Bak heard voices, men speaking softly in a tongue he did not understand. He opened his eyes but could see no one. His head throbbed, the pain radiating out from a spot above his left ear. He had no memory, could not imagine where he was or how he had gotten there. He lay on his stomach on a warm bed of sand, his right cheek pressed against the grit. The world around him was dark and he faced a stone wall. His hands were behind him tied at the wrists.
He tried to roll onto his side. A sharp voice-a reprimand or an order-cut through the murmurs. He heard the rustle of movement and a strong hand clutched his shoulder to hold him down. He tried to struggle free. A sharp blow brought him up short, sending agonies of pain through his head, ex tracting a moan from him.
He lay unmoving, letting the pain ebb. Bits and pieces of his life began to creep into his thoughts. The desert. The
Eastern Desert. Walking at the head of a caravan up a gradu ally narrowing wadi. Rocks falling all along the wall of the watercourse. Men and donkeys scrambling for safety.
Afraid for them, he struggled to rise, to go to them. A spat out warning and another clout, a fresh wave of pain so sharp it took his breath away. He lay as if paralyzed, waiting for the torment to subside, wondering how he had gotten himself into such a dreadful situation.
He thought he heard the hoof of a horse strike stone.
Surely not. Not out here. Not in this desert where the lowly donkey served man’s needs. Not… Memory came flooding back: a man calling for help, running up the wadi with
Senna, the man in the ravine. He cursed himself for a fool.
How could he have let himself be led into what had clearly been a trap?
What had happened to the caravan? To his Medjays? To the other men and the donkeys? Had they all been slain? Or had the falling stones been a distraction, giving these men the chance to snare him?
Was this what had happened to Minnakht? To the man who vanished almost a year ago?
A man hissed, silencing the murmurs. Bak felt the tension around him and strained to hear. Other than soft breathing and the thud of a hoof in the sand, the world was silent. He had a feeling they were hiding, allowing other men to pass them by. His Medjays searching for him. Praying fervently to the lord Amon that such was the case, that his men were alive and well, he tried to roll over, to call out. A callused hand came down hard on his mouth, muffling him. Another man dropped onto his thighs, pinning him to the ground.
How long they remained so still and quiet, he had no idea.
A long time, long enough for his legs to grow numb. Gradu ally the tension eased and the voice of the man Bak took to be the leader issued a quiet but firm order. The man on Bak’s legs stood up and he and the one who had silenced him moved away.
Bak rolled from his stomach to his side. No one seemed to notice. From his improved position, he could see that he was in a rough, natural enclosure of boulders, with an overhang forming a roof of sorts. Three men stood at the far side, look ing out toward the starry sky and what Bak supposed was a wadi. Nomads, he took them to be.
A donkey stood deep inside the enclosure, held there by a fourth man. No, the creature was too big to be a donkey. A horse? Out here in the Eastern Desert? A horse wouldn’t sur vive a month in so hot and dry a place, with forage too rough for all but the hardiest of animals.
No sooner had he rejected the possibility than the creature turned its head and flicked its long ears. In other, better cir cumstances, he would have laughed. It was neither donkey nor horse, yet it carried the blood of both. It was a mule. A creature of which Bak had little knowledge. It would be stur dier and hardier than a horse, he assumed, but not much bet ter adapted to this barren land. What were these nomads doing with a mule?
The man in charge barked out a command to the others, who abandoned their observation spot to gather together goatskin waterbags and weapons, preparing to move on.
Eyeing Bak, the leader took from a ragged bundle a pottery container much like a beer jar and removed a hardened mud plug held tight by a square of fabric. He crossed the rough floor of the enclosure, knelt, held the jar to his prisoner’s mouth, and signaled him to drink. Thirst vying with mistrust,
Bak took a careful sip. He tasted an unfamiliar bitterness and jerked away. The man grabbed a handful of hair; yanked his head back, jolting his pounding head; and pressed the jar to his lips. Bak doubted the liquid was poison. If these men had wished to slay him, they would have silenced him with a dag ger, not kept him quiet by brute force.
Unless they were beginning to feel the pressure of pursuit and no longer wanted to be burdened with him.
He let the liquid trickle down his chin. The man barked out an order. Another man came, held Bak’s nose, and pried his mouth open. Bak choked on the liquid the leader poured in side-and swallowed much of it.
By the time the men were ready to move out, he was so groggy he needed help to sit up. The men untied his hands and dragged him to the mule. His eyelids drooped and he knew no more.
Bak came half-awake. He was straddling the back of the mule, his feet tied together beneath its belly, his arms secured around its neck. The creature’s gait was rough, its breathing labored. Each step it took made Bak’s head pound, but time-or maybe the sleeping potion-had eased the pain, which was neither as sharp nor as intense as before.
The leader trotted a few paces ahead, while one man led the mule and two others hurried along behind. They, like their charge, were breathing heavily. The sun, which held the warmth of early morning but not the heat of midday, beat down on Bak’s back. As fuzzy as his thoughts were, he con cluded that they had traveled through the night, keeping up the fastest pace they could to put as much distance as possi ble between themselves and the place where they had taken him from the caravan.
He remembered lying in the rocky enclosure, the nomads silent and tense, and clung to the hope that they had been hid ing from his Medjays. That the stones falling into the wadi had been a diversion and his men, User, and everyone else in the caravan had come away unscathed. That no further attack had occurred and sooner or later they would find him.
The man leading the mule said something to the leader, who snapped out a sharp disagreement. The other man ar gued. The leader remained adamant. Dropping back a pace or two, the man ran a hand down the creature’s neck and held it up so the leader could see how lathered up it was, how badly in need of a rest. The men behind spoke up, evidently agreeing. With angry reluctance, the leader allowed them to stop, giving the mule the respite it needed.
While the man in charge of the mule gave the creature a drink, another man wiped the animal down, working around Bak’s limbs as best he could, and the third massaged its trem bling legs. The leader paced back and forth, looking at the sun at irregular intervals, silently nagging them to hurry. His impatience failed to move them. They dithered and fussed over the mule, giving themselves a rest as well as the animal.
Bak was too drowsy to consider escape, but was alert enough to know that he could not allow himself to become too lost. The thought was so ludicrous he almost laughed aloud. He had been senseless for hours. He had not the vaguest idea of how far they had come or in which direction they had traveled. Nonetheless, certain natural features stood out above all others and they would not have changed.
Letting his cheek rest on the mule’s wiry mane, Bak forced himself to concentrate. Mule and men stood on a nar row trail that wound around a steep hillside on which were strewn chunks large and small of a dull yellowish sandstone.
Spread out around them was a vast broken landscape of hills, ridges, and tablelands in various shades of yellow, brown, and beige. He glimpsed the pale gold of sand far below and a hint of green, the floor of a wadi containing a few trees or bushes. They had evidently left the system of wadis Senna had been leading them through and were following a track across the higher elevations.
Slightly off to the right, beyond a range of dark gray hills,
Bak spotted the same high reddish peak he had seen the pre vious day. Thanking the gods for its very existence, he stud ied its jagged profile. It appeared closer than it had before and the perspective was somewhat different, but it gave him a general idea as to where he was. They had to be traveling in a similar direction to the caravan. If the caravan was still on the move.
One of the men noticed that Bak’s eyes were open. He said something to the leader, who pulled out the jar containing the sleeping potion. He grabbed Bak by the hair and twisted his head around, indifferent to the sharp jolt of pain he brought on, and forced the liquid down him. Bak was asleep before the mule moved on.
When next Bak came to his senses, he was lying on the sand in the shade of an upturned slab of dark gray granite that had long ago fallen from above to form a room open at both ends. His hands were bound behind his back with a leather thong. Ten or so paces away, the mule stood in a similar deep, shaded passage, nibbling the leaves and a few stubby branches broken from a shrub Bak did not recognize. The an imal’s caretaker dozed nearby.
Bak felt weak and drowsy. The pain over his ear was mod est, no longer a thing to fear and avoid. He squirmed around until he could rise on shaky knees and made his way to the end of his shelter. They were, he saw, in a narrow wadi whose floor was covered with drifted sand and along whose walls the fallen chunks and slabs of rock formed rooms of various odd sizes and shapes. The leader and another man lay sleep ing in the shade twenty or so paces to his left. The fourth man was nowhere to be seen. Bak guessed he was sitting in some sheltered aerie, keeping watch.
Or maybe he, too, was asleep.
Even as he thought of sneaking away, Bak felt himself nodding off. How could he hope to escape when he could not keep his eyes open? Shaking his head to wake up, jarring the sore spot above his ear, he began to probe the sand, searching for a sharp bit of rock, thinking to cut himself free.
He glanced toward the leader of the nomads, who lay still and silent, watching him. With a grimace, the man sat up, fished through the ragged bundle beside him, and withdrew the container holding the sleeping potion.
Bak next awoke lying in a band of shade at the base of a cliff whose black face rose into a blue-white sky. A faint breeze wafted past, drying the film of sweat on his body, soothing him. The quiet was absolute.
He struggled to a sitting position. Licking his dry lips, longing for a drink of cool, pure water, he watched a grasshopper fly downstream in search of a tastier meal. He began to realize how hungry he was.
His head felt heavy and his body felt thick and sluggish, but he was more aware of his surroundings than he had been for… For how long? How long ago had the nomads cap tured him? At least one night and one day. Possibly longer.
Several days could have passed without his knowing.
Other than the insect, a pair of larks, and a lizard, he saw no sign of life. He was alone in the wadi, and if the creatures’ lack of fear told true, he had been for some time. Had his ab ductors decided to abandon him, to leave him here to die? He thought of the two men who had vanished, the one who had been slain. Would he be the next to disappear?
Commonsense said no. They had gone to too much trouble to abduct him and to carry him across a landscape that had to have been molded by the lord Set himself. Set was the god of the barren desert, of violence and chaos, and such was the land Bak vaguely recalled: deep and rugged wadis; high, bar ren plains; narrow trails up steep escarpments so rugged the nomads had trouble placing one foot in front of another, where the mule had dropped down on his haunches and had had to be dragged forward.
Yes, they had gone to considerable trouble to bring him to this place. Why, then, had they left him alone if not to aban don him to death? He must free himself.
He had just located a thin black stone he thought would slice through the leather thongs binding his wrists when he heard voices approaching up the wadi. A nomad rose from among a shaded pile of rocks a dozen paces away. He had been there all along.
A half-dozen nomads, men Bak had never seen before, hustled him over a low rise. From the greater height, he saw a huge orange sun drop behind a haze-shrouded horizon. They descended into a broad, open wadi, with a smattering of aca cias across its surface. As they strode out across the rocky streambed, swerving around the trees and clumps of silla, he saw in the lingering twilight fifteen or so seated nomads scat tered loosely around a small fire. Not far away, the failing sunlight glinted on the mirror-like surface of water that filled a depression in the center of the dry watercourse. The mule and a half-dozen donkeys stood at the edge, nibbling shoots of greenery someone had gathered for them.
A man left the camp and walked out to meet them. Bak’s heart sank as he recognized the leader of the quartet that had abducted him. The man withdrew a dagger from a sheath at his waist and, approaching the captive, snapped out an order.
Someone pivoted Bak around so his back was to the weapon.
His skin crawled and he could practically feel the dagger plunged deep into his flesh.
Another man grabbed his hands and jerked them back, away from his body. The blade struck the leather thong bind ing his wrists together and sliced it in two. Bak was so aston ished his mouth dropped open. Laughing, the leader, beckoned and stalked toward the camp.
A tall, thin nomad stood up as they approached. His arms and legs were as bony as those of an adolescent boy, but stringy muscles hinted at stamina and power. “Ah, here you are.” He eyed Bak curiously. “You seem to have fared well enough during your journey.”
“You speak the tongue of Kemet,” Bak said, surprised.
“While a young man, I spent three years with your army, serving as a scout and guide. I’ve a talent for languages, I discovered.”
The heavy scent of roasting meat drew Bak’s eyes to the fire, where the carcass of a young lamb had been tied to a stick raised above hot coals. He could not recall when last he had been so hungry. “What did you do to my men? What’s happened to the caravan I traveled with?”
The man spoke a few words in his own tongue. A tiny, grizzled old man who was sitting close to the fire, tending the meat, handed Bak a beaten metal bowl filled with water.
He took a careful sip. The taste was good, undefiled by the bitterness of the sleeping potion. He took another sip and another, taking care not to drink too much at any one time.
Relaxing enough to look around, he counted twenty-two men and a youth. They were, he felt sure, the same men who had left the many footprints Kaha and Minmose had found.
“Did you take the other men as your prisoners after you abducted me?” He refused to believe the worst: that not a man or animal in the caravan had survived except for these few donkeys.
The tall, thin nomad, who looked to be about thirty years of age, sat on the sand near the fire and folded his legs in front of him. He signaled his captive to sit beside him. “Who are you?”
Bak could see that he would get no answer until he sup plied a few of his own. “I’m Lieutenant Bak. And you are?”
“My name would mean nothing to you. The explorer Min nakht called me Nefertem.”
Nefertem, a primeval god associated with the sun, a name most appropriate for a man who dwelt in this sun-baked land.
“You knew Minnakht?”
The nomad’s eyes narrowed. “You speak of him as if he’s no longer among the living.”
Bak could see he had stumbled into a sensitive area. “You spoke of him as if in the past. I followed your example.”
Evidently not sure of his use of a tongue he seldom spoke, Nefertem thought over what had been said. A curt nod acknowledged his acceptance of the charge. “Do you know him?”
“I’ve heard much of him, but I’ve never met him.”
The nomad’s voice hardened. “You’ve heard of the gold he’s been seeking, I’ll wager.”
Wary of the sudden flash of anger, of the bitter cynicism,
Bak said, “I’ve been told he’s looking for gold, yes. Precious stones and minerals have also been mentioned. No man has said for a fact that he’s found them.”
The old man dipped a shallow cup into a bowl of oil and poured it slowly over the meat. Drops fell onto the fire, mak ing it crackle and smoke. Bak breathed in the aroma and his stomach cramped from hunger.
Nefertem leaned toward him, his eyes glittering, his expres sion hard. “Why have you come into this desert, Lieutenant?”
Bak did not know what to say. If this man had been a friend of Minnakht, the truth would serve better than a false hood. If these men were ruffians who had attacked the cara van out of malice and greed, if they were responsible for the disappearance or death of Minnakht and the other two men-and the lord Amon alone knew how many others-a lie might serve him better.
“How well do you know Minnakht?” he countered, prob ing for a clue as to what best to say.
“You claim to be an officer. You and your men act and fight like soldiers. I repeat: Why have you come into this desert?”
Praying he was making the right decision, Bak admitted,
“We are soldiers, yes. Commandant Thuty, my superior offi cer, has known Commander Inebny, Minnakht’s father, for many years. The commander persuaded my commandant that Minnakht must be found. Commandant Thuty sent me into this desert to look for him.”
“You lie!” Nefertem stood up and slapped Bak hard across the face. “You walk at the head of a caravan filled with men seeking wealth, men whose honesty is less than it should be.”
Infuriated by the insult, Bak shot to his feet and reached for his dagger. His hand fell on an empty sheath. A half dozen nomads leaped up, caught his arms, and manhandled him to the ground.
“Release him!” Nefertem ordered scornfully. “He can hurt no one. He’s as helpless as a newborn puppy.”
Bak shook off the restraining hands, scrambled up, and, forming a contemptuous look, laughed. “Without a shield of men, Nefertem, you’d be as helpless as you’ve made me.”
For an instant, he thought he had gone too far. Nefertem took a quick step toward him, his hands balled into fists, his expression murderous. Controlling himself with obvious ef fort, he clamped a hand on Bak’s shoulder so tight the bones grated and pushed him to the ground. “Sit, Lieutenant Bak.”
The nomad loomed over him, his stance, his face, his voice calculated to intimidate. “I want the truth. Why have you come into this desert?”
“I came to find Minnakht.”
“You’ve come for the gold you think he found,” Nefertem insisted.
“If that’s what you wish to believe, so be it. Listen to your own thoughts and pay no heed to anyone else. Dismiss the truth and shrug off any words of advice I or anyone else might offer.”
Bak braced himself for another blow. To suggest to a proud and intelligent man that he preferred to live in ignorance was as much of a slap in the face as the one he had suffered.
The nomad glared, furious, and at the same time he shifted his feet, as if the accusation had struck home. “Rumors abound in Kaine, I’ve been told. Why would you search for a missing man when the lure of gold is stronger?”
“I’m guided by my commandant’s wishes, not by tales of wealth that sound more like dreams than reality.”
Nefertem crossed his arms in front of his chest. After a long, thoughtful silence, he said, “Let’s say you speak the truth. Why, then, are you traveling with that wretched guide
Senna? And with User, who’s come into this desert for many years in an endless quest for gold.”
“Senna didn’t want to come any more than I did, but Com mander Inebny gave him no choice. He believed I should travel the same route Minnakht followed on his last journey, and Senna knew the way. I had to accept, had to trust him to lead me along a safe and true path.”
“You bargain with the lord Set.” Shaking his head in exag gerated sympathy, Nefertem dropped to the ground beside his prisoner.
The darkness was complete, allowing Bak to glimpse in the scant light bits and pieces of Nefertem’s men: a knee here, a face there, arms and legs and hands. A scene from the netherworld, he felt sure.
He thanked the lord Amon that he was no longer befud dled by the sleeping potion. “I’ve answered you as best I can.
Will you not tell me what’s happened to my men? To the car avan?”
“Why are those men so important to you, Lieutenant? If you’ve not come to find gold, why should you care about them?”
“I stand at the head of my Medjays. Not only are they my responsibility, but I care for them as brothers. As for the other men, I took it upon myself to travel with them. I’d be negli gent in my duty not to care for their safety.”
“Bah!”
That one tiny word infuriated Bak. “Have you taken all their lives, the innocent along with the guilty? Are you also the man responsible for Minnakht’s disappearance? For all the other dead and missing men in this area?”
“No,” the nomad growled through gritted teeth.
“Have I nothing to look forward to but death?”
Nefertem literally spat out his answer. “My father was
Minnakht’s guide for many years. We are as brothers.”
“Your…” Bak clamped his mouth shut and gave the no mad a sharp look. Should he have guessed the connection?
“Your father died about a year ago, I’ve been told, and Senna took his place.”
“He did not die. He was slain at the hands of another.”
Bak should have been surprised. He was not. Too many men had died or disappeared in this wretched desert to take the nomad lightly. “Tell me.”
“A year ago, he came home to our camp in the mountains, suffering from a mysterious malady.” Nefertem’s voice pulsed with anger. “He was convinced he’d been poisoned, but knew not when or how or by whom. Within a few days, he breathed his last. Minnakht knew I wasn’t free to serve as his guide, nor was my brother, so he asked Senna to travel with him.”
“Did your father say why he thought someone wished him dead?”
“He could think of no good reason.”
“Senna is not a man of this desert. Where did Minnakht find him?”
“A friend recommended him, he said.”
Bak studied the nomad thoughtfully. “Why did you make me your prisoner, Nefertem? You guessed my men and I are soldiers. Did you not realize we were traveling with User’s caravan but apart?”
“You walked in front, leading the way.” Nefertem spoke with a stubborn certainty.
“I preferred not to breathe the dust of the other men and their donkeys throughout our journey,” Bak said with a wry smile.
Nefertem was not amused. “Your men served as guards and scouts.”
“We knew we were being watched. I was concerned for our safety, as well as the well-being of the caravan.” Bak glanced around, found the water bowl, and sipped from it.
“As I was right to be. The watching man must’ve kept you well informed as to our whereabouts.”
“My people, those who travel with their flocks to water and forage, told us where you were and what you were doing.
I had no need to send a man to watch you.”
“Oh?” Bak raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Who is he then?”
“I know not.” Nefertem frowned. “My people have told me of his presence in this desert, but they don’t know him.
He’s wary of them. He lets no one draw near enough to see his face.”
The two men eyed one another, the nomad seemingly as puzzled as his prisoner. With no answer in sight, Bak asked,
“Did you think, if you took me away from the caravan, the other men would return to Kaine?”
“User is a hard man to turn around. I doubted your disap pearance would persuade him to do so.” Nefertem glowered at Bak. “I knew or thought I understood why he and the oth ers came into this desert. You were unknown to me. I wanted to know who you were and what you expected to gain from your journey.”
“Has the caravan turned back?”
Nefertem hesitated as if he thought to make further use of his silence, but at length he answered. “No. User’s guide
Dedu is leading it instead of Senna, and your Medjays are wearing themselves out, scouring the land through which they travel, searching for you.”
“Was anyone hurt after you took me?”
“To injure men and animals was not our intent.”
Bak offered a silent prayer of thanks to the lord Amon. “I suppose the many footprints your men left the day before the attack were designed to confuse my Medjays when they tried to follow those who took me.”
“The new tracks got lost among the old,” the nomad said, nodding. “They wrapped the mule’s hooves, making them indistinct, and walked over the vague prints he left.”
The scheme was so simple Bak vowed to use it himself should the occasion arise. “Now that you have me, what are you going to do with me?”
“You swear you’ve come in search of Minnakht?”
“I do.”
Nefertem stared at Bak, letting the silence grow. “You’ll never find him if you remain with the caravan, traveling through the wadis from one well or spring to another, follow ing the path Minnakht took. We searched that route when first he vanished and came up empty-handed. We’ve since looked farther afield.”
“This land is so vast and rugged that he could be any where. If I was more familiar with this desert, I might know better where to look. But if you haven’t been able to find him…” Bak let the thought hang and took another sip of water. “Senna claims he last saw him on the far side of the
Eastern Sea at the port that services the turquoise and copper mines. I’d like to know if anyone other than the guide saw the men with whom he sailed away.”
“I’ve never believed Senna’s tale, but could it be true?”
“I’ve asked myself that same question. I’ve found no an swer.” Bak watched the old man cut into the meat. He hated the thought of begging, but he was so hungry he vowed to kiss Nefertem’s feet if need be. “I suspect Minnakht went missing somewhere near the Eastern Sea, whether on this side or the other, I don’t know.”
“If he’s on the near side, he’s no longer among the living, and that I’m not prepared to accept.”
The old man drew close a basket filled with thin, round loaves of bread and called to the others. They pressed for ward out of the darkness. Nefertem took a loaf from the bas ket, offered one to Bak, and handed the container to one of his men, who sent it on around the circle. The old man cut off a chunk of meat and placed it on the bread Nefertem held.
The nomad signaled him to give Bak the second piece. The other men held out their loaves and, laughing and joking, ap peared to be urging the old man to hurry. Bak wolfed down a few bites, then ate in a more seemly manner. He had never tasted food so good.
While they ate, Nefertem questioned him about his time in the army. When he learned he had been posted in Wawat, he showed a keen interest in life on the southern frontier and in the people who dwelt there. Not until they finished eating and cleansed their hands in the sand, did he return to their previous discussion. “You may go back to your Medjays and the caravan, Lieutenant. I wish you to continue your search for Minnakht across the sea. We’re a different people than those who dwell in that barren land. We know few men there and have no friends among them.”
Bak smothered a smile. The nomad was appealing for help without bending so far as to come straight out and ask.
“You must search with all due diligence,” Nefertem added.
“If you merely go through the motions and come up with nothing, you’ll never leave this desert alive.”
Relieved at being set free, yet resentful of the threat, Bak pointed out, “If Minnakht has been slain, his body buried in some secret place or dropped into the Eastern Sea, I doubt
I’ll ever find him. How can you in all good conscience say I haven’t tried when in fact I’ve done my best?”
“What you learn, you must tell me. I’ll be the judge of how well you’ve tried.” Nefertem untied a soft leather pouch from his belt, pulled open the bound neck, and shook out a rough chunk of quartz hanging from a leather thong. Flecks of gold gleamed within the stone. “When you’ve learned Minnakht’s fate, send this to me.”