The Buried Pyramid (53 page)

For the first time, the sheik faltered. Clearly, he had never before perceived a conflict between his duty to the pharaoh and his duty to Islam. The first was a trust handed down for untold generations from father to son, mother to daughter. The second was not only religion, but social and educational structure. Against this, Eddie had struck a bitter and telling blow.

The sheik paused, and Neville wondered if he was actually going to back down.

Then the sheik laughed. “Fools!” he cried in accents harsher than Eddie’s. “There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is His prophet. That is true. It is also true that a son should be faithful to the commands of his father. My father commanded that I follow this path set by his father, and by his father before him. Such has it been for me and the men of my tribe from a time before Mohammed walked the Earth and spoke the truth that brought light to the world.”

Since this exchange had taken place in Arabic, the other Bedouin had followed this argument with ease. Like the sheik, they had initially been unsettled, now they took refuge from that uncomfortable sensation in anger.

If he ordered them to shoot us like fish in a barrel,
Neville thought desperately,
they’d do it and laugh. Be quiet, Eddie . . .

But Eddie Bryce, now wholly Ibrahim ben Josef, couldn’t hear Neville’s thoughts—nor, had he been able to do so, would he have ceased his righteous indignation.

“So, what do you intend for us, oh faithful one?” Eddie’s words were polite, but the sneer in his voice was potent as a slap.

The sheik moved as if he would slide down into the pit and assault Eddie with his bare hands, but he stopped himself in mid-motion. Perhaps he recalled how easily he could become a hostage if he came down. Even a fanatic does not sacrifice himself lightly when there are alternatives.

Good try, Eddie,
Neville thought, suddenly understanding.

“What do I intend?” the sheik responded, stepping back from the pit’s edge. “You shall know, all too soon, and wish to go back from that knowing. So has it ever been for the hundreds, if not thousands who over the ages have attempted to violate the tomb of the good king. Back now, in with your friends, or I shall have you shot where you stand.”

Eddie obeyed, and as he crowded in with them, Neville squeezed his shoulder.

“Clever gambit,” he whispered.

“Almost managed it,” Eddie said. “Swine’s no true son of Islam.”

Not hearing this last insult, the sheik strode over to where the carving of Horus had impassively watched events, neither approving or disapproving these actions done in his name.

Neville checked the angle, wondering if he could possibly nail the sheik before he did whatever he was about to do. Apparently, the sheik caught the direction of his gaze.

“Shoot the next one who moves,” he said in English, meaning the warning as much for his prisoners as for his men.

Neville could feel all those in the chamber willing themselves into complete immobility. Beside him, Eddie breathed something that might have been a curse. He didn’t move his lips, but the tone was unmistakable. One of the women—Cheshire or Syms, certainly—sobbed in an upwelling of panic, but none of the men dared offer comfort.

Before the sculpture of Horus, the sheik made a sweeping bow. In an eerie, sing-song voice he began to chant, his men echoing him in a wailing refrain. His words were Arabic, but there was that in their cadence and shape that hinted at an origin far more ancient.

In the beginning, the word was Ptah.

(The word was Ptah.)

Creation sprang forth.

(Creation sprang forth.)

Maat is the balance by which creation abides.

(Maat is the balance.)

Judgment belongs not to man.

(Judgment is not man’s.)

For how can the weight also be the scales?

(The weight cannot be the scales.)

Is your soul as light as Maat?

(Is it?)

Discover the judgment of the gods!

(Discover!)

On the rising note of the final refrain, the sheik pressed the full weight of his body against the flail in Horus’s hands. For a terrible, hopeful moment, nothing happened. The air rang with unexpected silence. Then a terrible grating vibration ensued, felt first rather than heard. Something shifted behind the chamber’s painted walls.

Behind him, Neville heard someone begin to pray, quickly, and without a great deal of hope.

The sheik leaned over the edge of the pit, laughing maniacally. “Discover the judgment of the gods! Discover the lightness of Maat! Discover the belly of Ammit!”

With the roaring of a wind from nowhere, the spine-chilling shriek of rock against rock, the floor dropped from beneath their feet. Accompanied by a cloud of sand, they fell, screaming in raw terror that overcame the bravest of them.

Above, the floor slid back into place, leaving only darkness, then bone-breaking pain, and finally, mercifully, unconsciousness.

19

In the Pit

As far as she could tell, Jenny came around first, rasped into consciousness by the rough workings of a sandpaper tongue against her cheek. She’d been dreaming that she’d been thrown by a particularly stubborn bronc that kept laughing as it bucked, and waking wasn’t all that unwelcome—at least until she realized how much she ached.

“Mozelle . . .” she murmured, trying to open her eyes. She couldn’t. Then she realized that they were open. The darkness was so complete that she had to touch her eyelids to make certain.

A small furry head bumped against her cheek. Jenny struggled upright, oddly disoriented in this total darkness. Mozelle felt her movement and climbed into her lap, up her torso, and settled on her shoulder, buzzing approvingly.

Jenny started to stand, then realized that for all she knew she could be on the edge of a precipice. True, the floor around her felt solid for as far as she could slide, but that didn’t mean that one step farther was another drop into nothingness. Her heart beat unnaturally hard at the idea, her gorge rose and for a long moment she fought against being sick.

“Hello?” Jenny called softly. “Anyone here?”

Her voice was swallowed by the surrounding darkness, then someone groaned.

“Uncle Neville? Stephen? Eddie?”

The groan came again, followed by a word.

“Stephen.”

“Do you have any matches?” she asked. “I don’t, and I’m afraid to move.”

“Matches?”

Silence. Jenny imagined Stephen taking inventory of himself, perhaps patting down his pockets.

“I’m sorry,” she said, taking comfort in her own voice, “I should have asked if you were all right.”

“I hurt like the dickens,” Stephen replied, “but nothing seems broken. I’m checking my pockets. If I remember . . . Yes!”

“What?” Jenny asked eagerly.

“I have a full box of matches, and,” he paused, triumphant, “a full five inches of candle stub!”

“Light it!”

She heard the scrape of the match even as she spoke. The pale glimmer of candle flame wasn’t exactly bright, but it was wonderfully comforting. It showed Stephen’s face and hand for a moment before he raised it and held it higher to better illuminate their surroundings.

“Any sign of the others or our lanterns and candles?” Jenny asked. “Uncle Neville made sure Eddie bought a bunch.”

“I don’t have much hopes for the lanterns,” Stephen said, but . . .”

He shuffled to his feet, and the light fell upon a heap of their baggage. It also found Mozelle. The kitten had located a package of dried fish and was tearing into it with intense enjoyment.

“Move, kitty,” Stephen said, “we may need those. I’ve heard dry fish shed light when they burn.”

“Yuck!” Jenny said.

“Better than darkness,” Stephen said, “but you and Mozelle are in luck. I’ve found a box of nice, if slightly melted, candles.”

“Light a couple,” Jenny said. “We need to check on the others.”

Stephen paused in the act of obeying. “The air in here . . .”

Jenny had assisted her father after a mining accident.

“I know,” she said, “but we have to risk it.”

Their talk had disturbed some of those in the gloomy reaches of the cavern. Groans and muttered questions echoed oddly off the stone, reminding Jenny of a description she’d once read of Hell. Had it been in Dante? The memory seemed impossibly far away.

She accepted the candle Stephen handed her. It was almost as thick as her wrist, and burned with the slightly sweet odor of good beeswax. She stuck several spares under her belt.

“I hear someone over there,” she said. “See who it is. If you find my doctor’s bag, let me know.”

“Yes, Madame General,” Stephen said with an attempt at a laugh.

Jenny discovered Uncle Neville near her, hauling himself to a sitting position, hands methodically checking himself for injuries. His eyes blurred and unfocused.

“Are you all right, Uncle?” she asked.

“Think I’ve wrenched that ankle again,” he said, shaking himself to an awareness of her and the light, “and wrenched my shoulder, but I don’t think anything’s broken.”

Jenny lit a candle and set it in the sand beside him.

“I’ll be back to look at you in a moment,” she promised.

Jenny was already checking the forms nearest to her. Mrs. Syms was face-down in the sand, and for a horrible moment Jenny thought the older woman had smothered. Turning her over and rinsing her mouth with water brought Mrs. Syms sputtering to consciousness.

“My shoulder!” she moaned. “I’ve broken it. Nathan, why is it so dark?”

Jenny probed the shoulder, feeling the older woman wince.

“Here’s a candle,” she said. “Let me check that shoulder. Ah . . . the collarbone is broken, I think. I’ve bandages in my kit, if I can find it.”

Stephen had lit a couple more candles, and by their illumination Jenny found her medical gear, glad that Uncle Neville had ordered them to move all but the bulkiest items of their gear into the chamber.

Uncle Neville was helping Eddie, and Stephen was bending over a form indistinct in the flickering light of the half dozen or so candles spotted about the room. Someone else, large, so probably Captain Brentworth, was painfully hauling himself erect.

“Jenny,” two voices said almost simultaneously.

They stopped, then Uncle Neville said, “When you’re finished there, come take a look at Eddie’s elbow. It’s swelling pretty badly.”

“I think I may need you first,” Stephen said. “I’ve found Rashid, and he won’t wake up.”

“Be careful how you move him,” Jenny said. “See if his throat is free of sand. I’ll be right over.”

Jenny finished a fast wrap on Mrs. Syms’s shoulder.

“Stay quiet and still,” she said, catching up her bag. “I’ll mix you something for the pain in a moment.”

Jenny’s own pain was forgotten in the immediate need, but she was aware of how stiffly she was moving. She knelt beside Rashid. The young man’s breathing was ragged, but he was breathing. She sniffed his lips and found no telltale odor of either blood or bowel.

“Good,” she said. “He may merely have hit his head. Was he unnaturally twisted in any way?”