Jean-Claude Duval
had come toEgyptwith Napoleon’s army in 1798. Along with the
soldiers had come another army—of scientists, scholars, and
artists. These were the people responsible for the
monumental
Description
de VEgypte
. To Monsieur Duval, this army of savants was proof of French
superiority: unlike the barbaric British,
his
countrymen sought
intellectual enlightenment as well as military conquest.
He had been
inEgyptwhen his compatriots found the Rosetta Stone and, being
intellectually superior, instantly understood its value. He was here
in 1801 when the English defeated the French atAlexandriaand took the
stone away, claiming it was “honorably acquired by fortune of
war.”
He was still here,
and he still hated the English for a long list of reasons—including,
most recently, their employing the infuriatingly lucky Giovanni
Belzoni—but their “stealing” the Rosetta Stone
constituted Reasons Number One through Five.
Duval had spent
twenty years working to even the score.
However, though he
had sent toFrancea great number of fine Egyptian artifacts, he had
found nothing approaching the Rosetta Stone’s significance.
Until now.
Very cautiously he
unrolled the papyrus. Not all the way. Only enough to reassure
himself that this was the one. His men had blundered enough already.
But it was the one—his chief agent Faruq was no fool—and
M. Duval closed the document up again, with the same gentleness, and
no small degree of frustration.
The first time he’d
seen it, he’d understood it was above the common run of papyri.
Even so, he had not believed the story the merchant Vanni Anaz told
to justify the insane price he asked. Only the most ignorant persons
would believe it. Everyone else knew that no one could read
hieroglyphs or any other form of ancient Egyptian writing; therefore
no one could tell what this papyrus said.
Still, it was a
rare specimen, and Duval had determined to get it.
But before he could
arrange to have it stolen, Miles Archdale, one of the world’s
foremost language scholars, had gone to Anaz’s shop, listened
soberly to the tale of long-hidden treasure and forgotten pharaoh,
and paid the horrendous price. Without a murmur.
One need not be a
linguistic genius to comprehend why: Archdale had found the key to
deciphering hieroglyphs.
He’d kept it
a secret because it would lead to great discoveries, and he wanted
all the honor and glory.
He’d seen
that this papyrus would lead to the greatest discovery of all, far
surpassing anything Belzoni had done and at least equaling the
Rosetta Stone in importance: an untouched royal tomb, filled with
treasure.
Duval unrolled the
foolscap copy of the papyrus. Its margins held numerous notes in
English, Greek, and Latin, along with a number of odd symbols and
signs, all of it incomprehensible.
“
But he will
explain it to us,” Duval murmured. “Every word of the
papyrus. The meaning of every sign.”
And once Archdale
had given up all his secrets, he would die, and no one would ever
find his body. The desert kept secrets even better than he. Jackals,
vultures, sun, and sand combined to make corpses vanish with amazing
speed.
In the meantime,
however, Duval must deal with the infuriating complication. “These
must leaveCairoat once,” he said. “But I must stay, for a
time at least.”
The man who’d
brought the documents stepped out of the shadows. Though he called
himself Faruq, he was Polish. He was educated, one of the more
intelligent of the many mercenaries and criminals who found inEgypta
profitable market for their talents.
Duval wished he’d
sent Faruq after Archdale. But how could he have guessed he’d
need his top agent to carry out a simple kidnapping?
The men sent after
Archdale failed to take him inGiza. He was too well-guarded. They
could not get to him until he crossed the river again and dispersed
his escort in Old Cairo. When the men finally did capture him, they
beat his servant and left him for dead, without making
sure
.
The servant had somehow crawled back to the sister, who promptly
reported the incident to the consulate. By tomorrow, everyone
inCairowould know.
The local
authorities did not worry Duval. They were slow, incompetent, and
corrupt.
The one who worried
him was the Englishman known as the Golden Devil.
He had become
Duval’s nemesis in the last year. In addition to being cunning,
ruthless, and as hungry for glory forEnglandas Duval was forFrance,
the Golden Devil was slightly insane.
Duval hated crazy
people. They were too unpredictable.
“
The sister
will care only to find her brother,” Duval said. “She
will be easy to divert. The Golden Devil is the graver problem. You
must go ahead, to join the others at Minya as we planned. You must
take the papyrus. Whatever else happens, it must not fall into his
hands.”
Though he spoke
coolly, Duval was close to weeping with vexation. Everyone dreamt of
finding an intact royal tomb. The key was in his hands, in this
papyrus. The man who’d finally unlocked the secrets of
hieroglyphic writing was Duval’s captive, and barely a day’s
journey away.
But Duval must
remain inCairoto divert suspicion. If he left, his most feared and
hated rival would instantly know who was behind the kidnapping and
theft. If Duval stayed, he would become merely one of several
possible suspects. If he arranged matters well, suspicion would soon
shift elsewhere.
And so M. Duval put
the two documents into a battered old dispatch bag that wouldn’t
tempt thieves, gave the bag to Faruq, and told him where and when
they would next meet.
RUPERT HAD NOT
failed to notice that his comments about the French distracted Mrs,
Pembroke from asking the logical question:
What
will they do to my brother when they find out he can’t read the
papyrus
?
It was a question
Rupert had rather not answer. He did not count Archdale’s life
worth a groat once the villains discovered their error. He doubted
the man’s life would be worth much even if he could read the
papyrus.
Still, there was a
chance. In Archdale’s place, Rupert would pretend and
prevaricate, putting off the moment of truth as long as possible.
Meanwhile, he’d be looking for a way to escape.
If the villains did
discover the truth sooner than was convenient, one might be able to
persuade them to demand a ransom. That way at least, he would tell
them, they needn’t come away empty-handed.
Rupert kept these
thoughts to himself and concentrated on keeping Mrs. Pembroke’s
mind from dwelling unhappily on her brother.
Fortunately, Rupert
Carsington had a natural talent for driving others distracted.
Because she’d
found his renaming the boy Tom so provoking, the first thing Rupert
did when they’d mounted their donkeys was christen his
Cleopatra.
“
That is not
the creature’s name,” said Mrs. Pembroke. She told him
the Arabic name.
“
I can’t
pronounce it,” Rupert said.
“
You don’t
even try,” she said.
“
I don’t
understand why these people don’t speak English,” he
said. “It’s so much simpler.”
He could not see
her face—she’d put on the evil veil— but he heard
her huff of exasperation.
They set out at a
surprisingly fast clip, considering how narrow, congested, and busy
the streets were. He thought it was wonderful: the donkeys trotting
steadily on their way while carts, horses, and camels came straight
at them; the drivers running alongside and ahead, calling out
incomprehensibly and waving sticks, trying to clear a path while
everyone appeared to ignore them.
He praised the
donkeys to their drivers, congratulated the beasts on particularly
narrow escapes, and told the men anecdotes aboutLondonhackneys.
Mrs. Pembroke bore
it for as long as she could, which was not very long, before she
exploded, “They have no idea what you’re saying!”
“
Well,
they’ll never learn, will they, if one doesn’t make an
effort,” he said.
If the streets
hadn’t been so noisy, he was sure he’d have heard her
teeth grinding.
She said nothing
more, but Rupert was confident she was too preoccupied with his
breathtaking stupidity to fret overmuch about her brother.
Still, Rupert was
not a man to leave anything to chance.
When they reached
their destination, he was off his mount even before it had come to a
complete halt, and instantly at Mrs. Pembroke’s side.
He reached up and
grasped the lady firmly at the waist.
“
That is not
nec—” She broke off as he lifted her up from the
elaborate saddle. Instinctively she grasped his shoulders. Smiling
into her veiled countenance, Rupert held her in the air at eye level
for a moment. Then slowly, slowly, he lowered her to the ground.
She
did not immediately let go of his arms. He did not immediately let go
of her waist. She remained utterly still, looking up at him.
He couldn’t
see her face, but he could hear the hurried in and out of her breath.
Then she let go and
pushed away from him, and turned away in that quick, angry flurry he
found so delicious.
“
You are
absurd,” she said. “There is no need to show off your
strength.”
“
That hardly
wanted strength,” he said. “You weigh far less than I’d
have thought. It’s the layers and layers of mourning that
fooled me.” Not completely, though. There was the walk.
“
I can only
hope that you will be as diligent about finding my brother as you are
about ascertaining the dimensions of my person,” she said
crossly.
By this time the
gatekeeper had appeared. He looked to Rupert, but Mrs. Pembroke got
in the way and spoke in impatient Arabic.
The gate opened,
and they entered the courtyard. Another servant appeared and led them
into and through the house.
As they navigated
the labyrinth common toCairo’s better houses, Mrs. Pembroke
dropped Rupert a few hints.
“
Do keep your
mind on why we are here,” she said in an undertone. “We
can’t afford to waste time. Please resist the temptation to
give Lord Noxley’s servants nicknames. I doubt he will
appreciate it, and I had rather not spend valuable minutes smoothing
matters over. And please try not to wander from the subject. Or tell
anecdotes. You are not here to entertain anybody. You are here to
obtain information. Is that clear?”
“
You’re
so forgetful,” he said. “Don’t you remember telling
me that you’re the brain and I’m the brawn? Naturally I
expect you to do all the talking. And naturally I shall knock heads
and toss people out of windows as required. Or did I misunderstand?
Did you want me to think, too?”
Chapter 4
RUPERT DISLIKED THE
VISCOUNT NOXLEY ON sight.
He was a few inches
shorter than Rupert and not so broad across the shoulders and chest,
but he was fit enough. His hair and eyes were the tawny color
properly belonging to cats. Rupert especially disliked the eyes and
their expression when regarding Mrs. Pembroke.
It was the look a
hungry lion cast upon the gazelle selected for dinner.
Rupert wished she’d
left her veil down.
But she’d
thrown it back as soon as she entered the room, and his lordship’s
face lighted up, bright as the sun, at the sight.
And then, as soon
as she’d explained what had happened, it was as though a vast
thundercloud mounted over the fellow’s head.
Servants hurried in
with the obligatory coffee and sweets and hurried out again at his
brusque signal.
“
This is
incredible,” Noxley said. “I can scarcely take it in.
What fool would leap to such a conclusion, let alone act upon it? But
no, it must be a madman. The idea is monstrous. I am sure your
brother never gave the smallest indi-cation of a breakthrough of that
magnitude. Quite the contrary. He is exceedingly modest about his
work. One can scarcely persuade him to speak of it.”