Tomb Of The Golden Bird Part 1

TOMB OF THE GOLDEN BIRD.

Elizabeth Peters.

Chapter One

"Ramses!" Seated on the terrace of Shepheard's Hotel, I watched with interest as a tall young man stopped and turned, as if in response to the calling of his name. Yet this was not the fourteenth century B.C., but the year of our Lord 1922; and the tall man was no ancient pharaoh. Though his bronzed skin and black hair resembled those of an Egyptian, his height and bearing proclaimed him for what he was-an English gentleman of the finest quality. He was also my son, "Ramses" Walter Peabody Emerson, who was better known in Egypt by his sobriquet. He raised his hand to his brow, and realized that (as usual) he was not wearing a hat. In lieu of removing that which was not present he inclined his head in greeting, and one of his rare, attractive smiles warmed his thin face. I craned my neck and half rose from my chair in order to see the individual who had occasioned this response, but the crowds that filled the street blocked my view. Cairo traffic had grown worse since my early days in Egypt; motorcars now mingled with donkeys and camels, carts and carriages, and the disgusting effluvions their enginesemitted offended the nostrils more than the odors of the above-mentioned beasts-to which, admittedly, I had become accustomed. I deduced that the person my son addressed was of short stature, and most probably female (basing this latter a.s.sumption on Ramses's attempt to remove his hat and the affability of his smile). A portly person wearing a very large turban and mounted on a very small donkey pa.s.sed in front of my son, and by the time he had gone by Ramses was wending his way toward the steps of the hotel and the table where I sat awaiting him. "Who was that?" I demanded. "Good afternoon to you too, Mother." Ramses bent to kiss my cheek. "Good afternoon. Who was that?" "Who was whom?" "Ramses," I said warningly. My son abandoned his teasing. "I believe you are not acquainted with her, Mother. Her name is Suzanne Malraux, and she studied with Mr. Petrie." "Ah yes," I said. "You are mistaken, Ramses, I heard of her last year from Professor Petrie. He described her work as adequate." "That sounds like Petrie." Ramses sat down and adjusted his long legs under the table. "But you must give him credit; he has always been willing to train women in archaeology." "I have never denied Petrie any of the acclaim that is his due, Ramses." Ramses's smile acknowledged the ambiguity of the statement. "Training is one thing, employment another. She has been unable to find a position." I wondered if Ramses was implying that we take the young woman on to our staff. She might have approached him rather than his father or me. He was, I admit, more approachable, particularly by young ladies. Let me hasten to add that he did not invite the approaches. He was devoted to his beautiful wife Nefret, but it might be asking too much of a lady who is approaching a certain time of life to allow her husband closea.s.sociation with a younger female. Miss Malraux was half French. And she was bound to be attracted to Ramses. Women were. His gentle manners (my contribution) and athletic frame (his father's), his somewhat exotic good looks, and a certain je ne sais quoi (in fact I knew perfectly well what it was, but refused to employ the vulgar terms currently in use . . .). No, despite our need for additional staff, it might not be advisable. "Have you had any interesting encounters?" Ramses asked, looking over the people taking tea on the terrace. They were the usual sort- well dressed, well groomed, and almost all white-if that word can be used to describe complexions that ranged from pimply pale to sunburned crimson. "Lord and Lady Allenby stopped to say h.e.l.lo," I replied. "He was most agreeable, but I understand why people refer to him as the Bull. He has that set to his jaw." "He has to be forceful. As high commissioner he is under fire from the imperialists in the British government and the Nationalists in Egypt. On the whole, I can only commend his efforts." I did not want to talk politics. The subject was too depressing. "There is your father," I said. "Late as usual." Ramses looked over his shoulder at the street. There was no mistaking Emerson. He is one of the finest-looking men I have ever beheld: raven locks and eyes of a penetrating sapphirine blue, a form as impressive as it had been when I first met him, he stood a head taller than those around him and his booming voice was audible some distance away. He was employing it freely, greeting acquaintances in a mixture of English and Arabic, the latter liberally salted with the expletives that have given him the Egyptian sobriquet of Father of Curses. Egyptians had become accustomed to this habit and replied with broad grins to remarks such as "How are you, Ibrahim, you old son of an incontinent camel?" My distinguished husband, the finest Egyptologist of this or any era, had earned the respect of the Egyptians with whom he had lived for so many years because he treated them as he did his fellow archaeologists. That is to say, he cursed all of them impartially when theydid something that vexed him. It was not difficult to vex Emerson. Few people lived up to his rigid professional standards, and time had not mellowed his quick temper. "He's got someone with him," said Ramses. "Well, well," I said. "What a surprise." The individual who followed in Emerson's mighty wake was none other than Howard Carter. Perhaps I should explain the reason for my sarcasm, for such it was. Howard was one of our oldest friends, an archaeologist whose career had undergone several reversals and recoveries. He was presently employed by Lord Carnarvon to search for royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings. Searching for royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings was Emerson's great ambition-one he could not fulfill until Carnarvon gave up his concession. Rumor had it that his lords.h.i.+p was about to do so, having come to the conclusion-shared by most Egyptologists-that the Valley had yielded all it ever would. Emerson did not share that conclusion. At the end of the previous season he had admitted to me that he believed there was at least one more royal tomb to be found-that of the little-known king Tutankhamon. He had done his best, without actually lying, to conceal this belief from Howard. One of the reasons why we had come to Egypt so much earlier than was our custom was to discover what plans Howard and his patron had made for the coming season. One look at Emerson's expressive countenance told me what I wanted to know. Despite the heartiness of his vociferous greetings, his sapphirine eyes were dull, his well-cut lips set in a downward curve. Carnarvon had not abandoned his concession. However, Howard Carter appeared no more cheerful. Nattily dressed as was his habit in a tweed suit and bow tie, a cigarette holder in his hand, he addressed me with a rather stiff bow before a.s.suming the seat I indicated. "How nice to see you, Howard," I said. "We tried several times this summer to communicate with you, but without success." "Sorry," Howard muttered. "I was in and out, you know. Busy." "I ran into him by accident at the office of the director," said Emerson, who had been haunting that spot for two days. He relapsed into gloomy silence. Ramses gave me a meaningful look and tried to revive the conversation. "Like ourselves, you are out early this year, Carter." "Had to be." The waiter approached with a tray. He had, with the efficiency one expects at Shepheard's, noted our number and brought cups and biscuits for all. "The area where I mean to excavate is very popular with tourists," Howard resumed. "Want to get it over before they arrive in full force." "Ah," said Ramses. "So Lord Carnarvon has decided on another season. We had heard he was thinking of giving up the firman." Emerson made a soft growling sound, but Howard perked up a trifle. "One more season, at least. I persuaded him we must examine that small triangle we left unexcavated near Ramses VI before we can claim we have finished the job we set out to do." He glanced at Emerson, and added, "I have the Professor to thank for that. Initially his lords.h.i.+p was of the opinion that another season in the Valley would be a waste of time, but when I told him that Professor Emerson had offered to take over the concession and my services, Carnarvon had second thoughts." "Naturally," I said, managing not to look at Emerson. "Well, Howard, we wish you good fortune and good hunting. When are you off to Luxor?" "Not for a while. I want to visit the antiquities dealers. Though I don't suppose I will come across anything as remarkable as that statuette you found last year." "I doubt you will," said Emerson, cheering up a bit. Howard asked about our own plans, and we thanked him for allowing us to continue working in the West Valley, which was properly part of his lords.h.i.+p's concession. After we had finished tea and Howard had taken his leave, I turned to Emerson. "Don't say it," muttered my husband. "Emerson, you know I would never reproach you for failing to follow my advice. I did warn you, however, that making that offer to Lord Carnarvon would have an effect contrary to what you had hoped. Given your reputation, your interest was bound to inspire a spirit of compet.i.tion in-" "I told you-" Emerson shouted. People at a nearby table turned to stare. Emerson glared at them, and they found other objects of interest. With a visible effort he turned the glare into a pained smile, directed at me. "I beg your pardon, my dear Peabody." That brief moment of temper was the most encouraging thing I had seen for months. Ever since my near demise the previous spring Emerson had treated me as if I were still on my deathbed. He hadn't shouted at me once. It was very exasperating. Emerson is never more imposing than when he is in a rage, and I missed our animated discussions. I smiled fondly at him. "Ah, well, it is water over the dam. We will not discuss it further. Ramses, when are Nefret and the children due back from Atiyeh?" Ramses consulted his watch. "They ought to have been here by now, but you know how difficult it is to extract the twins from their admirers in the village." "You ought to have gone with them," said Emerson, still looking for someone to quarrel with. "Nonsense," I said briskly. "Selim and Daoud and Fatima went with them, which was only proper, since they wanted to visit with their friends and kinfolk. They ought to be able to keep two five-year-olds from taking harm." "It would take more than three or four people to keep Charla from doing something harmful, to herself or others," said Emerson darkly. In this a.s.sumption he was justified, since his granddaughter had a more adventurous spirit than her brother, and an explosive temper. However, it was not Charla who returned cradled in the muscular arms of Daoud. We had returned to our sitting room in the hotel, and when Emerson saw David John limp as a dead fish and green-faced as a pea, he sprang up from his chair with a resounding oath. "h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation! What is wrong with the boy? Daoud, I trusted you to-"

"He's drunk," shouted David John's twin sister, her black eyes s.h.i.+ning and her black curls bouncing as she jumped up and down with excitement. "The boys gave him beer and dared him to drink it." She added regretfully, "They wouldn't let me have any, they said it was only for men." David John, who was as fair as his sister was dark, raised a languid head. "I wanted to know what it felt like." "Well, now you know," I said, for of course I had immediately diagnosed the cause of the boy's malaise. "It doesn't feel very nice, does it? Put him to bed, Daoud, and let him sleep it off." "I'll do it," said Ramses, taking the limp little body from Daoud, whose face was a picture of guilt. Daoud is a very large man with a very large face, so the guilt was extensive. Ramses gave him a slap on the back. "It wasn't your fault, Daoud." From the quirk at the corner of his mouth I knew he was remembering the time he had returned from the village after a similar debauch, though not in a similar condition. He had prudently rid himself of the liquor all over the floor of Selim's house before leaving the village. "Are Selim and Fatima downstairs?" I asked. "They were afraid to come up, I suppose. Tell them it's all right, Daoud. I expect you were all busy watching Charla." "But I was good," Charla informed us. She ran to her mother, who had sunk into a chair. "Wasn't I, Mama? Not like David John." In a way I couldn't blame her for gloating a trifle. Usually she was the one who got in trouble. Nefret patted the child's dusty curls. "No, you weren't. Climbing the palm tree was not a good plan. She got halfway up before Daoud plucked her down," she informed us. "But I didn't get drunk, Mama." "You must give her that," said Emerson, chuckling. "Come and give Grandpapa a kiss, you virtuous young creature." "She is absolutely filthy, Emerson," I said, catching hold of Charla's collar as she started to comply. "Come along, Charla, we will have a nice long bath and then Grandpapa will come in to kiss you good night. No, Nefret, you sit still. You look exhausted." The advantage of having the children spend the day with Selim and Daoud's kin at the nearby village of Atiyeh was that the enterprise usually left them so tired they went to bed without a fuss. David John was already asleep when I turned Charla over to Fatima, a.s.sured the latter that we did not consider she had neglected her duty, and returned to the sitting room to join my husband and son. Emerson was pouring the whiskey. Owing in part to our early departure from England, we four were the only members of our staff in Egypt. In fact, we were currently the only members of the staff. Ramses's best friend David, our nephew by marriage, had finally admitted he would prefer to spend the winter in England with his wife, Lia, and their children, pursuing his successful career as an artist and ill.u.s.trator. (He had admitted this under pressure from me, and over Emerson's plaintive objections.) Emerson's brother Walter and his wife, my dear friend Evelyn, who had been out with us before, had given up active careers in the field; Walter's chief interest was in linguistics, and Evelyn was fully occupied with grandmotherhood. She had quite a lot of grandchildren (to be honest, I had rather lost track of the exact number), from Lia and their other sons and daughters. Other individuals whom we had hoped to employ the previous season had turned out to be murderers or victims of murder-a not uncommon occurrence with us, I must admit. Selim, our Egyptian foreman, was as skilled an excavator as most European scholars, and his crew had learned Emerson's methods. Still, in my opinion we needed more people, particularly since I was determined to carry out my scheme of allowing Ramses and Nefret to spend the winter in Cairo instead of joining us in Luxor. I hadn't proposed this to Emerson as yet, since I knew he would howl. Emerson is devoted to his son and daughter-in-law, as they are to him, but he tends to regard them as extensions of himself, with the same ambitions and interests. The dear children had given us loyal service for many years, and they were now ent.i.tled to pursue their own careers. I a.s.sumed that Emerson and I would be going on to Luxor, though Iwasn't certain of that. Emerson had reverted to his infuriating habit of keeping his plans secret, even from me, until the last possible moment. That moment, in my opinion, had come. "Very well, Emerson," I said, after a few refres.h.i.+ng sips of whiskey. "The moment has come. You have had several interviews with the director of the Antiquities Service, and since you did not return from them in a state of profane exasperation I presume M. Lacau was agreeable to your request. What site has he allotted to us?" "You know," Emerson said. "I told you before." "No, you did not." "The West Valley?" inquired Ramses. Emerson, who had been antic.i.p.ating the prolongation of suspense, looked chagrined. "Er . . . yes. Quite right." "What about Carter and Carnarvon?" I persisted. "If their dig in the East Valley comes up empty, won't they want to move to the West Valley? It is properly part of their firman." "If-that is to say, when-they give up the East Valley, Carnarvon may decide to end the season," Emerson said. "If they do continue, it will most likely be in the tomb of Amenhotep III. Carter made a very cursory excavation there in 1919. It's at the far end of the West Valley from the area in which we would be working. There's room for half a dozen expeditions." I seized my opening. "It would make better sense for us to join forces with Cyrus Vandergelt at the tomb of Ay. We are short on staff, and Cyrus has-" A timid tap at the door interrupted me. "Now who the devil can that be?" Emerson demanded. "I am ready for dinner. Where's Nefret?" "She'll be here directly," Ramses said. "She wanted to bathe and change." "Answer the door, Emerson," I said impatiently. The suffragi on duty outside bowed low and handed Emerson a slip of pasteboard. "The gentleman is waiting, Father of Curses." "He can d.a.m.n well go on waiting," said Emerson, inspecting thecard. "Of all the impertinence. It's that rascal Montague, Peabody. I won't see him." Emerson seldom wants to see anyone, but he had a particular animus against Sir Malcolm Page Henley de Montague. He was a wealthy collector of antiquities, a category to which my spouse objects on principle, and a very irritating man in his own right. I doubted that he had called upon us from motives of friends.h.i.+p. However, it is advantageous to discover the motives of such persons in order to guard oneself against their machinations. "Now, Emerson, don't be rude," I said. "We can't go down to dinner until Nefret is ready, so we may as well hear what he has to say. Show him in, Ali." Sir Malcolm carried a silver-headed stick, not for support but for swatting at the unfortunate Egyptian servants he employed. Carefully doffing his hat so as not to disturb his coiffured mane of white hair, he bowed and greeted us all in turn. "It is good to see you back in Egypt," he began. "Bah," said Emerson. "What do you want?" "Pray take a chair, Sir Malcolm," I said, frowning at Emerson. "We were about to go down to dinner, but we can spare you a few minutes." The door, which Ali had closed behind Sir Malcolm, opened again to admit Nefret. Her eyes widened at the sight of our visitor, but she extended her hand and let him bow over it. His look of admiration was justified; she looked very lovely, although the styles of that year were not nearly so pretty as they had been in my youth. The frock, of a soft blue that matched her eyes, had no sleeves, only narrow straps supporting a beaded bodice, and the skirt reached just below her knees. At least she had not given in to the fad of cutting her hair short; its red-gold locks were swept into a knot atop her head. "I apologize for coming at an inopportune time," said Sir Malcolm. "Since I know the Professor dislikes social conventions, I will come straight to the point. May I ask where you intend to work this season?" "The West Valley of the Kings," said Emerson shortly. "Not the East Valley?" "No." "Then Carnarvon has not abandoned the concession?" "No." I was surprised that Emerson had not informed Sir Malcolm at the outset that it was none of his (expletive) business where we intended to excavate. He can control his temper when it is to his advantage to do so, and I realized that, like myself, he was curious about the gentleman's motives. "Ah," said Sir Malcolm. "I would give a great deal to have the firman for that area." Emerson shrugged and took out his watch. Sir Malcolm persisted. "I believe you are of the same mind. You attempted to persuade Carnarvon to give up the concession to you, did you not?" "Good Gad," said Emerson, his color rising. "Is there no end to gossip in this business? Where did you hear that?" "From an unimpeachable but necessarily anonymous source," said Sir Malcolm smoothly. "Come, Professor, let us not fence. You believe Carter will find a tomb-specifically, that of Tutankhamon. So do I." Emerson returned his watch to his pocket and stared fixedly at Sir Malcolm. After waiting in vain for a verbal reaction, Sir Malcolm was forced to continue. "Evidence of such a tomb exists. You know it and I know it. Theodore Davis believed he had found it, but he was wrong; that cache of miscellaneous objects was clearly leftover materials from Tutankhamon's burial. The statuette that was in your possession last year obviously came from his tomb. Tomb 55, the only other East Valley tomb of the same period, is directly across the way from the area Carter means to investigate." "I do know that," said Emerson impatiently. "But the evidence, such as it is, is irrelevant. Carnarvon has the concession, and that is that." Sir Malcolm leaned forward. "What if Lacau could be persuaded to revoke it?" There was a moment of silence. Then Emerson said softly, "By you?" "There are ways," Sir Malcolm murmured. "He wouldn't award it to me, but he could hardly deny an excavator of your reputation." "Supposing you could accomplish that," Emerson said, fingering the cleft in his chin. "What would you want in return?" "Only the right to share the expenses and the ...er...rewards," Sir Malcom said eagerly. "Emerson," I cried, unable to contain myself. "You would not enter into such an immoral-" "Hush, Peabody." Emerson raised a magisterial hand. "It seems to me, Sir Malcolm, that you are risking your influence on a very slim hope. Even if such a tomb exists, even if it is in the area in question, the likelihood is that it was looted in antiquity, like all the other royal tombs." "It's not much of a financial risk," Sir Malcolm declared. He thought he had won his case; his eyes shone with poorly concealed excitement. "You, of all men, know it doesn't cost all that much to excavate here. Wages are low and one can manage quite well without expensive equipment. Carnarvon may complain about getting a low return on his investment, but the return can't be measured in terms of objects found. It's the thrill of the hunt, the gamble!" For a moment Emerson's expressive countenance mirrored the enthusiasm that had transformed that of our visitor. Then he shook his head. "The return is in terms of knowledge gained. Your protestations would be more convincing, Sir Malcolm, if you were not known as a rabid collector. I cannot partic.i.p.ate in such a scheme. I bid you good evening." Sir Malcolm rose to his feet. "I am staying here at the hotel and I can be reached at any time." "Good evening," said Emerson. Sir Malcolm smiled and shrugged, and started for the door. "Oh," he said, turning. "It nearly slipped my mind. It is common knowledge that you are shorthanded this year. I know a well-qualified fellow who-" "Good evening!" Emerson shouted. "Well," I exclaimed, after Ali had shown the gentleman out. "What effrontery! Does the man never know when to give up?" "He is a collector," said Emerson, in the same tone in which hemight have said, "He is a murderer." "And he is still smarting about losing the statuette to Vandergelt." The little golden statue, which had been temporarily in our hands the year before, was certainly enough to inspire the l.u.s.t of any collector. An exquisitely fas.h.i.+oned image of a king, it had been identified (by us) as that of the young Tutankhamon, stolen from his tomb shortly after his burial by a thief whose confession had miraculously survived among the papyri found (by us) at the workmen's village of Deir el Medina. Tutankhamon's tomb was one of the few that had never been located, and Ramses's translation of the papyrus had led Emerson to believe it yet lay hidden in the royal valley. He was not the only one to think so, as Sir Malcolm's offer proved. "Do you suppose Sir Malcolm really has that much influence?" I asked. Ramses said thoughtfully, "It's possible. But of course any collaboration with a man like that is out of the question. It would ruin your reputation, Father." "I am not such a fool as to be unaware of that," Emerson retorted. "Besides," I added, "you said last spring that you would leave the matter in the hands of Fate. Fate appears to have made up her mind. It would be dishonorable to do anything more." "I am not such a fool as to be unaware of that, either," said Emerson somewhat reproachfully. "As for taking on a staff member recommended by him, I would as soon hire a-a d.a.m.ned journalist. Where did he get the notion that we need more people?" I was about to tell him when Nefret jumped up. "I'm ravenous! Shall we go down to dinner now?" Emerson had had a trying day, what with one thing and another, so I attempted to keep the dinner conversation light and cheerful. (It is a well-known fact that acrimony at mealtime adversely affects the digestion.) Finding a neutral topic was not easy; any mention of archaeology would remind Emerson of his failure to obtain the concession for the Valley, and a discussion of family matters might start him complaining about David's absence. After we retired to our room I a.s.sumed my most becoming dressing gown and settled myself at the toilet table to give my hair its usual one hundred strokes. Emerson likes to see my hair down, but even this did not rouse him from his melancholy mood. Instead of preparing for bed, he sat down in an armchair and took out his pipe. "I wish you wouldn't smoke in our bedroom," I said. "The smell permeates my hair." "What's wrong with that?" Emerson demanded. "I like the smell of pipe smoke." But he laid the pipe aside without lighting it. I put down my brush and turned to face him. "I am sorry, my dear, that Lord Carnarvon refused to yield to you." "Don't rub it in," Emerson grumbled. The matter was more serious than I had supposed. More drastic methods were required. I went to him and sat down on his lap, my arms round his neck. "Hmmm," said Emerson, his dour expression lightening. "That is very pleasant. What are you up to now, Peabody?" "Must I always have an ulterior motive when I invite my husband's attentions? In fact I was about to thank you again for keeping your vow. You said last year, when I was so ill-" "That I would give up every d.a.m.ned tomb in Egypt if you were spared to me." Emerson's strong arms enclosed me. "You are right to remind me, Peabody. I have been behaving badly. I shall not err in that fas.h.i.+on again." I felt quite certain that he would, but I gave him credit for good intentions, and gave him a little something else besides. From Ma.n.u.script H Insofar as Ramses was concerned, the sooner they left for Luxor, the better. Despite his claim of disinterest, Emerson was obviously up to no good. He spent more time than usual at the Museum and the office ofthe Directorate of Antiquities, and he cultivated Howard Carter in a highly suspicious manner. The city itself had an uneasy feel. The official declaration of independence in February had satisfied no one. The high commissioner, Lord Allenby, was vilified by the imperialists in the British government for giving too much power to Egypt; the Egyptian nationalists were furious with Britain for exiling their revered leader Saad Zaghlul; the king, Fuad, wanted to be an absolute monarch instead of being bound by the limits allowed him by the proposed const.i.tution. Ramses was glad his friend David had not come out that year. David had been involved with one of the revolutionary groups before the war, and although his service to Britain since had won him a pardon, he was still devoted to the cause of independence. Some of his former a.s.sociates held a grudge against him for what they considered his betrayal of their cause; others wanted nothing more than to involve him in their plots and counterplots. His mother was plotting too. Ramses began to get an idea of what she was up to when she announced she meant to give "one of my popular little dinner parties." It had been a habit of hers to meet with their archaeological colleagues soon after their arrival in Egypt, to catch up on the news, as she put it. The war had interrupted this pleasant custom because so many of their friends were on the front lines or engaged in work for the War Office. When she announced her intentions Emerson grumbled but gave in without a struggle. Howard Carter was to be one of the guests. When they gathered in the elegant dining salon at Shepheard's it was something of a shock to see so many new faces. The Quibells were friends from the old days, as was Carter, but many of the guests were of the new generation. Among them was Suzanne Malraux. She had come alone, and when he saw her standing in the doorway Ramses went to welcome her. She was a wispy-looking little thing, with large protuberant blue eyes and silvery fair hair so fine, the slightest breeze lifted it around her small head. She made Ramses think of an astonished dandelion. He presented her to his wife and parents. Nefret's greeting was warm; she must have taken Suzanne's hesitation for shyness, and she always went out of her way to encourage career-minded young women. She was only too well aware of the difficulties they faced, after the trouble she herself had had in obtaining her medical degree and in starting a woman's hospital in Cairo. His mother was pleasant but less effusive. After subjecting Suzanne to a searching stare she drew the girl aside and began to talk about her studies with Petrie. She managed to have private conversations with some of the other younger guests as well, and Ramses began to wonder what she was up to. His father was too busy with old friends to notice. Emerson objected to his wife's social engagements as a matter of form, but he generally had a roaring good time once they were underway. All in all, it was a successful affair, with champagne flowing freely and tongues wagging just as freely. Next day Ramses managed to get his mother alone. She had taken up embroidery again, and was stabbing at a grubby sc.r.a.p of cloth when he joined her in the sitting room. Putting it aside with evident relief, she invited him to take a chair. "A pleasant evening, was it not?" she inquired. Yes. "Your father was impressed by Miss Malraux. I thought she stood up to his quizzing admirably." "She's not the shrinking violet I had believed her to be," Ramses admitted. "Coming alone took some courage." "It was a declaration of her desire to be judged for herself, without the support of a man. Nefret liked her too." "Yes. Mother, you are scheming again. What is it this time?" "There is a very nice house to let in Roda. It has a large walled garden, servants' quarters, even a nursery." "I see." He only wondered why he hadn't foreseen it. Watching him, she picked up the embroidery again and waited. "Have you taken the place?" he inquired. "Goodness no, I would never venture to do that without Nefret's and your approval." "Mother-" "My dear boy." She leaned forward and fixed him with those steely gray eyes. "It is time the children were in school. Time for Nefret to carry on her work at the hospital. Time for you to have ... er ... time to concentrate on your interest in philology. Several of the young people we met last night are admirably qualified, including Miss Malraux. They can never replace you and Nefret, but they deserve a chance, and you two deserve the opportunity to pursue your own careers." "Have you broached this scheme to Father?" Ramses's thoughts were in a whirl. He had a pretty fair idea of how Nefret would react. She missed the hospital and the chance to practice surgery, and although she adored his parents, their constant presence was bound to be a burden at times. As for himself . . . "I don't know," he said slowly. "It would be such a change. I have to get used to the idea." "Talk it over with Nefret. You needn't decide immediately. It is early in the year and there are always houses to let." She smoothed out the sc.r.a.p of embroidery and frowned at it. "And it may take a while to convince your father." "We can at least start out the season as usual," Ramses said. "In Luxor, you mean?" She smiled with perfect understanding. "Of course. You will want to revisit your old haunts and see old friends." "The children won't like living in Cairo." "I don't suppose they will, not at first. They have become accustomed to being the centers of their little universe-not so little a universe at that," she amended. "For it includes most of Luxor. They are becoming spoiled. The change will be good for their characters." Emerson might have lingered in Cairo had not two untoward events changed his mind. The first occurred when the entire family had gone to Giza for the day. The tourist season had barely begun, and the site was relatively uncrowded, but it offered innumerable opportunities for an adventurous child to get in trouble, with its open tomb pits and temptingly climbable pyramids. David John, who was developing ataste for Egyptology, stuck close to his grandfather, peppering him with questions, while the rest of them tried to keep close on Charla's heels. It took all three of them. "We ought to have brought Fatima," Ramses said to his mother, after he had plucked Charla from the first step of the Great Pyramid. How she had got up there he couldn't imagine; he had only turned his back for a minute, and the steplike blocks were almost three feet high. "Fatima is no longer a young woman," said his mother. "She cannot keep up with Charla. Charla, do not climb the pyramid. It is dangerous." "Then you take me up," Charla pleaded, wrapping her arms round her father's waist. Her big black eyes, fringed with long lashes, were hard to resist, but Ramses shook his head. The idea of being responsible for his peripatetic daughter on that steep four-hundred-foot climb made his hair stand on end. "When you are older, perhaps." They returned in time for tea and handed the children over to Fatima for intensive was.h.i.+ng. Ramses and Nefret were about to follow their example when his mother burst into the room without so much as a knock. "I beg your pardon," she said, seeing him s.h.i.+rtless and Nefret unlacing her boots. "But this is important. Our rooms have been searched. What about yours?" Ramses gazed helplessly round the room. Nefret stepped out of her boots and went to the bureau. "He wouldn't notice unless his precious papers had been disturbed," she said. "I think. . . Yes, Mother, someone has been looking through this drawer. The paper lining is askew and my underwear isn't folded as neatly." "Perhaps it was the maid," Ramses suggested. His mother was p.r.o.ne to melodramatic fantasies. "The maids don't go into drawers," his mother said. "Is anything missing, Nefret?" "I don't think so." She opened her jewelry case. "It's all here. What about you?" His mother sat down and folded her hands. "Emerson of course claims he is missing several important papers, but he is always losing things." Ramses had gone through the doc.u.ments piled on his desk. "Nothing is missing. But you're right, someone has looked through them. Looking for what, do you suppose?" "Something small enough to be concealed under the drawer lining or in among one's-er-personal garments. That suggests a letter or paper." "I can't imagine what it could be," Nefret said. "You haven't received any strange messages or threatening letters, have you, Mother?" "Not so much as a mysterious treasure map. Dear me, how odd. Could it have been Sir Malcolm?" Ramses slipped back into his s.h.i.+rt. His mother clearly had no intention of leaving immediately; her eyes were bright and her brow furrowed with thought. "There's no reason to a.s.sume that," Ramses said. "You only want to catch him doing something illegal." "Yes, certainly. I know he was responsible for several dirty tricks last year, though I wasn't able to pin anything on him." She looked immensely pleased with herself for working in these bits of modern slang. Ramses sympathized with her feelings-he didn't trust Sir Malcolm either-but he felt obliged to protest. "What could he hope to find? Father hasn't any secret information about..."A horrible thought struck him. "Has he?" "If so, he has concealed it well." His mother didn't even look abashed at this implicit confession. In her opinion Emerson had no business concealing anything from her, so she was ent.i.tled to use any means possible to discover what he was hiding. "Let us see what information Ali can contribute." The suffragi was unable to contribute anything. He had not seen anyone enter or leave their rooms. This proved only that the hypothetical intruder had been cautious enough to avoid him. Ali had a number of guests in his charge and was frequently absent from his post attending to their requests. His "missing" papers having been located by his exasperated wife, Emerson was not inclined to take the matter seriously. It was the second incident that convinced him. At Nefret's strongly worded request, the party left for Luxor a few days later. The request followed Charla's escape from the hotel in the company of Ali the suffragi. They had been seen leaving the hotel but no one knew where they had gone afterward. It was late afternoon before the guilty pair returned. Charla was indescribably dirty, smeared with sugary substances, and completely unrepentant. Ali, who had obviously begun to have second thoughts about his seduction, went into hiding in a broom closet, from which Ramses dragged him by the collar. "She is not injured," said Charla's grandmother, holding her off at arm's length. "Ali wouldn't let anyone hurt me," Charla shouted. "He only did what I told him. We went to the suk and a nice man gave me money and we bought whatever I wanted!" "Nice man," Ramses repeated. "What was his name?" "He said he was a friend of Grandpapa's." She couldn't remember his name or what he looked like. Under questioning Ali could only say that he was dressed like a howadji, and that he had graying hair. "The Father of Curses has many friends," he insisted. "He knew you, he asked about all the family." The repentant Ali was let off with a stern warning, since, as Nefret pointed out, it was primarily Charla's fault. "She took ruthless advantage of his fondness for children and his awe of a member of the Father of Curses's family. Let's go on to Luxor as soon as possible. It's easier to keep track of the twins when they're in their own home." "Where the windows are barred and the entire household knows their little tricks," Ramses agreed. Fatima, who hadn't let go of David John since his sister turned up missing, let out a heartfelt groan of agreement. Officially she was housekeeper, not nurserymaid, and although Ramses didn't know her precise age, she was no longer a young woman. It took several people in the prime of life to keep up with the twins. Their house in Kent had been their English base for many years, its rose gardens lovingly tended by his mother, its grounds haunted by the descendants of the cats they had brought back from Egypt. Yet in a sense, returning to Luxor was coming home. It certainly was for his mother. If home is where the heart is, as she kept remarking, hers was in the ruins of the imperial city of ancient Egypt. Except for brief interludes at other sites, this was ...he tried to remember . . . their twenty-third season at Thebes. Or was it longer? She had, he thought sentimentally, grown old here-though he would never have used that word to her. She had built a house, and another for Nefret and him, made friends and lost them, discovered treasure, and dug through tons of sand. It wasn't quite the same for him, but when they stepped out of the train he felt a surge of-well, call it satisfaction. Their progress through the familiar streets of Luxor was slowed by hails from old friends and a few old foes. The sun was high in a cloudless sky when they reached the riverbank. The Nile flowed quick and swollen; it had reached maximum flood stage and would soon be subsiding, though, thanks to modern barrages and dams, its flow was now controlled so that water could be supplied during the formerly dry months of summer. The temperature was unpleasantly hot for October, and Emerson, who had the const.i.tution of a camel, was the only one who didn't keep mopping perspiration from his face. The twins were beside themselves with excitement, and it took all the adults to keep them from falling overboard. Leaving their baggage in the willing hands of men waiting on the west bank, they set out along the road that led through the cultivation and into the desert. The house his mother had caused to be built had a comfortable settled look, with green vines and blooming roses framing the arcaded windows of the veranda. The garden she had tended with such determination formed another patch of green behind and to one side; through the trees he could see the walls of his and Nefret's house. Every brick and every bloom was his mother's creation; it was no wonder she cherished it. Cheers from the a.s.sembled 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 swis.h.i.+ng. 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 pa.s.sed 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 pa.s.sages of the tombs. One thing hadn't changed: above the valley rose the pyramid-shaped peak representing the G.o.ddess 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 subst.i.tute for the pyramid, a symbol of the sun G.o.d 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 finis.h.i.+ng 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 d.a.m.ned 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 circ.u.mvented," 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, vanis.h.i.+ng 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 m.u.f.fled 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 amus.e.m.e.nt. 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 sh.e.l.l smashed, spraying oil. Flames leaped up, feeding on the spilled oil and the sc.r.a.ps of paper and other debris. Their a.s.sailants 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 Ma.n.u.script 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