Tomb of the Golden Bird (3 page)

no wonder she cherished it. Cheers from the assembled household staff came to their ears, but the first to greet them was the dog Amira, who flung herself at the feet of the twins, howling rapturously. Ramses had believed (and hoped) she wouldn't get any bigger, but she had, and after a summer of pampering she was sleek and well fed and almost as large as a lioness. The Great Cat of Re did not believe in vulgar displays of emotion. He waited for them inside the house and showed his annoyance at their absence by sitting with his back turned, ostentatiously ignoring them for several hours, his plumy tail swishing. Their other cats had usually traveled back and forth with them, but the Great Cat of Re had made it clear that he did not care for travel, by sea or by land. When the tea tray arrived he decided to overlook their transgressions and settled down at Ramses's feet. Sometimes there were fish-paste sandwiches. They had gathered on the veranda, as was their usual habit, watching the soft glow of paling color on the eastern cliffs. Lights began to twinkle in Luxor, across the river, and the long stretch of sandy ground in front of the house was deserted except for a few shadowy forms of local villagers on their way home from the fields. Even the twins were subdued, having worn themselves out playing with the dog and rushing from room to room to make sure everything was where they had left it. The peace of Luxor, Ramses thought, and then smiled to himself. Their peace had been often disturbed, sometimes violently. Reminded of one of the most flagrant disturbers of the peace, he asked, "Where's Father?" His mother was pouring the tea. She handed him a cup before she replied. "He sneaked—I use the word intentionally—out of the house shortly after we arrived, ignoring my courteous request that he get his papers and books in order. I do not know where he went." Ramses handed the cup to Nefret and went back to get one for himself. "You can guess, though," he said. When Emerson turned up, half an hour late for tea, he didn't deny the charge. "Why yes," he said innocently. "I did go to the East Valley for a quick look round." "What were you looking for?" his wife asked. "Nothing in particular, Peabody. Nothing in particular." "I suppose you will want to go to the West Valley tomorrow." "What's the hurry?" inquired Emerson, who was always in a hurry. "Vandergelt won't be here for a few more days, and we ought to consult with him before we begin. It is his concession, after all." He shifted uneasily under his wife's steady stare, and went on, "I thought I would spend a little time getting the motorcar back in operation. Selim believes he has diagnosed the difficulty; he has brought several new parts from Cairo. That is—if you have no objections, my dear." "What possible objection could I have? Aside from the fact that Selim is our reis, in charge of our excavations, not a mechanic, and the additional fact that a motorcar has limited utility here." The motorcar had been a bone of contention between them from the first. Her point was well taken—there were few usable roads on the West Bank—but her chief objection was that Emerson knew absolutely nothing about the internal workings of the vehicle but was under the mistaken impression that he did. She was primed for an argument, cheeks flushed and eyes accusing, but Emerson refused to be provoked. "I won't let it interfere with our work, Peabody. Come now, my love," he went on, with one of his most winning smiles, "you know we always spend a little time reacquainting ourselves with our favorite sites and determining what has gone on since we were last here. Aren't you the least bit curious about that final little triangle Carter proposes to excavate?" "Idle curiosity is not one of my failings, Emerson. However, since you are so determined, who am I to stand in your way?" Emerson's eyes twinkled. He recognized hypocrisy when he heard it. "We'll make a day of it," he declared. "Take the kiddies. You'd like to see the Valley of the Kings again, wouldn't you, my dears?" He patted Charla's curly head—a familiarity she permitted from no one else. She nodded eagerly, visualizing, her father felt certain, a large picnic basket. David John was also pleased to indicate his agreement. They made quite an imposing caravan when they started off thenext morning, the children on their favorite donkeys and the adults on horseback. Leaving their mounts in the donkey park by the entrance, they passed the barrier into the archaeological zone. The East Valley was not a single canyon but a web of them, with smaller wadis leading off on either side of the main path. Bounded on all sides by towering cliffs and the hills of rocky debris washed down by rain or tossed out by excavators ancient and modern, it was a waterless waste that had once held treasure beyond imagining. On either side the rectangular openings of the royal tombs of the Empire gaped open and forlorn, robbed of the rich grave goods that had been meant to provide the dead kings with all the luxuries they had enjoyed in life. Only tantalizing scraps of their gilded and bejeweled equipment had survived. For the convenience of tourists the once uneven floor of the wadis had been smoothed, and access to the most popular tombs made easier. Some were even illumined by electric lights, provided by a generator in one of the sepulchres. Tourists brought money, not only to the Department of Antiquities but to the dragomen and guides who earned their livings from them; but Ramses sometimes regretted the old days, when visitors had to scramble up the uneven rock surfaces and carry candles through the deep-cut passages of the tombs. One thing hadn't changed: above the valley rose the pyramid-shaped peak representing the goddess Mertseger, "she who loves silence." The mighty pyramids of the kings of old lay empty and violated when the monarchs of Thebes determined to abandon ostentation in favor of secrecy, hiding their burial places deep in the cliffs and building temples elsewhere to serve their funerary cults. Emerson believed the shape of the mountain served as a substitute for the pyramid, a symbol of the sun god and of survival after death. "You see the advantage of coming out early in the season," Emerson declared. "Not so many cursed tourists. Charla, stay with me. I won't have you wandering off alone." The tourists were less numerous than they would be later on, but there were a number of them. They observed our little procession with open  curiosity and a buzz of whispered comments followed ourprogress. Dragomen and guards gathered round the twins, chuckling with pleasure as the children returned their greetings in Arabic as fluent as their own. Ramses didn't have to worry about carrying one or both of the twins; a dozen willing hands reached for Charla when she fluttered her lashes and declared she was tired. "She isn't tired," said David John in disgust, watching his sister being hoisted onto the shoulder of a beaming dragoman. "She just likes being high above the rest of us." Ramses deemed it wiser to ignore this accurate appraisal. David John, having made his point, did not pursue it. He slipped his hand into that of his father's. "Just remind me, if you will, of the relative location of the tombs in this area," he requested. Amused by the contrast between the high-pitched voice and the pedantic speech, Ramses said, "Remind you? You haven't been here very often, David John. How much do you remember?" "Naturally I have studied the maps and the books, Papa. There, I believe, is the entrance to Tomb 55, where you worked last season. A most frustrating excavation." The entrance had been filled in, as was Emerson's custom when finishing an excavation. Only an uneven surface of sand and pebbles marked the spot. Obediently Ramses indicated the other nearby tombs—Ramses IX, and across the way, on the hillside, that of another obscure Ramses, awarded the number six by modern historians. "There is certainly a great deal yet to be done here," said his son judiciously. "What is Grandpapa looking at so intently?" "The remains of workmen's huts. Not very impressive, are they?" They were nothing more than seemingly random heaps of rough stones. Only an expert eye would have recognized them as the temporary living quarters of men who had worked on the nearby royal tombs, or understood, as Ramses was beginning to do, why Emerson stared at them with such interest. Charla had forged ahead of the others, urging her grinning bearer on with shouts of glee. Her grandmother clucked disapprovingly. "Ramses, she is becoming a positive little slave driver. Make her stop." Emerson had also observed the situation, and by the time Ramses reached his daughter his father had already caught her up and was lecturing both Charla and the man who carried her. "I told you you were not to get away from the rest of us," he said sternly. "And you . . . what is your name? I don't know you." The man was a stranger to Ramses as well—a tall, well-set-up fellow with a narrow face and protruding jaw. "Mahmud, O Father of Curses," he said readily. "I came here from Medamud because I heard you would be hiring workers. I have two wives and thirteen children, and—" "Yes, yes," said Emerson. "See my reis, Selim. You know him, of course." "All men know Selim, Father of Curses. My thanks." Charla propelled herself into Emerson's outstretched arms. He set her on her feet. "It won't do you any harm to walk awhile," he declared. "Take my hand." "He was a nice man," said Charla, unrepentant. "He ran very fast when I told him to." "You must not treat people like beasts of burden," Ramses said. "I hope you thanked him properly." Charla looked round, but the nice Mahmud was no longer in sight. They had their picnic lunch in the mouth of an empty tomb, and then returned to the house. David John's fair skin was turning pink, despite the hat his mother insisted he wear, and both children were drooping a little from the heat. They considered themselves far too old for afternoon naps, but they were receptive to the idea of a quiet hour in their room. Nefret went to her clinic; the news of her arrival had spread, and a number of patients had turned up. Hers was the only clinic on the West Bank, and Nur Misur, Light of Egypt, as Nefret was called, had earned the loving respect of the villagers. Some of the older men still preferred the medical (and magical) skills of her mother-in-law, who decided to accompany her. Ramses found himself alone on the veranda with his father. "Odd, that," he said. "The helpful Mahmud?" Emerson gestured him to a chair and took out his pipe. "I might have known you'd wonder too." "I am wondering about a number of things." Emerson turned to look down the road to the little guardhouse they had built the year before. It was a humble mud-brick shelter, designed to discourage uninvited visitors. Wasim, the man on duty that day, squatted in the open doorway, placidly smoking his water pipe. "I had a word with Wasim," Emerson went on. "I thought he was looking pleased with himself, and he frankly admitted to having extracted a tidy amount of baksheesh from a fellow who was asking questions about recent visitors." "A fellow named Mahmud?" "The description didn't match. Wasim said he spoke Arabic fluently but with a strange accent." "Odd," Ramses repeated. "What did Wasim tell him?" " 'The truth, O Father of Curses.' That we have had no visitors since we arrived." "We're being watched." "It seems that way," Emerson agreed. "People hanging about the vicinity of the house at odd hours last night." "You noticed too? I was tempted to go out and run them off, but. . ." "But they weren't doing anything illegal," Emerson finished. "Quite. This sheds rather a new light on your mother's claim that our rooms in Cairo were searched." "And on the amiable Mahmud?" Emerson frowned. "He can't have hoped to carry the child off, not with so many people about." "But he might have asked her the same questions the other man asked Wasim. She's a chatty little creature." "Did she tell you what they chatted about?" Ramses laughed. "That's the disadvantage of Charla's chattiness. She doesn't answer questions, or even hear them. She carries on a monologue. Anyhow, we haven't had any visitors." "True." "It's all very tenuous, Father. A possible search of our rooms, an unknown person asking possibly harmless questions of Wasim, a postulated but unproven attempt to question Charla." "Two such attempts," Emerson corrected. "We never identified the nice man who gave her money in the suk." "We may be letting our imaginations run away with us." "Possibly." Emerson chewed on the stem of his pipe. "Better safe than sorry, though, as your mother would say. If there is any basis to our suspicions, the suspects will have to try something more direct sooner or later. At the moment we can only wait and see; there are too many possibilities to allow speculation." Emerson chuckled. "Perhaps it's Howard Carter, suspecting me of designs on his firman." It wasn't until the following afternoon that Emerson's prediction proved correct. The message wasn't from Howard Carter, however. "The old familiar anonymous letter," Ramses said, perusing the paper his father handed him. "Does Mother know about this?" "Good Gad, no. And she mustn't find out. She'd insist on coming with us." "You mean to respond? This is an open invitation to an ambush, Father." "It's an invitation to a solution," Emerson retorted. "I'm tired of subterfuge and mystery. I cannot conceive of any danger the two of us couldn't handle." The implicit compliment was so flattering, Ramses abandoned his half-hearted objections. Emerson was an army unto himself, but as the saying went, "A friend does not leave a friend's back exposed." He said only, "How do you propose to get away from Mother—and Nefret?" "Hmmm." Emerson frowned. "That does present a difficulty. Have you any suggestions?" "We might try telling them the truth." "Good Gad, are you serious?" Emerson thought it over. "It's a new approach, at any rate." Somewhat to Ramses's surprise, it succeeded. Emerson waited until after dinner to break the news. His wife had also noticed the surveillance to which they had been subjected—or so she claimed. (She alwaysclaimed to know everything, and who would have the temerity to call her a liar?) In this case it was a tactical error, of which Emerson took immediate advantage. "The fellow didn't tell me to come alone, but we cannot suppose he will appear if the whole lot of us turn up. I take you into my confidence, Peabody—and you, Nefret—because you know that to be true. I trust in your good sense, as you must trust in mine." "Bah," said his wife. She had taken out her embroidery, and in her agitation she stuck a needle into her finger. Sucking it, she said indistinctly, "Nefret, what do you think?" "I don't like it one damned bit, Mother.
But. . ." Her voice trailed off. "Think of the children," Emerson said. "If we don't respond, these people may go after them next." She had thought of it. Her eyes were wide and her cheeks a trifle paler than usual. It was the only argument that could have convinced her, but her distress was so obvious that Ramses couldn't refrain from protesting. "That's a low, underhanded trick, Father. The children are amply protected." "Any guard can be circumvented," his mother said. "And Charla is too inclined to trust a friendly face. Nefret, I believe we must let them go—and that we must remain, on the remote chance that this is a trick to get us all out of the house." Emerson's jaw dropped. She was one step ahead of him, as usual. "Now see here, Peabody," he began. "Oh, I don't believe for a moment that any such thing will happen," she said soothingly. In fact, she was half hoping it would; her hands were clenched, as if around the handle of a weapon, and her lips were curved in a little smile. "Do you go on, then, you and Ramses. And for pity's sake don't behave foolishly." "That didn't work out the way I expected," Emerson muttered, as he and Ramses started toward the riverbank. "You don't think there is a chance—" "No, Father, I don't. Let's get this over with." Daoud's son Sabir took them across to the East Bank. Emerson told him to wait, and they started for the rendezvous point, by the entrance to the Temple of Luxor. The gate was closed, but a nearby light showed the form of the man they had been told to expect, wearing a galabeeyah, with a distinctive red-striped scarf over his shoulders. As soon as he was sure they had spotted him he started walking away from the temple. "Shall we take him?" Ramses asked. "No, no. He can't be the only one involved. Wait till we can get our hands on the rest of them." Emerson's teeth closed with a snap. They followed the flitting form of their guide through the streets of the tourist areas, past the Luxor Hotel, where colored lanterns swung from the trees of the garden, and into the back alleys of the city. Ramses moved closer to his father. "This is beginning to look like a bad idea," he said softly. "Quite the contrary." Emerson didn't bother to lower his voice. "The more insalubrious the surroundings, the greater the chance that something interesting will occur." "Are you armed?" "Me? Good Gad, no. Why should I be?" He stumbled. Ramses caught him by the arm. His eyesight was better than his father's, and there was very little light here. The form ahead of them was as insubstantial as a shadow, vanishing and reappearing whenever a ray of moonlight found its way into the narrow alleyway. Then it seemed to fade into the darkness, and was gone. Emerson came to a halt. "Where's he got to?" Ramses took his torch from his pocket. Its beam failed to locate their guide, or anyone else. The buildings on either side were those of small shops, closed for the night. Some had living quarters above, but no lights showed. The windows and doors were barred. But just ahead a shape of blackness indicated an open door. "Ah," said Emerson and plunged ahead before Ramses could stop him. He caught Emerson up at the door and pointed his torch into the room beyond. At first he saw nothing to cause alarm—a counter, shelves holding tinned and packaged food, boxes of wilting lettuce and dried lentils, open bags of staples such as flour and sugar, a few stools. The door slammed into his back and propelled him against Emerson, who staggered forward into the room, knocking over a stool. "Stop there," ordered a voice in Arabic. "Put out the light." Ramses didn't bother to turn round. He could sense their presence behind him—two men—no, three. And the door had closed with a depressingly solid sound. "Don't switch it off," Emerson ordered. "No, sir," said Ramses, who had had no intention of doing so. There were three more men behind the counter. They were muffled in long, enveloping robes, and the scarfs wound round their heads and faces concealed everything except their eyes. One of them flinched and raised a hand to his brow as the torch beam found him. "Turn it off," he repeated. "Here is light enough." He struck a match and lit a lamp—an earthenware bowl filled with oil with a floating wick. Carrying it, he came out from behind the counter, staying at a safe distance, and motioned them to one side. "Now?" Ramses inquired in English. "We may as well find out what this is all about. No sense in starting a row if we don't have to." Backing away, Emerson went on in Arabic. "Is it money you want?" The leader spat on the floor. "We have been paid. We want information. No harm will come to you if you tell us." The fellow wasn't a good strategist, Ramses thought. He and his father were in a better position with their backs against the wall—or rather, against the motley collection of goods that hung from hooks or filled various sacks. The six confronted them in a rough semicircle. No sign of a firearm, but all six had knives. "How do I know I can trust you not to harm us?" Emerson asked. His voice quavered a little. Ramses smiled to himself. The man must be a fool if he believed the Father of Curses could be so easily intimidated. He wasn't a fool, nor were the others. They stood their ground and the leader's voice hardened. "Do not play games with me. Where is he?" "Who?" Emerson inquired curiously. "You know! Speak or my knife will drink your heart's blood." "Now that is nonsense," Emerson declared. "What good would that do you?" The leader's laugh was probably meant to sound sinister. "He would come to avenge you, and then he would be at my mercy." Emerson let out a snort of amusement. Feet apart, hands in his pockets, he seemed perfectly at ease. "You sound like my wife. I might consider an exchange of information. Who paid you to lure us here?" One of the men plucked urgently at the sleeve of the leader. Ramses, whose hearing was excellent, understood a few words of the whispered comment. "He will not. . . fool's errand." The other henchmen shared his doubts. They began backing away. They were all now between the Emersons and the door. "One last chance," the leader said. "Will you speak?" "Certainly not," said Emerson, tiring of the game. He took his hands out of his pockets. They were empty—but nonetheless lethal for that, as all men in Egypt knew. Ramses drew his knife, prepared to get between his father and the leader; before he could move, the man flung the lamp onto the floor. The pottery shell smashed, spraying oil. Flames leaped up, feeding on the spilled oil and the scraps of paper and other debris. Their assailants piled out the door, yelling in alarm. The leader was the last to go. "Burn then!" he shouted, melodramatic to the last. "If you change your mind, call out and we will free you." The door slammed. Chapter Two From Manuscript H (Continued) Ramses jumped back away from the flames licking at his feet. The fire was between them and the door. He didn't doubt it was locked or barred in some way and he didn't believe for a moment that their attackers would hang about long enough to reply to a call for help. "Shall we go?" he asked. "Hmph," said Emerson. His face was a devilish mask of black shadow and flickering red light. "Can't let the place burn, can we? Your mother would not approve of such irresponsible behavior." As he spoke he picked up one of the half-filled sacks and upended its contents onto the fire. Ramses opened his mouth to protest, and then realized that—of course—Emerson had selected the one substance available that would smother the fire without feeding it. Salt. A cloud of acrid-smelling smoke arose. A few last flickering flames awoke crystalline sparkles in the white heap. Coughing and swearing, Emerson stamped out the flames, leaving the room in darkness except for the beam of Ramses's torch. "We must make certain the shopkeeper and his family haven't been harmed," he said, and led the way toward the back of the shop. A curtained doorway behind the counter led to a storage room and a narrow flight of stairs. The rooms on the first floor were unoccupied except for one, whose door was held fast by a wooden wedge. Emerson pulled it out and opened the door, to be greeted by wails and shrieks from a group of people huddled together in the far corner. "It is I, the Father of Curses," Emerson bellowed over the uproar. He took Ramses's hand and turned the torch onto his own face. "You are safe. The evil men have gone." It took a while to calm the terrified family—man and wife, aged grandmother, and six children. Emerson had to take the old lady by the shoulders and shake her before she stopped screeching. "Gently, Father," Ramses said in alarm. "Ah," said Grandma, subsiding. "It is indeed the strong hands of the Father of Curses. Alhamdullilah, he has saved us." They knew nothing of the men who had burst into the shop as it was closing and herded them upstairs. The intruders had threatened to cut their throats if they called out or tried to escape. Relief changed to groans when they saw the mess in the shop. "A full bag of salt!" The owner groaned. "It was worth ten pounds!" The bag had only been half full, and it wasn't worth a tenth of the price he had mentioned, but Emerson dispensed coins with a lavish hand. On the whole, the family had probably made a profit from the affair, as their smiling faces indicated. As Ramses had expected, there was no sign of their attackers. Roused by the disturbance, the neighbors had turned out to help, and lingered to find out what was going on. Several of them claimed to have seen sinister figures, robed in black like afrits, running away from the shop. The descriptions included long fangs and burning red eyes. In other words, no one had seen anyone. Emerson handed out more coins to the wide-eyed children in the crowd and patted a few on the head. They were unable to escape their admirers until the shopkeeper and Grandma had finished telling everyone about the hideous dangers from which they had been saved by the Father of Curses and the Brother of Demons. (Ramses had never been entirely certain whether this Egyptian epithet was meant as a compliment.) After assuring the audience that the evil men would not return, they made their way back to the river. "Damn," said Emerson. "Did you get a good-enough look at any of them to be able to recognize him again?" "One of them had a scar on his jaw. I saw it when the scarf slipped. But I doubt they'll stay around to be identified. They're a ruthless lot. D'you think they'd actually have let the place burn, with those poor devils locked in upstairs?" "My dear boy, you exaggerate. The family could have got out the window at any time, and the fire was no more than a distraction to keep us from following them. If they had meant us harm they'd have jumped us as soon as we entered the room. Six to two are reasonably good odds. All in all, I would say they were among the less competent of the opponents we have encountered over the years." "You know who they're after, don't you?" "One name leaps to mind," Emerson admitted. "What the devil do you suppose he's been up to?" Between concern for her husband and fear for the children, Nefret was understandably uneasy. I prescribed a glass of warm milk, and would have slipped a little laudanum into it if she had not been watching me closely. "Really," I said, "it was too bad of Emerson to imply there was danger to the children." "I should be with them," Nefret murmured. "If you pop into their room at this hour you will alarm them unnecessarily. The dog is outside their window, and I sent Jamad to stand in the corridor. Now come to the sitting room. There is no use trying to sleep until they get back." No one else was asleep. The servants knew what was going on, theyalways do; Fatima hovered, offering food and a variety of drinks. Nefret was finally persuaded to drink her milk, nicely seasoned with cardamom and nutmeg. "Has Ramses discussed the idea of your spending the winter in Cairo?" I asked, in an attempt to turn her thoughts to a less worrisome subject. Nefret nodded. She had, at my urging, assumed a comfortable dressing gown and slippers. I myself lifted her feet onto a hassock and put a pillow behind her. She smiled faintly and pushed a loosened lock of golden hair away from her face. "Yes, we talked about it. He's torn, Mother. And so am I. We love Luxor and our house, and the family. But I begin to wonder whether we might be better off—" "Safer, you mean. It is true that we seem to attract unprincipled persons." I sipped my whiskey. Warm milk is all very well for some, but there is nothing like a whiskey and soda for calming the nerves. The minutes pass slowly when one is concerned for loved ones. I made an effort. We discussed various candidates for the staff, and agreed that two in particular stood out—Miss Malraux, and a young Egyptian, Nadji Farid. Nefret made an effort too, but as the slow seconds ticked by she fell silent, her golden head bowed. Fatima dozed in her chair. I was not at all drowsy. Having finished my whiskey, I rose and tiptoed out of the room. The veranda was dark, the door barred on the inside. I stood there for a time, looking out across the stretch of moon-silvered sand. Nothing moved along the road to the river. Then I became aware of an indistinct form just outside, half concealed by the twining roses. The sharp turn of my head brought an immediate response. "It is I, Sitt Hakim." "Selim?" I whispered. "What are you doing here?" "Standing guard, Sitt. Why did you not send for me?" "Fatima did, I suppose? Yes. I am sorry you were disturbed, it was unnecessary." He replied with one of his father's favorite adages. "There is no harm in protecting oneself from that which does not exist, Sitt. It would bring shame upon us if we failed to keep you safe." "You have never failed us. You may as well be comfortable, Selim. Come in and keep me company." I unbarred the door. He slipped soundlessly in. In the dim starlight I saw the gleam of the knife at his belt. We sat in companionable silence, waiting, until a faint sound turned our eyes toward the door of the house. At the sight of the white form in the doorway, Selim let out a stifled cry. "It's only Nefret," I said. "Dear girl, I had hoped you were asleep." "Selim?" She peered at him through the darkness. "I might have expected you would be here. It's all right, they will be home soon." I didn't ask how she knew. Dearly though I loved her, I found Nefret a bit uncanny at times. Since they were children she had always known when Ramses was in imminent danger—"a fear, a feeling, a nightmare," as she had once put it. So strong was that bond that it had never misled her, and I had seen it demonstrated often enough to believe in it, as I believed in my dreams of Abdullah. She sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, and eyes turned to the screened window beside her. My