Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [139]
“What is it?” he demanded of the boy.
“The Sitt orders that I should tell her first,” said Azmi, basking in the attention.
“Er—tell us both,” said Emerson, abandoning any hope of a private conversation with his juvenile informer. David must have been told that something interesting was happening; he emerged from the tomb, and joined the rest of the audience.
Azmi’s little brown face opened in a grin. He was too young to have suffered from the dental problems that affect so many Egyptians; his teeth shone white as pearls. He spoke in a squeaky whisper. “They are taking the treasures from the tomb. Today. Soon. Now!”
“Make up your mind,” Ramses said.
“It is of no concern to me,” said Emerson. It was one of his more unconvincing lies. Undaunted, Azmi held out a slim brown hand, and after a sidelong glance at me, Emerson dropped a few coins into his palm.
“Be off with you,” he grunted. “Back to work, everyone.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “How can any of us concentrate on work now? Especially David; this may be his best and only chance of getting a glimpse of the artifacts.”
“And mine,” Cyrus cried. “Let’s go!”
We overruled Emerson’s objections, which he had counted on our doing, and were soon on our way, trailed by Azmi, who held up his empty hands and grinned at me whenever I looked in his direction. He was a rather prepossessing lad, and I couldn’t blame him for having no principles. To the very poor, morality is a luxury. He must be doing well, if he had the wherewithal to hire a donkey.
Ramses kept me company as we rode. Nefret, a far better horsewoman than I, had forged ahead with Cyrus and David.
“Mr. Burton must have finished the preliminary photographs,” I said. “Surely Howard wouldn’t move anything until the entire contents of the chamber had been recorded.”
“Even Father admits, when he isn’t in a temper, that Carter is a responsible excavator,” Ramses replied. “I don’t doubt he is going about it in the proper way.”
“I wonder which objects he will remove first.”
“He’ll do it in order,” Ramses said. “From one end of the chamber to the other, leaving the larger, more difficult pieces until last. I don’t envy him the job.”
He might not, but his father did. However, looking on the bright side (as I always endeavor to do), perhaps it was just as well that the task had not fallen to Emerson. Carter had assembled a staff unparalleled in its skill. It was unlikely that the Metropolitan Museum or any other institution would have been so accommodating to us. They counted on a share of the treasure, and Emerson would never have agreed to that. In addition, Emerson would have dragged every member of the family into the business. The job would take years, if I was any judge, and that would put a halt to David’s independent career and to my plans for Ramses and Nefret.
There is a silver lining to every cloud, as I always say.
The news of Howard’s intention must have got about, for the tourists were out in force and the area near the tomb was infested with journalists. The latter individuals must not have found Howard helpful, for they converged on us, whipping out their notebooks and asking what we knew.
“No more than you, I fancy,” I replied. “That Mr. Carter intends to begin removing the first of the objects today. They will be carried to the tomb of Seti II, where they will be packed for eventual shipment and, if necessary, stabilized by Mr. Lucas and Mr. Mace. Many are in fragile condition.”
They wrote all this down, as if it had been the word of the Prophet, and Mr. Bradstreet asked me to elaborate. “It is a complex subject, but I will make it as simple as possible,” I replied good-humoredly. “When air is introduced into a hitherto sealed tomb, all substances except metal and pottery are affected. Plaster may crack and fall off, paint may flake, fabric may rot. It is sometimes necessary to apply chemicals—or, as I have always preferred, melted paraffin wax—to hold loose pieces in place and preserve the original design.”
“What the devil do you think you are doing?” Emerson