with high windows admitting light. Ten scribes sat cross-legged on the floor, each surrounded by the tools of his trade. The reed pens darting across the regular columns on their scrolls sounded like birds scratching in a pile of spilled grain.
Simut, seated,on a thick linen pad in front of the lesser scribes, frowned at Bak. "May I help you, Lieutenant?" The soft scraping sound dwindled and ten pairs of eyes turned Bak's way. "I'm searching for Lieutenant Amonhotep. I've been told he came here after he finished with the craftsman Ipy."
A look of relief, quickly hidden, flickered across the chief
scribe's face. "He's come and gone. There was a problem at the harbor above Swenet, where ships unload their cargo for overland transport around the rapids. A fight between caravan masters, I understand."
Bak longed to ask again what secret Djehuty held in his heart, but knew he would get nothing with so many men listening. "Have you told him of my questions?"
"What the two of you discuss is between him and his master and the gods. It's none of my affair."
The answer was oblique, but Bak gathered Simut had said nothing. In the unlikely event that no one else had warned the young officer, he would be unprepared for the difficult questions Bak meant to ask and the even harder choices he would have to make. However, unprepared did not mean compliant. Bak had learned during the voyage from Buhen to Abu that if Amonhotep deemed he should say nothing, he would remain mute.
"Your Medjay Psuro is at the landingplace, sir." The servant, a boy of about eight years, tried hard to look solemn and trustworthy, but his eyes danced with excitement at being entrusted with a message of such great import. "He has news he says you'll want to hear."
Bak thanked the boy with a smile and hurried outside. He found the Medjay a hundred or more paces downstream of the landingplace, talking to a gap-toothed old woman with spotted hands and the protruding stomach of one who has borne many children. While they spoke, she lifted sheets and clothing from the bushes and boulders across which she had draped them to dry, folded them, and laid them in a basket. Psuro might not have had the gift Kasay`a had of attracting women who yearned to mother him, but he had a way with those who eked out a living selling foodstuffs and providing minor but necessary services.
Bak stood off to the side, saying nothing, until she had gone on her way. "She'll wash our linen?"
"She has a taste for pigeon," Psuro grinned. "Though she has far too many customers, so she says, she'll squeeze
our meager laundry in among the rest, and she'll mend torn articles as well. Each time, I'll give her a bird."
Bak thought the price too steep, but held his tongue. Every time he had tracked a slayer, he had come away bruised and battered, his kilts torn and filthy. If the slayer in the governor's villa proved equally difficult to lay hands on, he feared the old woman would earn a flock of pigeons.
They headed back upstream, walking close to the river's edge, stepping over rocks and around brush, slipping in patches of mud. The western sky was pale, a sheet of gold diluted with silver. To the east, tiny pinpoints barely visible so early in the evening promised a night brilliant with stars. "You've news," Bak prompted.
Psuro, looking pleased with himself, nodded. "The trader Pahared sends his regards. He remembers well the afternoon he spent with you and Troop Captain Nebwa in Nofery's house of pleasure." A studied seriousness could not quite ,hide a smile. "A time of revelry and excessive drunkenness, he says."
Smiling at the memory, pleased with Psuro's success, Bak stepped over a turtle making its slow way toward the water. "I thank the lord Amon you had better luck in Swenet than in Abu."
"You must first thank my tenacity," Psuro laughed. "If I'd not searched with due diligence, I'd never have found him."
"He doesn't dwell in Swenet?"
"His wife has a house of pleasure near the
Simut, seated,on a thick linen pad in front of the lesser scribes, frowned at Bak. "May I help you, Lieutenant?" The soft scraping sound dwindled and ten pairs of eyes turned Bak's way. "I'm searching for Lieutenant Amonhotep. I've been told he came here after he finished with the craftsman Ipy."
A look of relief, quickly hidden, flickered across the chief
scribe's face. "He's come and gone. There was a problem at the harbor above Swenet, where ships unload their cargo for overland transport around the rapids. A fight between caravan masters, I understand."
Bak longed to ask again what secret Djehuty held in his heart, but knew he would get nothing with so many men listening. "Have you told him of my questions?"
"What the two of you discuss is between him and his master and the gods. It's none of my affair."
The answer was oblique, but Bak gathered Simut had said nothing. In the unlikely event that no one else had warned the young officer, he would be unprepared for the difficult questions Bak meant to ask and the even harder choices he would have to make. However, unprepared did not mean compliant. Bak had learned during the voyage from Buhen to Abu that if Amonhotep deemed he should say nothing, he would remain mute.
"Your Medjay Psuro is at the landingplace, sir." The servant, a boy of about eight years, tried hard to look solemn and trustworthy, but his eyes danced with excitement at being entrusted with a message of such great import. "He has news he says you'll want to hear."
Bak thanked the boy with a smile and hurried outside. He found the Medjay a hundred or more paces downstream of the landingplace, talking to a gap-toothed old woman with spotted hands and the protruding stomach of one who has borne many children. While they spoke, she lifted sheets and clothing from the bushes and boulders across which she had draped them to dry, folded them, and laid them in a basket. Psuro might not have had the gift Kasay`a had of attracting women who yearned to mother him, but he had a way with those who eked out a living selling foodstuffs and providing minor but necessary services.
Bak stood off to the side, saying nothing, until she had gone on her way. "She'll wash our linen?"
"She has a taste for pigeon," Psuro grinned. "Though she has far too many customers, so she says, she'll squeeze
our meager laundry in among the rest, and she'll mend torn articles as well. Each time, I'll give her a bird."
Bak thought the price too steep, but held his tongue. Every time he had tracked a slayer, he had come away bruised and battered, his kilts torn and filthy. If the slayer in the governor's villa proved equally difficult to lay hands on, he feared the old woman would earn a flock of pigeons.
They headed back upstream, walking close to the river's edge, stepping over rocks and around brush, slipping in patches of mud. The western sky was pale, a sheet of gold diluted with silver. To the east, tiny pinpoints barely visible so early in the evening promised a night brilliant with stars. "You've news," Bak prompted.
Psuro, looking pleased with himself, nodded. "The trader Pahared sends his regards. He remembers well the afternoon he spent with you and Troop Captain Nebwa in Nofery's house of pleasure." A studied seriousness could not quite ,hide a smile. "A time of revelry and excessive drunkenness, he says."
Smiling at the memory, pleased with Psuro's success, Bak stepped over a turtle making its slow way toward the water. "I thank the lord Amon you had better luck in Swenet than in Abu."
"You must first thank my tenacity," Psuro laughed. "If I'd not searched with due diligence, I'd never have found him."
"He doesn't dwell in Swenet?"
"His wife has a house of pleasure near the
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