Year of the Hyenas (39 page)

Lightning
scalded the
courtyard. In its lingering flash something struck the fat mayor as
odd. The man that huddled in a distant crowd of beggars looked so
ridiculously like his simple-minded scribe, Nenry. A certain cast of
feature, a vaguely reminiscent tilt of the head…

The Eastern
Mayor
looked again, but it was now too dark to see across the courtyard.

“Ridiculous!”
Paser
said, chuckling to himself. Nenry was of course safely on the other
side of the river with that awful wife of his.

ONE OF THE BEGGARSwho had crossed the
Nile into Djamet did not accompany the rest of them to the temple.
Instead, when his skiff touched the western side of the Nile, he
slipped quickly away, alone, throwing off his beggar’s rags and
climbing the pathway that led into the Great Place. Following Qar’s
precise instructions, Semerket found the Medjay headquarters without
becoming too lost even though the rain had begun to fall and no stars
served to light his way.

The
headquarters were
located in an abandoned tomb bordering the Place of Beauty. The command
post was no more than three rooms in length, arranged in a descending
row of square stone boxes. Generations before, Qar had told Semerket,
tombmakers had painstakingly carved out the rooms before discovering a
deep rift of quartz that cut diagonally through the mountain. Deemed
unsuitable for further digging, the unfinished tomb made an excellent,
if rough-hewn, headquarters and prison for Captain Mentmose and his
gang of Medjays.

Medjays
surrounded
Semerket now in the first room, where arms and armor were stored in
niches carved into the walls. He had gathered the soldiers together as
soon as he arrived, soberly telling them of the plot against Pharaoh’s
life, and of the stolen treasure he had found hidden in the tomb under
the tomb. Before he could even ask for their assistance, however, one
of the Medjays spoke against him.

“What hope is
there
against an army?” asked the Medjay in disgust. “They are thousands and
we are not even twenty. We’d be throwing our lives away, and for
nothing!”

“He’s right,”
agreed
another. “I say that we join up with Queen Tiya. Who wants a northerner
as Pharaoh anymore? Good riddance, I say. Let Pentwere rule.”

The Medjays
had always
regarded him as an interloper, Semerket knew. Despite his friendship
with Qar, the other Medjays had shunned him. To them, he was a man of
Eastern Thebes, appointed by the vizier, sent to do a job rightfully
theirs. The fact that he had discovered such a terrifying plot against
the state did nothing to endear him to them. Semerket intuitively knew
that some of them, no doubt, had thrown in their lot with the
tombmakers long before.

“Queen Tiya
and her
men have perpetrated the most terrible crime in the history of Egypt,”
Semerket said, “and it was done under your watch.”

He saw fear
and shame
rise in some of their faces, defiance in others. If the stolen treasure
indeed left the Great Place, and should the theft be discovered and
prosecuted, the most lenient sentence the Medjays could look forward to
was a term in a Sinai copper mine. The Nubian policemen were
foreigners, hired mercenaries, and harshly treated when they failed in
their duties.

“Tonight they
mean to
move the treasure to the north,” continued Semerket, “again under your
noses. It may be that Tiya will succeed, I don’t know. But I mean to
stop them, whatever the cost to me—with or without your help.”

Semerket began
to
fasten a breastplate to himself. For a moment none of the Medjays
moved. Finally, Captain Mentmose reached for his own armor, and began
fastening the straps. One by one, the others prepared themselves for
battle as well.

“We’ll hide
behind the
crags, across from Pharaoh’s tomb,” said Mentmose. “When they come out,
loaded down with treasure, we’ll attack.”

“I’m sure they
won’t
venture into the valley until they think you Medjays are sleeping,”
said Semerket. “We must go into the village, in the meantime, to free
Hunro.”

A silence fell
on the
room. Suddenly the Medjays were busying themselves with adjustments to
their swords and rebuckling their armor. Foreboding crept up Semerket’s
spine.

“What…?” he
said.

“Did not your
brother
tell you?” Captain Mentmose whispered. The Medjay regarded him for a
moment. Then, taking a deep breath, he spoke. “Hunro is dead, Semerket.
She was stoned to death earlier today by the villagers, in the field
behind their temple that they use for such things. We arrived too late
to stop it.”

Semerket
looked up and
out the door at the black rain falling in the Great Place.

“Tell him the
rest,”
said Thoth loudly. He was the Medjay who had wanted to join up with
Tiya.

“Quiet!”
commanded
Mentmose.

“What?”
Semerket
asked, so faintly that it might have been a sigh. His eyes were blacker
than the Medjays had ever seen them.

Glancing
defiantly at
his captain, Thoth took a step toward Semerket. “They told me she
called your name at the end. Even at the last she was convinced you’d
save her.”

THE RAIN BECAME HEAVIERas Semerket and the
Medjays made for Pharaoh’s tomb. Thunder echoed in the Great Place,
loosening rocks and pebbles so that they cascaded onto the pathway from
cliffs above.

“Listen for
any
rushing water,” Mentmose warned them. “Keep to the high paths.”

A sudden flash
of
silent pink lit up the valley. The pungent smell of scorched air
permeated the pathway where they walked. They trudged in blackness,
slowly, on the limestone paths, careful to keep away from the slick
edges. Mentmose led the way.

Semerket
followed in a
slough of misery, barely noticing the oozing mud that sucked at his
sandals and made him stumble. He was thinking of Hunro, and how he had
failed her so utterly. She had been the only villager who had been
friendly to him, the only woman to have engendered a spark of feeling
in him since Naia. Because he had urged her to betray her neighbors,
she had been killed, and horribly.

Semerket
groaned
aloud, sinking into further agony. I’ve failed every woman I’ve ever
known, he thought. No one is safe around me…

He had driven
away his
life’s love, Naia, being unable to give her a baby, the one thing she
wanted most. The dullest of sewer dredgers could father a child, he
moaned to himself—but even that was beyond him.

His heart sank
further
as he considered the task ahead of him that night. If he stayed,
disaster would no doubt be the outcome of the evening’s venture.
Crowding upon that thought, he suddenly heard again the mocking voice
of Queen Tiya in his mind. “You told me he was a drunk, unable to find
his own backside…” Her exact words were lost to him, but he realized
now that he had been given the investigation into Hetephras’s murder
only because he was not expected to solve it.

A terrible
thirst
suddenly seized him, a fever on his tongue. He looked furtively over
his shoulder to see how many Medjays followed him. Gradually, Semerket
let them pass him until he was at their rear. He would leave, he
decided, go back into the city. He had only to hang back a little more,
slip down one of the trails, and make his way into Thebes. He craved an
inn with a friendly serving maid and a jar of red that never emptied. A
few jars of wine, and then he would be able to deal with the memories
of the entire stupid panoply of his stupid wasted life—

“We’re here,”
Mentmose
said.

Semerket was
caught
short. They were on the other side of the wadi, across from Pharaoh’s
tomb.

Though the
rain was
far from torrential, already small rills of water were beginning to
snake down the cliffs of the Great Place, to form fast-flowing brooks
on the desert floor. Mentmose and the Medjays took up their positions,
hiding in the outcroppings of the cliff, melting into the mountainside.
Even when another flash of pink lightning brightened the canyon,
Semerket could not see them.

Sodden and
miserable,
Semerket settled down beneath a rocky outcropping. He was grateful
that it afforded some minuscule protection from the wet. A few seconds
later another heart-stopping peal of thunder resounded through the
Great Place. He pulled his mantle up, soggy as it was, and settled in
to wait.

He could not
discern
whether hours passed or only moments. The steady drip of water and the
endless pervasive dark were always the same. It was too late to decamp
for Thebes, he knew. At any rate, it was better to die on the sands of
the Great Place, he thought, in the service of something bigger than
himself, than on some tavern floor. As he waited for what the night
would bring, a leaden torpor enveloped him.

Semerket
awakened with
a start. Something had disturbed him— the sound of a wooden key being
inserted into the tomb’s door. He stared across the wadi and saw
distant figures disappearing into the cliff-face… or imagined that he
did. Then he heard the distinct thud of the door as it shut behind
them. Yes. The beggars were there. He wondered if the other Medjays had
seen them. A few minutes went by, and then the door of the tomb opened
once again—

Torchlight
flooded
into the valley, shining from inside the tomb. Semerket crept forward
to observe, amazed by their boldness. Beggars clustered at the tomb’s
entrance, baskets of treasure already strapped to their shoulders. The
scribe Neferhotep directed their endeavor. Semerket could hear the
whining tones of his voice, though in the patter of the rain his words
remained indistinct. The beggars began to move into the wadi, trudging
to the north.

They were
already
leaving! He looked about wildly, searching for the Medjays. Now was the
time to attack! Why were they hanging back?

Across the
wadi,
emerging from the rear of the tomb, quite distinguishable in the
firelight, a group of Medjays appeared—carrying baskets of treasure.
Semerket’s heart sank; as he had suspected, some of the Medjays were
indeed in league with the conspirators.

Semerket
groped his
way to where he had last seen Mentmose. Heedless of the stones that he
dislodged, he climbed a crag leading to an upper ledge of rock. A
streak of distant lightning scarred the sky and allowed him to see
Mentmose sitting quietly on a ledge above, asleep.

Semerket’s
veins were
infused with sudden fury. Damn him! The captain was allowing the
beggars to get away, accompanied by his own men! He climbed the last
few cubits to the ledge, scrambling to where the man dozed.
“Mentmose—!” he hissed. He reached forward, touching his shoulder. Even
at his touch Mentmose did not wake. Semerket nudged him again, and the
captain merely slumped to his side, as though he might tumble from the
cliff. Semerket reached out to grab him. When he brought his hand back,
it was covered in something slick. The ferrous smell of it told
Semerket the rest of the story—the captain was dead, struck from behind.

Before he
could
register the enormity of what had happened, a clipped, aristocratic
voice cut through the dark from behind him. “I don’t believe it,” Nakht
said. “Are you some kind of god or devil that
doesn’t—ever—die
?”

Semerket
immediately
attempted to leap down the cliffside, but he was checked by Nakht’s
sword at his throat. “Not quite so fast, Ketty. I’m afraid the treasure
must leave as scheduled, and we can’t have you spoiling the party yet
again.” Semerket glanced down; even in the dark he could see that the
blade was covered in blood. It was Nakht who had killed Mentmose.

“Naia always
said you
had a rare talent for survival,” remarked Nakht with a small sneer.
“Since I was only ever privileged to see you drunk, I never quite
believed her.”

The pressure
on his
throat eased a bit as Nakht called across the wadi, “I’ve got him!”
Lightning blistered the valley again.

“You’ll not
get away
with it, Nakht.”

The
aristocrat’s laugh
bellied out across the canyon. “Naia also said you weren’t exactly a
sage when it came to expressing yourself. She was correct there, too.”

“We know the
names of
all the conspirators—Pairy the treasurer, the master of the stables,
Panhay, the librarians Messui and Maadje, Kenamun—all fifty of them.”

He heard the
tip of
Nakht’s sword strike the ground, as if the man’s arm suddenly had lost
its strength.

“What if you
do know
the names?” Nakht’s attempt at bluster would have succeeded but for the
slight quiver in his throat. “By tomorrow, Ramses will be dead, and
Egypt will have a new pharaoh.”

“There may
well be a
new pharaoh, but I can tell you that it won’t be Pentwere.”

“You’re so
sure—”

“I am sure.
The crown
prince is hidden far from Djamet, and safe. You’ll never find him.”

He could not
see
Nakht’s expression. But there was a sudden cry of rage, and Semerket
heard the slash of the blade as it came down. He instantly rolled to
the side, and the sword clanged against the stone ledge where he had
stood. Not waiting for another sword thrust, Semerket pitched himself
forward, over the stone lip, falling blindly down into the dark.

It was no more
than a
cubit or so before the sloping face of rock caught him. A thin coat of
slurry now layered the cliffs, and Semerket slid down to the valley
floor, head over heels, accelerating as he plummeted. He attempted to
grab at any stone or boulder in his path but they, too, were slick with
mud. The slope ended abruptly some distance above the wadi floor. He
pitched forward into space.

Semerket
landed in a
pool of water. From the stinging sensation on his forehead, he knew his
wound had again torn open. Amazingly, it was his only major injury. He
stood shakily, testing his limbs. No broken bones—all seemed intact.