The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [105]
“So where are we gonna look next?” Cyrus asked hopefully. “The western wadis again?”
“We certainly are not going off on a series of random searches,” Emerson replied, extracting his pipe and tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket. “Damnation,” he added, acknowledging the difficulty of proceeding with the process.
“Let me do that for you, my dear.” I took them from him.
Bertie coughed deprecatingly. “I may be on the wrong track altogether, but if I were trying to conceal something I wouldn’t hang about the place howling like a banshee and making a spectacle of myself.”
“I agree,” Ramses said. “That’s the one area we can forget about. If he wants us to go there, it’s because there’s nothing to find.”
The men all nodded. I hoped they were right, since I had not much enjoyed our excursions to that remote region, but I was not entirely convinced. Jamil obviously enjoyed taunting people, and youth suffers, among other weaknesses, from overconfidence. It might amuse the wretched boy to lead us to the general area and watch us wear ourselves out looking for a well-concealed entrance.
I had to admit that thus far his confidence had been justified; he had outwitted us on every occasion.
Emerson announced that we would return to Deir el Medina next morning. “We will finish that plan of yours, Bertie,” he said. “Fine job, my boy. There are only a few more details to be added.”
“Tomorrow’s Friday,” Cyrus objected. “My men have the day off, and you ought to rest, Emerson.”
“We can finish the surveying without the men,” Emerson said dogmatically. “And I have no intention of allowing a minor injury to keep me from my usual activities—all my usual activities.”
Nor did it. I wished Nefret had not made the cast quite so heavy.
We managed to get off next morning without Sennia or the Great Cat of Re. Nefret did not accompany us either. I had suggested—tactfully, as is my habit—that she might want to give a little luncheon party, since she had not had the opportunity to entertain our friends in her new abode. Under threat of losing our custom, Abdul Hadi had actually finished a dining table and several chairs. She readily consented, but added with a knowing smile, “I won’t ask what you are up to, Mother, since I know you enjoy your little surprises.”
Early morning in Luxor, particularly at that season of the year, is always beautifully cool and stimulating. I was even more keenly aware of it that day, after those long hours in the stifling darkness of the buried chamber. Truth compels me to admit that I had wondered at times whether I would ever again behold the shining cliffs of western Thebes and feel the morning breeze against my face. Logic had informed me that Jamil could not continue pouring stones into the shaft indefinitely, but the space in the passage and the chamber itself was limited, and so was the air.
I had not, and would not, confess this weakness to any other. After all, it had turned out right in the end.
When we arrived at Deir el Medina, Bertie was working on his plan, and Selim had also turned up. He was not as devout as his Uncle Daoud, who always attended Friday services when he could.
“That is very well done, Bertie,” I exclaimed. “Obviously you didn’t spend all the time staring at the cliffs! But where is Cyrus? Didn’t he come with you?”
“Up there.” Bertie gestured. “I offered to go with him, but he said—”
“Damnation!” Emerson exclaimed loudly. Cyrus was high on the hillside, north of the area where most of the tombs were located. Hearing Emerson’s shout, he straightened and waved.
“What’s he doing up there?” Ramses asked.
“He wanted to have a look at the tombs of the Saite princesses,” Bertie explained.
“Why, for Heaven’s sake?” I demanded. “They aren’t the original tombs of the princesses—the God’s Wives, to be more precise—or even their reburials. Two of their sarcophagi were—”
“Yes, yes, Peabody,” said Emerson. “Damned old fool climbing around up there . . .” He set off toward the slope with his usual brisk stride.
Ramses caught my eye, nodded, and went trotting