Four bearers carried the prince, a small shadow of his father, sitting on a gilded palanquin. A fifth man walked alongside, fanning the child with ostrich feathers. The way the boy's chest heaved, Bak could see he was having trouble breathing. And no wonder, he thought. The odor of incense, close to overpowering, was nearly lost in the stronger, more exotic scents of perfumes and oils made from unknown flowers and trees grown in faraway lands.
Imsiba and the ten Medjay policemen marched close behind their illustrious charges, their faces glowing with pride yet alert to trouble.
The skiff drifted northward, unimpeded.
A shout and the rumble of a drum drew Bak's attention to the ships at the end of the quay. He eyed the vessel, more crowded than it should be, carrying the priestly party and the gods. He noted the captain at the prow, the sacred barques settled on the deck amid a flock of priests, the oarsmen in their places along the rail, the stout drummer beating out the tune that would set the rhythm of their strokes.
The captain of the second vessel stood at the foot of his gangplank, waiting to welcome the royal party.
Bak's eyes darted across the harbor, and he swore again under his breath. The smaller boats were pulling away from the southern quay, their owners paddling with all their skill to extricate their vessels from among the larger ships, each man determined to cross the harbor ahead of the rest and lead the flotilla to the island fortress. The empty skiff rocked on a gentle swell, barely moving, soon to be overtaken by the other craft. Overtaken and surrounded. Lost among them.
Amon-Psaio and the royal party marched alongside the warship. Mery saluted with his baton of office, and Bak made do with raising a hand. The king stared straight ahead with majestic disdain, but Woser glanced Bak's way, an unspoken question on his face. Bak gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. The prince came alongside, his great dark eyes huge and round, his face enlivened by a delighted smile. Sick he might be, Bak thought, but he was not too ill to enjoy himself or too regal to display pleasure. Imsiba and the Medjays came even with the warship. The big sergeant raised his spear in an open salute to his sweaty, unkempt officer; the other men followed suit. Unable to smother a proud smile, Bak gave them the same salute he had given the king.
The rhythmic beat of the drum grew stronger, faster, tugging his gaze toward the ships at the end of the quay. The first vessel was slipping away, swinging into the current for the journey to the island. Heralds and flag bearers stood at rigid attention on the end of the quay, well out of the way of the royal party marching to the second ship. The captain fell to his knees before Amon-Psaro, his forehead on the stone, demonstrating the greatest respect. The prince grinned with delight. Imsiba and the Medjays looked discomfited by the unexpected pause, worried.
Marching up behind the guard of honor came the Kushite noblemen, each man strutting at the fore of his own small contingent of followers. Gaily bedecked in multicolored clothing, jewelry, and headdresses, each group displayed a tribal or provincial standard.
Bak glanced across the harbor, saw twenty or more small boats, most well away from the southern quay and skimming across the water where he had last seen the empty. skiff, all speeding to catch the lead traveling ship. A flock of ducklings racing after a heron. As far as he could tell, every boat was manned and carried three or more passengers. Cursing himself for taking his eyes off the drifting vessel, he examined the river farther out and downstream. He saw no boats at all, only a few white birds riding the swells. His eyes darted toward the southern end of the long island and the rocky islets where the river split to enter the rapids, though he knew no boat could drift so far so fast: The only spot he could not see was the far side of the ship Amon-Psaro was preparing to board.
Bak's stomach knotted; he could not breathe.
The blast of the trumpets and the tattoo of the ship's drum rent the air. Amon-Psaro strode up the gangplank. Bak dropped off the forecastle, pounded along the deck and, yelling at Kasaya to follow, plunged down the gangplank. Bursting into the exotic band of Kushite nobles, he shouldered men aside, trod on sandaled feet, ruffled feathers and skins and dignity. Kasaya ran close behind, face grim, shield and spear poised to kill. Men scattered like birds before a jackal, too startled to strike back, yelling in their own tongue oaths Bak could guess if not understand.
He burst through the foremost group of noblemen and yelled at Imsiba, who had paused on the gangplank to check out the disturbance. The big Medjay, confused by the melee and unable to hear through the din, jumped off the gangplank to come to Bak's aid. Bak glimpsed Anion-Psaro standing beside the bright-painted deckhouse with his son, staring along the quay, trying to see what the trouble was. He saw sailors on their knees scattered around the deck and rowers sitting with their heads bowed over their oars. He saw the captain hovering and a womed Woser striding toward the gangplank. And he saw Inyotef, carrying a long pointed dagger, hauling himself over the rail close to the stern where he would not be noticed.
Bak shouted again, but his words were lost in the blare of the trumpets and the beat of the drum. He dashed through the guard of honor, who were paralyzed by surprise, beckoned to Imsiba, and sprinted up the gangway. The sergeant slung in behind him, keeping pace with Kasaya. Bak hit the deck with a thud and raced toward AmonPsaro. The king recoiled, astounded by what he no doubt believed was a raving maniac. Fumbling for his dagger, he took one pace back, another, and another, glancing now and again at Imsiba, plainly expecting the big Medjay to fell the lunatic. His steps carried him to the corner of the deck house. Inyotef darted around the bright structure, dagger poised to kill.
Bak leaped toward the king, shoving him roughly against the deckhouse, and rammed Inyotef with his shoulder. The pilot stumbled back against the rail. Bak stood before him, knees flexed, arms wide and loose, ready to grapple if he had to.
"You!" Amon-Psaro cried, coming up behind Bak. "Inyotef!"
With an ugly grimace, the pilot lunged at Bak, who ducked backward. The tip of Inyotef's blade drew a thin red line across Bak's chest and cut a deeper swath across Amon-Psaro's arm and ribs. Bak saw the blood spill from the king's breast, felt the sting of his own wound, heard Imsiba yell and the onlookers gasp. He leaped forward, trying to get inside the arc of the blade, too close for Inyotef to strike again. The pilot wheeled around, hurdled the rail, and dropped over the side.
Though staggered by his quarry's sudden disappearance, Bak was quick to react. He threw his legs over the rail, glimpsed the skiff below and saw Inyotef scrambling for the oars. He let himself fall. The pilot shoved off from the larger craft. Bak hit the water in the space between the two vessels and sank like a stone. By the time he fought his way to the surface, the skiff was skimming over the water near the ship's rudder and closing on the end of the quay. Once it reached the swifter flow outside the harbor, he would never catch it.
Gritting his teeth, swimming with quick, powerful strokes, he sliced through the water. A half dozen Medjays leaned over the rail above him. Their spears were positioned to throw, yet they hesitated. The pilot had rowed in among the few small boats in the flotilla that had stayed behind to accompany the Kushite king to the island.