"You've no need to inspect my vessel, Lieutenant." The short, stout ship's captain scratched the thick black hair on his chest in a show of indifference. "You know how careful I am with what I take on board."

Lieutenant Bak, officer in charge of the Medjay police at the fortress of Buhen, laid an arm across the man's sweatdamp shoulders. His voice was a bit too genial, as was his smile. "It's not you I worry about, Amonemhet. It's the traders you bring south and the goods they bring with them."

"I provide nothing but transportation," the captain said, trying with meager success to conceal his worry beneath a veneer of self-righteousness. "I'm not responsible for the kind of products my passengers choose to export from Kemet, or for the quality of their merchandise."

"Then you've no reason to object to an inspection."

Bak glanced at his Medjay sergeant, Imsiba, who stood a few paces away with a half-dozen Medjay policemen and the elderly scribe who would document their findings. The swells from a passing ship lapped at the long stone quay beneath their feet and rocked the squat, broad-beamed cargo vessel moored alongside.

Captain Amonemhet slipped out of Bak's embrace as if unable to tolerate such an intimate display of friendship. His manner turned hostile. "If you wish to waste your time, Lieutenant, feel free to do so. When my passengers complain of damaged goods, I'll refer them to your commandant."

Grinning to show how unconcerned he was, Bak stretched out his arm, his open hand inviting the captain to precede him and the Medjays up the gangplank. The ship had been moored less than an hour earlier beside the central of three quays that formed the harbor of Buhen. The vessel was unpainted, its deck darkened by time and dirt and spilled oils. It smelled of stagnant water, probably seepage through the hull. The sail, furled against the lower yard in a slipshod manner, was yellowed with age and dappled with lighter patches. Mounds of cargo were lashed down the length of the deck, allowing barely enough space for the ragtag crew to use the oars and work the sail.

Bak fell back to talk with Imsiba, who had allowed their men to go on ahead. Where the officer was slightly above medium height, broad in chest and shoulders, the sergeant was tall and muscular, a sleek dark leopard in human form. Both had short-cropped dark hair. Both wore thigh-length white kilts damp from perspiration and a minimum of jewelry, a single bronze chain around each man's neck from which hung a half-dozen colorful stone amulets. Both looked at the world with sharp, intelligent eyes.

"Amonernhet takes care to keep his fingers clean, my friend, as you well know. He fears losing his ship by confiscation." Imsiba gave Bak a sharp look. "What are you really after?"

Bak laughed at the Medjay's acumen. "The trader Nenwaf."

"Nenwaf? The wisp of a man standing in front of the deckhouse?"

"Each time he passes through Buhen, I feel he's laughing at us. As if he's gotten away with something. Let's find out this time what it is."

Bak stood on the prow of the ship, watching his men move slowly down the deck from one trader's merchandise to the next, inspecting the mounds of goods destined for the land of Kush. Sweat poured from his body; his thirst was unquenchable. He wished he had planned a shorter, quicker inspection.