Author: N.L. Holmes
Excerpt 4 – Pilot Who Knows the Waters
While he stood there, the silvery autumn twilight settled in,
and before long, the air held only the memory of light. Fireflies had begun to
wink here and there. Maya looked around uneasily. Curfew had him nervous. Those
soldiers prowling after dark were more frightening than restless
revolutionaries. He shivered and made his way as fast as his short legs would
carry him without abandoning dignity southward toward Lord Ptah-mes’s villa.
Maya hadn’t gone far, however, before he
decided, despite the danger, to retrace his steps. He headed back to the area
of his mother’s workshop at a determined pace, casting his eyes around at every
intersection, on the lookout for a night patrol. He had a vague recollection of
Pi-ay’s address from the errands of his youth and told himself that a little
investigation might make it clear what the man had been up to over the last
several days and why he hadn’t shown up for work.
But when he arrived, he rediscovered what he had
forgotten—that Pi-ay didn’t live alone. He had a room in a
house owned by an old woman, who appeared at the gate, looking fearful at a
nighttime knock. Her narrowed eyes ran Maya up and down as she no doubt
wondered who the proud, good-looking dwarf with a writing case over his
shoulder—who dared to be abroad after curfew—might be. She seemed to be at a loss for words.
Maya flashed her a warm, trustworthy smile such
as Lord Hani might have given. “Good evening, mistress. Is this where Pi-ay
lives?”
“I thought you was him, finally,” she murmured
evasively and made as if to shut the door.
But Maya forced it open and stepped into the
courtyard. It was barely light enough to see beyond the circle of the old
woman’s moringa oil lamp. “I’m a friend of his. He works for my mother. He
asked me to drop by and get something he forgot.”
“Where is he? That boy come the other day and
asked about him too,” the woman said, backing up ahead of Maya’s amiably
insistent advance.
Maya thought the question had been asked with
honest curiosity rather than as a test, but he said with a conspiratorial grin,
“Don’t tell him I told you, but he’s with that sweetheart of his.”
The mistress of the house gave a disapproving
sniff. “Her. What do you need to get for him?”
“Some things related to his work.” Ammit take
it, stop asking questions, you gossipy old goose.
“Forgive me, mistress, but I’m out after curfew.
The sooner I can get this errand done and get home, the better. My wife will
start worrying about me if I don’t show up for dinner.”
Perhaps it was the mental image of an anxious
wife, but the woman seemed at last convinced of Maya’s good intentions. She
gestured for him to move through the door of the tiny vestibule and into a
salon with a single simply painted wooden column. “Up them stairs, young man.
I’d go with you, but it’s got hard to get up them stairs.”
“Yes, them stairs are a problem,” he agreed as
he trudged up the steep steps. They groaned disconcertingly, even under Maya’s
negligible weight.
“Straight ahead,” the old woman called in her
reedy voice. He could see her standing at the bottom, craning her neck,
undoubtedly hoping to spot something interesting.
Maya quickly realized that he wasn’t going to be
able to see a thing, interesting or otherwise, on the dark second floor. “I
don’t suppose there’s a lamp up here?”
She assured him there were both a lamp and a
fire-drill in the niche to the left of Pi-ay’s door. Maya groped his way across
the creaking floor, found he could barely reach the niche, and at last, getting
more and more anxious, began to pull the bow back and forth almost solely by
touch. What a bad idea this was, he told himself testily. I’m going
to be picked up for violating the curfew. At last, sparks jumped out, and
the kindling began to glow. Once a flame had fluttered into being, he held a
piece of burning straw over the lamp, hoping there was oil inside, and sure
enough, the wick caught, its feeble light casting ominous shadows around the
corridor. He pushed his way into Pi-ay’s room and pulled the door closed gently
behind him.
The space was small and bare, with nothing but a
soot-stained brazier full of greasy ash and a cheaply made bed hung with
mosquito curtains. At first, Maya marveled at its austerity, since Pi-ay, like
Ipy, must have been a well-paid artisan—with no one but himself
to spend his wages on. But then he realized the quarters had been stripped.
Nothing had been left of Pi-ay’s property—not a clothes chest, not
a stool, not a spare kilt. He cursed under his breath. The goldsmith wasn’t
just out for a few days’ idyll with a girlfriend. He had no intention of coming
back.
The jackal—abandoning Mother without a word like that. And he’s
having an affair with his friend’s widow. I’ll bet anything he killed Ipy out
of jealousy and now has run away before he’s caught. Steaming, Maya lifted the lumpy straw mattress sack
from the bed frame, almost hoping he’d find the bloody murder weapon there. And
he did.
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