Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [43]
Still smiling, Sethos looked from me to Ramses.
“Whether he meant to or not,” the latter said slowly, “he has us over a barrel. Where is the damned document?”
“In the cellar I mentioned, hidden under a dead dog.”
Nefret winced, and Sethos said, “It was already conveniently dead, Nefret.”
“I’d better go after it then, before someone else does.” Ramses rose.
“Take Daoud and Selim.” Sethos leaned back and closed his eyes. “And try to think of a reasonable excuse for being there in case someone sees you.”
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
Offhand Ramses couldn’t think of a reasonable excuse for visiting the poor little village, much less the ruined house. He was furious with his uncle, and Selim’s delight at participating in the venture annoyed him even more. Was everyone except his father and him under Sethos’s spell?
The village was one of several that bordered the cultivation south of the temple of Seti I. As they rode toward it Selim said, “We are looking for tombs, yes?”
“There aren’t any in that area.”
“Who can say?” Daoud inquired. He was riding Emerson’s gelding, the only horse in the stable that was up to his weight.
“He speaks the truth,” Selim said. “We heard a rumor, eh? That is not hard to believe. There are always rumors of tombs.”
“I suppose so,” Ramses said grudgingly. He ought to have thought of that excuse himself. It was Sethos’s fault, for getting him too angry to think straight. But it was unfair of him to take out his ill humor on Selim.
“While we look for tombs, Daoud will go into the house and find the paper,” Selim said.
“You’d leave the dead dog to him?” Ramses asked with a smile.
“I do not mind,” Daoud said placidly. “What does it look like, this paper?”
Their arrival brought the villagers out in full force. Most of the men were working in the fields, so their audience consisted of women, small children, and the usual livestock, plus a few doddering old men. When Ramses asked about new tombs, they were deluged with information from everybody except the livestock. Ramses knew he was the chief attraction; this sad little place was seldom visited by foreigners, and the visit of a member of the family of the Father of Curses was an event that would be talked about for days.
He and Selim made their way through a tumble of toddlers and barking dogs, led by the old gentleman who had appointed himself guide, and trailed by the rest of the local citizens. The noise level was high. There were a few tombs in the rocky surroundings, all small and empty except for thick layers of trash. They spent more time examining them than the wretched places merited, and then started back. Daoud was waiting with the horses. His large amiable face wore a smile and his hand was in the breast of his robe.
Not until they were well away from the village did Ramses ask, “You found it?”
“Yes.” Handing over a small packet sealed all round with heavy tape, he added, “It was buried deep. The dog was a joke, I think. There were only bones.”
“Typical,” Ramses muttered.
“Open it,” Selim urged.
Ramses was curious too. Drawing his knife, he slit the tape and pulled back the rubberized fabric. Inside, between pieces of pasteboard, were two sheets of folded paper.
“There are no words on the paper,” Selim said, leaning closer. “What does it mean? Is it what you wanted?”
“Want? Hell, no, I don’t want the damned thing. But I guess I’m stuck with it.”
The symbols were numbers, dozens of them. The only codes and ciphers with which he was familiar used letters of the alphabet.
“Bloody hell,” Ramses said.
On the Wednesday we were in receipt of a telegram from Emerson announcing his arrival the following morning. That was all it said. I would have appreciated a trifle more information—something along the lines of “Have hired new staff” or “Have not hired new staff”—but I was only too familiar with Emerson’s disinclination to spend good money on telegrams.
Sethos