The Ruins of the Lost World

by C K Burch

  The Ruins of the Lost World

  A Dust McAlan adventure

  Written by

  CK Burch

  Edited by

  Liv Slama

  Copyright: CK Burch

  Published: June 21st, 2019

  Publisher: CK Burch

  The right of CK Burch to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  This one is for me.

  I think I earned it.

  I

  Cairo, Egypt, 1937.

  Dust McAlan was bored, and for a man in his line of work, this was both extraordinarily rare and extraordinarily defeating. Dust, being a treasure hunter, usually found himself in the midst of some terrible adventure, dodging traps and exploring cavernous ruins, and reaping treasure hand-over-fist. But at the moment, sitting in his home, all he could dwell on was the fact that he'd not had an inquiry about anything remotely interesting in well over three weeks – an eternity in his world. This made him feel itchy. It also reminded him that money was not infinite, and that while these days he was blessed with a good-sized nest beneath him, his fortune was not unlimited and was based on work. All of this combined made him one very grumpy boy, and as he sat and drank his glass of water in the heat of the day, he realized that he was despondent as well.

  Over the course of the previous year-and-a-half, a string of unusual good fortune had befallen him in almost all of his endeavors. Rewards of ancient gold and cash money prizes had ballooned his once-deflated bank account to a state where all previous debts due to adventurous activities had all been paid in full. He'd begun a new business as a corsair – a treasure hunter for hire – and calls from legitimate sources such as museums and historical societies had come flooding his radio. This was due, in part, to favorable connections on the part of his adopted father, who was a well-respected professor of archaeology, and as Dust had nearly ruined his own name with some questionable adventures in the past, he was more than grateful for the references. Risktaker Investigations had taken off, no pun intended, as between jobs Dust still made time to pilot in the African air derby, which had a sizable following and paid good money to those who flew well. With all of this being his new state of affairs, he'd decided to permanently settle both himself and his business in Cairo. This, of course, had led him to be introduced to Ibrahim el-Fadel, one of the newly christened leads of the Cairo Museum of History. Dust had been immediately smitten with the man, and the attraction appeared to have been strung both ways, at least until Dust had finished the job he'd been contracted for. Ibrahim had happily accepted the Staff of Osiris, paid Dust his fee – and promptly had given him the cold shoulder. Weeks of flirtation, salacious words, and more than a little physical contact had without warning become as still as the nighttime desert. The man wouldn't even let Dust into the museum, let alone receive a message. If there had been immediate work after this, Dust might have been able to distract himself from the indignity of being Dear Johned. Now he'd been sulking inside for weeks while nursing a bruised ego and a yearning heart, which, quite frankly, he'd learned over the few years prior how to gently reset in the wake of a breakup.

  He sighed. Oh, how he'd had to learn.

  As he sat in a wicker chair, Dust looked around his apartment, which was only slightly larger than most comfortable living spaces in Cairo were. A ceiling fan turned lazily above him, stirring the thick heat like a spoon in cream; the white brick walls reflected the sun coming in through the roof, filtered through a red veil strung across the opening. Over across from the African masks that Dust proudly kept on display, a large radio sat, slightly dusty from disuse – no incoming messages meant no operation of the radio. His housekeeper, Kalu, a Nigerian man slightly older than Dust, walked about the living room, fussing over the placement of the decor. Housekeeper was a terrible misnomer, however. Dust had inherited the place from his friend and fellow treasure hunter, Whisky Johnson, and Kalu had chosen to remain with the apartment rather than journey with his employer. At first, Dust had balked at the notion of a manservant, but then had been smartly put in his place and reminded that Kalu was not, in fact, a servant of any kind but the keeper of the estate. In all reality, this was Kalu's home, as he had the run of the apartment, from cleaning to food preparation to expenses. Dust provided – or, rather, paid rent due – and Kalu managed. Most of the time while Dust was out on adventures, Kalu oversaw the house, the messages meant for the business, the purchases, etc. When this was the case, the two men got along famously. But now that Dust had been at home for such an extended period of time, both of them were running into each other constantly – and each was becoming irritable in his own way. The two were study in contrasts: Dust always dressed himself as though he were ready to adventure, in khakis, boots, fingerless gloves, and a button-down shirt with matching vest. Kalu wore his dashiki, which today was a light blue, the voile fabric breathable in the heat. Where Dust's skin was a crisp, warm tan, Kalu's was deep obsidian, barely reflecting the day's light. Between the two of them, they made a favorable living, but when things were as slow as they were currently – well.

  As Kalu fixated on the crossed spears hanging over the mask of Yasigi, he casually stated, “You've neglected your message, Mister McAlan.”

  Dust awoke from his daydreaming. “Huh?”

  “I left a message for you on the table in the kitchen. You've neglected it, and it's now half-past noon. If you're to make your meeting with Lady Blythe-Wight, you'll need to get moving sooner versus later.”

  “What message?” Dust frowned and set down his water. There hadn't been a message in the kitchen when he'd gone and poured his drink earlier. Had there? No, he was quite sure that there hadn't been. “I didn't see anything. I was just in there.”

  Kalu shrugged, unconcerned. “This is quite well and good, Mister McAlan, but if you're going to remain ignorant of work-related messages, we might as well begin taking stock of the household and decipher what it is we need to sell to maintain expenses.”

  Work-related? Now Dust was damned if he hadn't seen it. Before arguing further, he lifted himself from the chair and marched into the kitchen, determined to prove Kalu wrong, but there it was on the counter, a hand-written note in Kalu's precise cursive:

  Lady Jacqueline Blythe-Wight rang last night to inquire about services in relation to treasure hunting. Offered substantial payment for services. Desires to meet at Azbakeya Park at one o'clock in the afternoon. Santi Cafe, outdoor seating.

  Goddammit. Kalu was going to enjoy holding this over his head, for sure.

  Dust stomped back out into the living room, and quickly glanced over at the radio: it was as dusty as it had been the day before. Kalu never dusted the radio unless it was being constantly used; it was his way of reminding Dust to get out and inquire about treasure hunting work rather than wait for someone to walk in the door. Which meant that this Blythe-Wight woman was actually in town, had actually come to their door last night, and was actually heading over to the Santi at this very moment. Dust withdrew his pocketwatch to capture the time: quarter til the hour of one.

  “Seven hells,” he muttered. He replaced the watch and frowned at Kalu. “You only just set that note down a few minutes ago to mess with me, didn't you?”

  “I would do no such thing, Mister McAlan.” Kalu's gaze did not turn away from the spears over the mask. He shook his head. “I can never get th
e placement of these to be centered. I want to move this.”

  Dust rubbed his temples. “Sure, okay. But maybe next time let me know that there's a message on the counter or wherever you decide to leave it so I don't run late to potentially getting work.”

  “If you had gazed at the counter while pouring your water – which, I'll remind you, I drew from the well – you would have seen it.”

  “You also could have warned me about the note sooner.”

  “I only take the messages and deliver them, Mister McAlan. I am not the one who is supposed to act on them.”

  “Speaking of, how the hell am I supposed to know who I'm looking for?”

  Kalu closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the visitor. “Lady Blythe-Wight is tall, fair, auburn haired. Interestingly, she was not wearing a dress, but trousers, with a vest and tie over a smart shirt. Quite lovely for a white woman. Rather intelligent in her speech, if not slightly exuberant. Exactly your type – ”

  Dust rolled his eyes and groaned.

  “ – if you were in the settlement for such endeavors.” Kalu turned and glared. “Forgive my impudence, but if you'd allow me to finish my sentences, Mister McAlan, perhaps you'd have less reason to groan as much as you do.”

  Dust bowed sarcastically. “Oh, do forgive my insolence.”

  “You'll find Ms. Blythe-Wight with a gentleman of similar build and fairness, no doubt a relation of some sort. Brother, perhaps. Rather obnoxious and unbearable, even in such a short encounter. He appeared to have been drinking, and Ms. Blythe-Wight apologized profusely for his lack of manners. And speaking of, yours will be tarnished if you don't make haste to your meeting.” He sighed and walked away from the spears. “Insolent decorations, always denying me...”

  Dust rubbed the back of his neck. Well, it would be a brisk walk to Santi cafe if he was going to make it on time. Might as well begin if he was going. He turned and picked up a few items he never went anywhere without: his M1911 pistol, and his bullwhip, coiled and oiled. The bullwhip was a new addition to his adventuring toolset, a gift from Whisky, one that Dust had taken great pains to become adept with. He strapped both to his belt and nodded. Perfect tools for any situation.

  As he turned to leave, Dust quietly drew a line in the dust on top of the radio. That would certainly irritate Kalu, and it would have to be enough revenge for the time being.

  ***

  Dust continually marveled over how Cairo was such a brilliant display of the people and culture that lived here, while simultaneously an evolving hotbed of modern activity and beauty.

  Walking through the streets to reach Azbakeya Park, he looked overhead to take in the daily sight of the dirigibles and airships drifting slowly overhead. Honest crews and air pirates alike held court in the skies over Cairo, some of them awaiting passengers to taxi across the country, some of them waiting for the industrious men and women of the treasure hunting community to begin their quests, so that these valiant thieves of the sky might find ways to circle like vultures and pick off what the legitimate businessfolk might leave unattended. Now, not all air pirates were vultures, as some held to a bit of a code of conduct amongst themselves. But for the most part, air pirates were a delightful annoyance – delightful in that the pulp writers romanticized them as much as treasure hunters and detectives and comic books, which led to some decent yarns.

  Along the street, passers-by walked, rode in steam-powered carriages, or drove in the new fad of gas-powered automobiles. The latter were few and far between, as most people of Cairo were still quite taken with the machinery of yesteryear, and had put quite a few modern touches on many of the outdated styles. Streamlined chrome buggies carried passengers to their destinations, drawn by humming tri-wheeled motorcycles. Men and women alike rode foot-powered bicycles, which drove themselves forward after enough pedaling to power the small diesel engines attached to the rear. Meanwhile, rugged trucks and jeeps carrying diggers and excavation crews rumbled slowly through the heat as they fought with crowds of people making their way through the bazaar. Stylish fashions from all over Africa – and those of visitors from Europe – mixed and mingled in a bright display across a spectrum of colors. Many European visitors were often struck with the sights of those walking through the streets in tailored jackets and suits, as most white people still held a distinctly “native” image in their head of Egypt. They did not expect the paved roads, the brick architecture, the modern machinery. In this, Dust always gave a touch of disdain to those who came here expecting a backwards degree of savagery. Cairo truly was the city of the living, and as the heat of the day enveloped him intimately, Dust smiled. He would never consider another home.

  As he passed through the bazaar, he had a thought. It was worth being potentially late for.

  One of the myriad stands of traders and sellers in the market was manned by a wide, copper-skinned Egyptian with a thick, curled beard. This was Hassan. Dressed in a white tunic and a sash across his ample belly, Hassan smiled and nodded as passers-by saw his wares: gemstones and golden beauties that, at first glance, oftentimes looked glassy or fake. But the truth was that each of Hassan's baubles were from various excavations and digsites and cities all across Africa, and even beyond. Hassan was a merchant of more than just gems; his trade relied distinctly on information. Treasure hunters would ply rubies, diamonds, jade, all in the name of getting info from Hassan, who always seemed to know when certain treasures were up for grabs. He also knew when certain individuals were in the city, and at the moment Dust was inclined to gather a bit of reconnaissance about his potential employer ahead of his scheduled meeting.

  Hassan turned at Dust's approach, and his smile transformed from salesman to fellow professional. Dust had always treated Hassan well, and the favor was often returned.

  Hassan spread his thick arms wide; yes, he had a hefty frame, but it was deceptive. The man was was quite strong, and better in a fight than most. “Mister McAlan! A lovely day today, yes? How was your meeting?”

  Dust frowned. “I can't tell you about something that hasn't happened yet.”

  Hassan raised an eyebrow. “Then you've not met with Lady Blythe-Wight?”

  Dust sighed. “Today everyone else knows my schedule before I do.”

  “I have had such days. They are few and far between for me, however.” Hassan gestured for Dust to come closer. “I'll tell you something, my friend, this woman and her brother have made little pretense about who they are here to see. Before they had been in Cairo half an hour, most of my people knew that her intent was to find your enterprise. And so she did.”

  “While I was out,” Dust mused. “Kalu took the message, and I'm on my way now to see about the details. I was hoping you might have a bit more information on the subject before I walk in to have coffee.”

  Hassan nodded. “Word has it that they arrived directly from London. An expensive journey without stops. Quite a bit of money in their pockets. This would be confirmed by their presence at the Shepherd's Hotel.”

  Dust emitted a low whistle. That was a suave, swanky place with no room for anyone that carried less than a hundred British pounds in their wallet. Also – unfortunately for some – residence at the Shepherd's made marking wealthy tourists easy marks for pirates and pickpocket alike. But rare was it when a person of such wealth and taste came to Cairo with any factual basis for their treasure hunting desires. Most of them had read of some wild bauble in a pulp, and came to decipher if it was truly real or not.

  “A couple of Londinians looking to spend a little coin, with coin to spare,” Dust mused. “Great. Maybe I'll get a good fee for a wild goose chase.”

  Hassan shook his head. “I'd not wager it's a goose chase, my friend. The woman, she is animated, yes, but her mind is quite sharp. She's made a few inquiries on very specific maps, the kind that only the trained would know to think of.”

  “Define specific.”

  “The Dhauladhar Mountains.”

  Dust tensed. “Pretty damn specific.”


  Hassan nodded. He understood.

  Dust blew a raspberry of resignation. “Well. Any words of recommendation?”

  “While Ms. Blythe-Wight appears to be knowledgeable, her brother, a man by the name of Thomas, he is, well...” Hassan mimed lifting a glass to his lips.

  Dust chuckled. A drunken Brit. Last thing he needed today.

  “Thanks, boss.” Dust clapped Hassan's shoulder. “I'll be sure to pick up an extra ruby or three for the next time I come by.”

  Hassan nodded, but his face was serious. “Take care with this, my friend. I have good assurance that Lincoln Ryder is in Cairo.”

  Dust froze.

  Ryder.

  Seven hells.

  Dust nodded, clapped Hassan's shoulder again, and walked away. There was nothing that needed to be said for that bit of info.

  Lincoln Ryder was a former ivory hunter out of Australia. “Former” only in that Ryder had switched his game from the treasure of living creatures to the riches of the past. Treasure hunting had become a far more profitable enterprise overnight, and while there were still some who cherished the tusks of elephants, they much preferred the ivory if it had been sitting in a tomb for a thousand years or so. So Ryder had taken his gang of miscreants and changed their hunting style to that of raptors: always circling, always waiting for someone with a legitimate lead to begin their search, only for Ryder and his crew to descend and take the fortune for themselves. Often times, Ryder did this by force, with unnecessary violence. Dust'd had his dealing with Ryder more than once, and both of them had come out of their encounters with barely enough breath in their bodies for escape. To say that they viewed each other with distaste was an understatement.

  But if Ryder was in Cairo, then he no doubt knew about the Blythe-Wights as well.

  Goddammit.

  Dust pressed his way through the crowd, musing on this as he entered the open market area of Azbakeya. Men in straw hats, fedoras, and fezes sat at the open tables of the various cafes, including the Santi, which appeared to be readying for a musical performance in the outdoor area. Hookah and pipe alike created wafts of smoke that lingered in the still air, as they discussed the politics of the day and the historical finds of the evening before. White men in jodhpurs and pith helmets, comically overdressed for safari, sat about sipping tea and coffee, going over maps and journals. Many women were seated as well, enjoying the day's samplings, but quite a few were standing near the performance area, where a small string section had set themselves up to play. Dust frowned; he wondered if anyone of importance would be singing this afternoon.