay Djehuty for an — incident from the past. Now tell me, Lieutenant, why would I slay them for a long-past offense, and plan to slay Djehuty as well, when each day that goes by the swine gives me greater reason to wish him alone a victim of his own transgressions?"
So great was the officer's anger, Bak could feel it in the air. Antef had made a point, he thought, a good point.
Bak and Psuro shoved the skiff across the strip of rich black earth. The flat-bottomed hull tore away the dry and cracking surface, revealing soil still damp from the fallen floodwaters. The slope steepened. The vessel got away from them and slid out of control down the slick bank. Its stern struck the water with a splash, showering them. They leaped after it and waded into the river to scramble on board. Psuro took up the oars while Bak sat in the stern with the rudder. "User, you say he's called?" Bak asked.
"Yes, sir." The Medjay eased the skiff into deeper water, added, "He was a spearman back then."
"I thank the lord Amon you found him." Bak drew close a basket smelling of bread and braised meat and removed the lid. "You've done well, Psuro. I feared all who survived the storm were gone, either living in a faraway place or in the Field of Reeds."
Psuro rowed around a tiny island crowned with a single acacia. Other islands large and small abounded as far as the eye could see. The swift-flowing channels separating them, as often as not foaming over rocks hidden beneath the surface, would shrink or vanish as the water level dropped through the following months. The Medjay located a wide and smooth passage that promised to carry them north with a minimum of effort, shipped one oar, and held onto the other in case of need.
"User lives on an island near the upstream end of the rapids," he said. "He doesn't often come to Abu. I was lucky to find him at the market."
"He's a farmer now?" Bak took an elongated loaf of bread from the basket, broke off a chunk, added a slab of beef, and handed it to his companion.
"Yes, sir. ILe raises geese and sells the eggs, mostly to the crews of ships either readying their vessels for the voyage upriver or unloading products from faraway Kush for overland transport north around the rapids."
"Sounds an enterprising sort." Bak recalled the unwanted gifts, the threat they implied. His voice sharpened. "I hope you didn't tell him to meet us at our quarters."
The Medjay, his mouth full, shook his head emphatically. "I suggested Pahared's wife's house of pleasure."
Barely able to understand, Bak dug two jars of beer out of the basket and handed one over. "When?"
Psuro swallowed hard, clearing his mouth, and tipped the jar to his lips. "He turned me down flat. I explained at first why you wanted to talk to him, telling him of the murders. He saw right away how unhealthy Abu and Swenet have been for those who survived the storm, so he thought it best he not tarry. As soon as he traded his eggs for whatever necessities he came for, he set sail for home."
Bak applauded the man's common sense and understood his caution, but the delay was frustrating-and annoying. Just six days remained before Djehuty faced death. "How long must I wait to talk to him?"
"We're to meet in the morning on neutral ground. On an island south of Abu, a place where men have, for many generations, left inscriptions on the boulders so no one will forget their passage across the frontier. He wants us nowhere near his home, fearing the slayer will follow us and add him to the list of dead."
Does he think us so careless with other men's lives? Bak wondered. He quickly tamped down his irritation. After all, who could blame the man for an excess of caution?
Bak climbed out of the skiff and sent Psuro on to Swenet to find suitable objects they could exchange for User's knowledge. He stood briefly on the landingplace below the governor's villa, deciding where to go next, who to talk with, then plodded up the stairs. A small brown snake darted into a crack between rocks. A sparrow fluttered in an-overhanging acacia, chirping. About a third of the way up, a sound
… a whisper… something… nudged his senses and silenced the bird. He stopped, looked around, saw nothing. If not for the sparrow's continuing hush, he would have thought his imagination overactive.
He climbed on, faster, more alert. Another whisper and an arrow sped by, passing through the gap between his arm and torso, narrowly missing his ribs. He leaped off the stairway, flinging himself into the brush. The sparrow darted away. A third arrow struck the nearest step. The point snapped off; the shaft skidded across the stone and struck a spindly limb close to Bak's leg. The archer was reasonably skilled, he thought, but no expert would aim so low. Deciding a glimpse of the man worth the risk, he felt for his dagger, making sure he had it, and scrambled up the steep, rocky incline, shoulders hunched, head down, shielded by leaves that showered around him. Thin branches grabbed his hair and tore at his arms and legs. Another arrow sped by, striking the slender trunk of a tree. He thought he heard yet another, speeding through the branches whipping the air behind him.
Breathing hard, scratched and dirty, he peered through a screen of brush at the top of the slope. The arrows had come from the left, he thought, from Nebmose's villa or one of the houses in the town beyond its walls. Out of necessity, the angle had been steep, which placed the man on a high wall or the roof of a tall building.
Not a creature stirred. Not surprising. Men who attacked from ambush seldom remained in place for long. Whether their mission failed or succeeded, they dared not linger. As a result, they often left behind telltale signs of their presence.
Lest this assailant prove more foolhardy than most, Bak hunched over, darted out from among the bushes, and raced in zigzag fashion toward the governor's compound. He burst through the entryway. The guard, seated on the steps of the small gatehouse inside the wall, jerked his head up from his knees and blinked in confusion. He had been asleep. Bak doubted anyone could have passed through the gate without waking him, but he would not have been roused by an archer on the nearby wWls or rooftops.
Wasting no time on questions, he scanned likely spots for ambush. He saw neither man nor bird. Hurrying outside the portal, he trotted along the wall and turned into the lane that took him to the front gate of Nebmose's villa. The entryway was closed and barred, as he had left it several days earlier. He backed up a half dozen paces and took a running leap at the barrier, smooth-faced on the outside. The fingers of his right hand cleared the edge. He clung there for a moment, his digits cramping. Before he could fall, he thrust his body upward and caught hold with the other hand. Scrambling higher, he cleared the gate with his head and shoulders. He examined the visible structures, paying particular attention to the roofs of the taller buildings. When he was reasonably sure he was alone and safe, he heaved himself up the rest of the way, threw his legs over the edge, and dropped to the path inside, raising an impressive puff of dust.
"Hey!" someone shouted. "Stop right where you are!" Bak started, swung around. He saw no one in the shrine or the garden.
"Spread your hands and legs!" The command came from around the corner of the house.
Praying the voice was that of a guard, praying he had not unwittingly walked into the archer's grasp, Bak obeyed. A man stepped into view, spear poised. The youthful guard Nenu. His face registered recognition, his mouth dropped open, and the spearpoint tipped toward the earth.
Bak breathed a long, deep sigh of relief.