Free City of the Dead by T. L. Higley Page B

were unloaded. From the dock, a stone wall tapered off to mud and reeds. A canal connected the deep harbor to theNile. During these months of akhet, when the Nile surged over its banks and swamped the floodplain, the canal all but disappeared, with only a short span separating the flooded farmland from the harbor.
    The slave boy I had sent ahead must have seen our torch. He signaled us with a sharp whistle, and we changed course to join him at the water’s edge.
    The water-logged sand sucked at my sandals, a strange sound in the stillness. The boy stood with the silence of a guardian sphinx beside a tangle of white among the dark reeds. He straightened and threw his shoulders back at Axum’s approach.
    “You have allowed no one to disturb the body?” Axum asked.
    “No, my father. Just as you said.” The boy’s eyes never left Axum’s, and when the older man gave him a quick nod, he lifted his chin and hid a smile.
    I inhaled with eyes closed, strengthening myself for the task. I did not want to miss anything as a result of my weakness in the face of blood. I examined the surrounding scene first, from the water to the dry sand. Papyrus had been planted here years ago and had already grown thick, its stalks reaching higher than my head and ending in fluffed plumes. In the darkness, the reeds and water were black and the half-moon a pale slice of reflection in the harbor.
    “She is here,” the boy whispered. I held up a hand, not wanting to be rushed in my inspection.
    The grasses had been crushed in a path leading out from the water. Trampled by the boy’s feet? Perhaps. Or perhaps the woman’s lifeless body had been brought here. I followed the path to the sand. Scuffled footprints here, as though she had been dragged or had fought with someone along the way, trying to free herself. The trail led in the direction of the quarry and, beyond, the village.
    I returned to the water, again sinking into sandy muck to my ankles. The Nubian and the boy watched silently. My mouth felt as dry as sand, and my blood pounded.
    She was a tall woman. I could sense this even with her body on the ground and curled against itself. She lay on her side, but her head had been turned to the sky and the golden mask placed over it. Her natural hair streamed from under the mask, and the edges of it floated in the shallow water, mingling with the reeds. Her white coarse linen dress was torn and muddied, with dark streaks across her midsection. I bent to one knee in the grass to examine the streaks.
    The memory came unexpectedly, as flashes from the past always do. Though in hindsight the connection was natural. Muddy reeds, tangled hair, a woman at the water’s edge. Dead. I remembered the certainty that Merit lay at my feet, the guilt and relief at discovering it was Amunet. Now it was as if I had stepped into one of my frequent dreams, only this time surrounded by darkness.
    I shook off the memory. I was not a youth anymore. This woman was not Amunet. And I would not shirk my responsibility. I stilled the uneven beat in my chest and looked again at the streaks on her dress. The dark stains were blood. Carefully, I lifted her left wrist from the ground at her side, fearing what I might find.
    The hand was bloody.
    “Her finger has been taken,” Axum said, shock vibrating in his voice.
    I swallowed and lowered the hand back to the grass. I must be methodical about this. Think of it like an examination of the project plans. I must work my way through each section, looking for flaws, for the unusual, or something out of place that might point to the killer. There was no need to involve my heart.
    I started with her feet—bare. Examined her legs—muddy. Her clothing bore no clues but the blood wiped from her hand. Did that mean she was still alive when the finger was cut from her?
    Logic only. No emotion.
    I leaned in to inspect her chest and neck and motioned to the Nubian to bring the torch closer. Blackening bruises covered her bare