The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [94]
“Emerson! Look there!”
Where she had come from I could not tell—one of the tombs, perhaps—but the outlines of that trim figure were unmistakable. Only a few women in Luxor wore boots and divided skirts and only one other woman wore a belt jangling with objects.
Emerson, who had also stopped, let out an oath. “After her!” he exclaimed.
“Not so fast, my dear. We must follow at a distance and ascertain where she is going—and why. She has been in the village; if Yusuf admitted his intention of turning Jamil in, she may be on her way to warn him.”
“Damnation,” said Emerson. “How could she . . . Well, we will soon find out.”
He had dismounted as he spoke. Hailing one of the villagers, he said, “Give me your galabeeyah.”
“But, Father of Curses,” the fellow began.
“Hand it over, I say.” Emerson dispensed baksheesh with so lavish a hand that he was instantly obeyed. The jingle of coins attracted several other men. One of them was willing to part with his outer garment too. (I had selected the shortest and cleanest of them.)
Jumana was almost out of sight by then, trotting along with the agility I knew so well, but the delay had been necessary; she would have spotted us instantly if we had been in our usual clothing and on horseback. We got into our impromptu disguises, left the horses with one of the men, and hastened after the girl.
“She’s heading back toward our house,” Emerson said, looking uneasy. “Perhaps we are wrong, Peabody. She may have been paying a duty call on her father.”
“Don’t be such a sentimentalist, Emerson. She admitted she hadn’t spoken to him for months—and why would she not tell us of her intentions, if they were innocent? She has deliberately deceived me, the treacherous little creature.”
The truth of this soon became apparent. Shoulders hunched and bent, as if to make herself less conspicuous, Jumana cut off onto a rough track that wound around houses and hills toward the western cliffs south of Deir el Bahri. Once or twice she glanced over her shoulder. She must have seen us, but evidently our clumsy disguises were good enough to deceive, for she went on without pausing, scrambling nimbly up the rising slope at the base of the cliffs. I could see the temple, below and to our right, as we climbed; the colonnades and tumbled stones shone in the morning light.
Quickly as the girl moved, Emerson kept up without difficulty, his breathing even, his stride slower than his usual pace. Since my lower limbs were not much longer than Jumana’s, I had to trot.
“Where the devil is she going?” I panted. “Curse the girl—”
“Save your breath,” Emerson advised, offering me his hand. “By Gad, Peabody, you don’t suppose . . . That’s where she’s headed, though.”
With the help of his strong arm I found the going easier, and was able to look about. I knew the place well. The previous year we had removed the golden statue of the god Amon-Re from its hidden shrine at the back of a shallow bay. Jamil was the original discoverer of that place. Could he have selected it as his hiding place? The shaft that led down to a small chamber cut out of the rock was only eight feet deep and it was unlikely that anyone would go there; the Gurnawis knew we had cleared the place of everything it contained.
Jumana stopped, her back to us, in the mouth of the little bay. Her head turned from side to side. Emerson pulled me down behind a heap of detritus. We dared not risk going closer; we were only twenty feet from Jumana, and there was no one else in sight.
She called out. “Jamil, are you there?” Her voice cracked with nervousness.
I heard nothing. She called again, “I am coming.”
“We’ve got him now,” Emerson whispered. “Let’s go.”
When I got to my feet, Jumana was no longer in sight. Emerson ran toward the opening of the bay. I ran after him.
The declivity was shallow and the morning sun shone directly into it. At its far end the shaft we had cleared gaped open, a black square against the rock. There was no sign of Jumana.
“Where is she?