The Buried Pyramid (39 page)

“The camels,” Neville insisted, “will have drawn attention.”

Eddie surrendered. “Very well.”

As they drew closer to the village, it became evident that it was unremarkable, even for an Egyptian peasant village. The houses were roughly rectangular structures built from mud brick, brightened here and there with a bit of painted woodwork or a curtain. Goats and semi-feral dogs roamed the twisting alleyways that passed as streets, and the mosque was distinguished only by being slightly taller than the other structures.

The fields surrounding the village were adequately tended, but did not show any great ambition in their planting. The irrigation ditches were minimal. Only a few shaduf were spaced along the banks; apparently, the villagers were willing to settle mostly for what the Nile gave them. This morning, even the shaduf were idle; the men who should have been tending them stood along the riverbank, gaping at the dahabeeyah.

Almost as soon as the lighter bumped against the bank, an elderly man in surprisingly spotless white robes came striding out of one of the largest houses. His aura of confidence and the retinue that trailed him marked him as the village headman. In an isolated place like this, he was probably the religious as well as the civil leader. He might pay token heed to the national government and the regional governors, but doubtless the fact that he knew that, from a practical standpoint, his rule was absolute, accounted for his haughty demeanor.

Eddie and Neville stepped ashore, warning the sailors to be ready to depart at a moment’s notice. Then they turned to face the headman.

He greeted them in formal Arabic, and Eddie replied with the same, his own words flawlessly mimicking the dialect of the region. The old man raised a bushy white eyebrow in surprise, but otherwise did not comment.

“I am Riskali ben Ali,” he said, “headman here.”

“I am Ibrahim Alhadj ben Josef,” replied Eddie, stressing the ‘alhadj’ just slightly.

Riskali was appropriately impressed. Although all good Mohammedans were enjoined to make the pilgrimage to Mecca, in such an isolated place as this, few would have actually achieved that goal.

“You are with the dahabeeyah?”

“The dahabeeyah is with me,” Eddie replied. “I am seeking my friend Daud who was to meet me here.”

Riskali’s expression became guarded. “Daud? Let me think.”

Eddie did not move. Neville knew that the natives had become conditioned to expect an extensive series of gifts—bribes, really—from any Europeans. Eddie was doing his best to convince the headman to accept him as another son of Islam. This would not make him immune from the need to offer gifts, but it would mean that the villagers would need to honor any agreements they made with him.

Fleetingly, Neville regretted forcing himself on Eddie. Then he dismissed the thought. The presence of Europeans aboard the
Mallard
could not have been concealed, and his deferring to Eddie, no matter how subtly, would give weight to the other man’s claim to be the master of the expedition.

After several moments during which the flies buzzed counterpoint to the silence, Riskali sighed gustily.

“I cannot think of anyone by that name,” he said.

This was an invitation to jog the headman’s memory with a coin. Judging from the excited shuffling of some of the younger members of the retinue, they knew this as well. What had begun as a simple exchange of information was now revealed as a contest of wills.

Eddie did not look as if he would be the one to give way, but the deadlock was broken by the emergence from one of the huts of a lanky Arab with a short beard. He wore expensive robes of elegant cut that made the snowy whiteness of the headman’s robes seem merely over-bleached.

“Oh,
that
Daud,” the headman said dismissively. “I thought you were seeking someone important.”

Daud waved cheerfully and made his way to the riverbank. Feigning indifference, the headman led his contingent toward a cluster of palms near the center of the village.

“Let’s not seem too friendly, old chap,” Daud whispered in cultured Oxford English. “The old man has heard tales of the wealth—relatively speaking—that the villages down river are raking in, and he has decided that he deserves his share.”

“Has Riskali made things difficult for you?” Eddie asked, bowing formally, so that the watchers would think they were merely exchanging greetings.

“Yes and no,” Daud agreed, bowing in return. “I have the camels you requested, along with saddles and such, but I don’t think Riskali intends to let them leave the village. He’s a farmer, but canny enough to know that good camels will fetch a pretty price in Luxor.”

Eddie nodded. “A bit unethical, isn’t he? Where are the camels now?”

“I have them around the west side of the village,” Daud said. “Let me show you.”

All through this exchange they had ignored Neville as if he wasn’t there. Now he trailed them as they walked through to village center, still apparently ignored.

Half-feral dogs barked at them as they passed. One, more daring than the rest, darted out and nipped at Eddie’s heel. Without looking, he kicked back and the cur ran, yelping. Children ran after them as well, blending in with the dogs, whining for baksheesh.

Daud tossed them a few coins, and they dropped back, squabbling after the largess.

“It does offer such a problem,” he said. “Just like in the cities, some of these lazy beggars have turned the Prophet’s admonition to be charitable to the poor into
carte blanche
to harass strangers. If you give too little, you are in violation of Islam. If you give too much, you invite robbery. I fear I took pity on them soon after I arrived, and added to the headman’s greed.”

Eddie reached into a pocket within his sleeve and pulled out a bundle of candied dates. He stopped long enough to give these to the children, who were much more pleased by this kindness than they were by coins that their parents would take from them.

“A stopgap I use in Cairo,” Eddie explained. “It makes the children happy, and keeps their parents guessing.”

“I suppose I was too long in England,” Daud said, Oxford intonations so perfect that if Neville closed his eyes he could believe himself in that university city. “After guarding my life and purse from the sharp knife of Riskali’s envy, I won’t easily forget again.”

Their deliberate progress had brought them beyond the tended fields, to where Daud had pegged the camels. There were six, each solemnly masticating the prickly grass growing in clumps from the sand. When the three men approached, the camels raised their heads and glared down at them from beneath long lashes.

“You’ve a lovely group here,” Eddie said, stroking one female along her shoulder and dodging the wad of green slime she spat in his direction. “No wonder Headman Riskali covets them enough to set aside all provisions against theft from another of the Faithful.”

Daud smiled and prodded the nearest camel.

“Pretend to be examining them,” he said, including Neville in his directions. “The villagers are too busy seeming indifferent to come close now, but no reason to give them cause to wonder what we’re talking about.”

Eddie cocked an eyebrow, but obeyed, making a great point of checking one of his slime-spitting acquaintance’s big, two-toed front feet. Neville endeavored to look both inexperienced and nervous, neither of which was hard to do. He rode a camel well enough, but was no great expert—and the villagers, whose dark eyes he fancied he could feel watching them, made him very nervous indeed.

Daud pulled a camel’s head down and made a great show of displaying its teeth for inspection.

“The villagers welcomed me warmly enough when I first arrived,” Daud said, “but when Riskali saw that I could not be bullied out of giving him at least one of the beasts, my welcome grew a bit cold. Good thing I brought a few fellows with me, or you might find no trace of either me or the camels.”

“Where are your men?” Eddie asked.

“Near the shore,” Daud replied. “When I saw the dahabeeyah coming in, I decided we’d better be ready to flag you down if the headman decided to refuse you landing. My chaps will be out here soon enough. I don’t suppose your captain would give us a lift, would he?”

“I’m sure he’d be glad to,” Eddie replied.

“Allah bless you,” Daud said. “Now, not to make too fine a point of it, but how do you plan to get those camels away from the villagers?”

“I’m thinking about it,” Eddie promised. “Do you think the headman and some of his retinue would deign to dine with us on the
Mallard
?”

“Eagerly,” Daud said. “It will be the social event of the year—if not the decade.”

“Can you get your gear and your men aboard?” Eddie asked.

“Easily,” Daud replied. “We don’t have much. If anyone gives us trouble, I’ll just explain that I have business with you. The villagers aren’t much interested in our camping gear. What they want are those camels. The rest would be gravy.”

Eddie stepped back and rubbed his hands together. His satisfied smile might have been for the camels. Then again, it might not.

“Very good. Let me go and extend our invitations. We will precede you aboard, and let Reis Awad know what to expect. Oh, and make certain you bring the camels’ saddlebags along. Where are the saddles?”

“In the house you saw me come out of,” Daud answered. “The old woman who lives there doesn’t get along with the headman, but is too venerable or some such thing for him to get rid of her.”

“Think she’ll let us take them?”

“If it meant putting a finger in Riskali’s eye, I think she’d carry them herself.”

They parted on that cheerful note. Riskali was very pleased to accept Eddie’s invitation—in which, Neville noted, he was very careful to include several of the tough-looking young bucks, as well as the distinguished greybeards. The villagers saw the visitors off with a great deal more warmth than they had greeted them.

When they were rowing back to the
Mallard
, Neville asked, “Are you going to let me in on your plans?”

“I’m still putting them together,” Eddie said. “As soon as I know what I’m doing, you’ll know.”

Jenny and Stephen were enthralled by the report Neville brought back, and immediately started speculating on how Eddie intended to claim the camels.

Reis Awad agreed that a banquet could be put together for that evening. The higher-ranking men would dine in the saloon, while the younger would be hosted on the crew deck. Eddie took several sailors to the village to buy or borrow supplies—including pillows and rugs on which to seat their guests, for the banquet was to be held native fashion. Riskali agreed to slaughter a sheep, no doubt chuckling up his sleeve at being paid to kill an animal he himself would be eating.

When he returned, Eddie briefed the others about his plan.

“Now, even if we’re careful,” he said, “this is going to be risky.”

His auditors nodded, excited, rather than intimidated by the possibility of adventure. The voyage from Cairo had been long and peaceful enough to ameliorate memories of that terrifying night when the jackal-masked assassins had attacked. They all longed for a challenge.

“My plan,” Eddie said, “is for us to take the camels from right under their noses while they are banqueting with us on the
Mallard
.”

“Won’t they miss us?” Stephen asked.

“They would miss
us
,” Eddie replied, “but they won’t miss Jenny.”

“Jenny?” Neville and Stephen were both appalled, but Jenny was thrilled. She remembered the tale of how Eddie had fallen in love with Miriam when that woman was young and brave, and she suspected she owed a great deal to Miriam’s example.

Eddie silenced the men’s objections with a gesture.

“We don’t have much choice. The villagers have had ample opportunity to see us. If any of our party failed to appear at the banquet, it could be taken as a slight. I don’t trust Riskali enough to believe that he wouldn’t take an imagined insult as an excuse for banditry. I have every confidence in the ability of Reis Awad and his crew—augmented by ourselves—to win the day. However, I prefer to avoid the sort of conflict that might make our eventual departure impossible.”