Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [30]
“I am driving the motorcar,” said Emerson, giving me a defiant look.
If he had thought that would deter me, he was mistaken. It is impossible to explain, to those who have not experienced it, the all-consuming passion of archaeological discovery. To be actually on the spot when such a discovery is made, to be among the first to behold with one’s own eyes an unknown tomb…well, I could not blame Emerson for stealing a march on Howard Carter. It was not good form, but it was understandable.
However, I prefer not to drive in the motorcar with Emerson, particularly when he is in a hurry, so I said, “The car makes a frightful racket, Emerson. I presume this expedition is not one you wish to advertise.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. He added, more emphatically, “Bah. Make haste, then.”
He dashed out. I knew he would have to wake Jamad, who was not at his best in the middle of the night, and get the horses saddled, so I finished my toilette, fastening on my hat and buckling my belt of tools—canteen, brandy flask, sewing kit, torch, knife—round my waist. When I reached the stable Emerson’s gelding was ready, and Emerson and Jamal were saddling my mare, a gentle creature I had named Eva after my gentle sister-in-law. (Some of the more spirited Arabians objected to the jangle of objects on my belt.) The child greeted me with a bow and a wide grin. I recognized him now, and my suspicions were confirmed. He was one of Howard’s water boys, the same one I had seen waiting outside the house. Waiting, I did not doubt, for Emerson.
“This is really too bad of you, Emerson,” I said. “What underhanded scheme have you got in mind?”
Emerson seized me round the waist and tossed me onto the mare. Mounting in his turn, he reached down and hauled the boy up onto the saddle in front of him.
“It was Azmi here who found the step,” he said.
“At your instigation?”
“I cannot imagine,” said Emerson, in a reproachful voice, “why you should leap to the conclusion that I am up to no good. I only want to have a quick look, to make sure Azmi hasn’t let his imagination run away with him. It would be too bad to raise Carter’s hopes and then see them dashed.”
“Howard would be touched by your concern, Emerson.”
Emerson did not reply.
Emerson would soon have forged ahead had I not kept shouting at him. Concern for me, I feel certain, encouraged him to moderate his pace; I am not the most skilled of horsewomen. At least there was no one abroad at that hour. When we turned onto the road that led into the Valley, the cliffs on either side cut off what little light there had been, and at my emphatic suggestion Emerson slowed his steed to a walk. Cyrus Vandergelt’s Castle loomed up against the stars, illumined like a veritable palace by flickering torches at the doors and in the courtyard, for Cyrus was extravagant with lighting. Howard Carter’s house had been a dark huddle on the hillside when we passed it, and I had heard a chortle of satisfaction from Emerson. Howard was not yet awake. Nor would he be, I expected, for several hours.
The entrance to the Valley was closed, naturally. We left the horses outside the barricade; Emerson jumped nimbly over it and lifted first me and then Azmi over.
The Valley is somewhat eerie at night, as silent and deserted as it must have been in the days when the pharaohs lay undisturbed in their deep-dug sepulchres, surrounded by uncounted wealth. High overhead the brilliant stars of Egypt shone diamond-bright against the black velvet sky, but we walked through shadows. There had been guards in ancient times, as there were now; when a reverberating snore broke the silence, I thought that those ancient guards probably had shirked their duties in favor of sleep as often as did their modern counterparts.
Rounding a curve in the path, we reached the area we sought, and I ventured to switch on my torch. Howard hadn’t bothered to station a guard near his