Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [167]
“One never knows,” I replied. “Your father must believe there is some purpose in this expedition. Has he confided in you?”
“No. However, I think he wants to have a look at the place Kuentz showed us.”
“Where someone dropped various objects on you? Hmmm. I had forgotten to put that on my list. Wait just a minute.”
I removed the list from my pocket and opened the pencil case attached to my belt while Ramses watched with unconcealed amusement. “Why don’t you join Cyrus and rest for a bit?” he suggested.
Emerson and Nefret had forged ahead, leaving Cyrus seated on the ground with his back against a boulder. When we came up to him he was mopping his flushed, sweating face with a handkerchief.
“Are you all right, Cyrus?” I asked.
“Never been happier,” said Cyrus, between wheezes. “Take me a day . . . or two . . . to get back in shape . . .”
I told Ramses to go on and beckoned at Jamil. After handing each of us a water bottle, he seated himself on the ground a little distance away.
“You don’t appear to be enjoying yourself, Jamil,” I remarked.
Jamil shrugged. “This is not work for a man, Sitt Hakim.”
“What kind of work would you like to do?”
Another shrug.
“You must have some idea,” I persisted. “Some of your cousins and your uncles work for us. They earn good money and are respected.”
A slight curl of the boy’s lip indicated his view of that idea. “If archaeology does not interest you, there are other worthwhile careers,” I went on. “Cook, police officer—”
“Waiter, house servant,” said Cyrus, whose Arabic was good enough to enable him to follow the conversation. “His opportunities are limited, my dear. It isn’t right or just, but that’s the way the world is.”
“Ambition can o’erleap limitations,” I said. “Look at David. And at Selim and Abdullah, for that matter.” Jamil did not respond, even with a curl of the lip, so I poked him with my parasol to get his attention, and went on in Arabic, “You come of an honored family, Jamil. You too can be honored and respected if you work hard and study. There are those who will gladly help.”
“Yes, Sitt Hakim.” His smile would have been as charming as his sister’s if it had had her warmth.
“I am surprised to find such lack of ambition in a member of that family,” I remarked, as we continued on our way. “Perhaps my kindly little lecture will have some effect. He appeared to take it to heart.”
“Huh,” said Cyrus. “You’d better concentrate on Jumana. She’s got enough ambition for both of them.”
It was not long before we caught the others up. They had found the place without difficulty. The body had been removed, by predators or the police—probably the latter, since there were no indigestible bits scattered about.
“Has the fellow been identified?” I inquired.
“I asked to be notified should that occur,” Ramses replied. “But I don’t expect they will go to much trouble, unless someone reports a son or husband missing. He was a poor man. Worn, cheap garments. Not even a pair of sandals.”
Emerson looked up. “Confound it, Ramses, there must be something there or the fellow wouldn’t have attempted to prevent you from finding it.”
“Kuentz must have been mistaken about the location. I didn’t see any sign of an opening, and anyhow, he says the place contained nothing of interest.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson, fingering his chin. “I need to have a talk with Kuentz.” And off he went with his long stride.
“Emerson, come back here!” I shouted. “You can’t walk all the way to Deir el Medina.”
He could have and would have had I not prevented him. I was also forced to forbid him to climb the cliff in search of Mr. Kuentz’s purported tomb. In my opinion, it would have been both dangerous and unproductive, and we had to return in time to keep our luncheon engagement.
The going was easier on the way back, since it was downhill most of the way; but by the time we had collected Bertie and Jumana, both of whom looked very pleased with themselves—for, I sincerely hoped, different reasons—we decided