“There may be something down there.” Lady Fayth pointed farther along the wadi.
Kit looked where she indicated and saw another opening thirty or so yards away and all but hidden in a fold in the smooth canyon wall. Smaller than the others, and narrower, Kit had mistaken it for a shadow. Lady Fayth was already starting for the place. Kit overtook her and hurried to the low doorway. “Fourth time lucky,” he said and, stepping in, almost broke his neck when he lost his footing and plunged down a steep flight of stairs. The cutlass spun from his grasp and clattered down the stone steps with him.
The sound of his fall echoed up from the hollow chamber below. “What happened?” asked Lady Fayth in a strained whisper.
“Careful!” replied Kit, his voice echoing in the empty chamber. “There are some steps.”
“Are you injured, sir?” asked Giles. “Shall I come down?”
“No, I’m all right. Just stay put,” answered Kit. “There’s another room down here.”
Light from the doorway above flowed down into the chamber, illuminating a small vestibule and revealing a doorway to a narrow connecting tunnel. Kit started forward; his foot struck the cutlass and sent it rattling across the floor. A voice rasped out of the darkness from the unseen room beyond. “This is horrific! You must release me at once.”
Kit recognized the voice immediately. “Sir Henry—it’s me.”
“Kit?”
“We’ve come to help you.” He retrieved the cutlass and moved to the doorway. He had just put his foot on the low step when there came a shout from outside, followed by the sharp report of a pistol.
“Oh, great!” Kit muttered, already racing for the steps. “Hold on,” he called behind him. “I’ll be back.”
Kit leapt up the stairs and scrambled out into the wadi, where Giles was grappling with two attackers: Burley Men. Kit managed to be surprised by what was merely inevitable—that the Burley Men would always appear at the worst possible moment. Although dressed in light-coloured Arab garb—kaftans and kaffiyehs instead of their former black coats, tall boots, and wide-brimmed hats—there was no mistake; Kit had seen them before. Giles seemed to be holding his own, so Kit turned his attention to the third attacker, who was struggling to hold on to a very angry and animated Lady Fayth. Drawing a deep breath, Kit launched himself at the fellow’s back. Gripping the cutlass with both hands, he raised it and brought the knob of the hilt down on the man’s head. The rogue gave out a yelp and released Lady Fayth. Shaking herself from his grasp, she spun around, raking at his face with her fingernails while Kit, with a well-aimed kick, lashed out at his knees. The Burley Man’s legs folded under him, and he went down in a hail of blows from Lady Fayth’s fists.
Kit rushed to Giles’s aid. He closed on the nearest of the two clinging to the coachman’s arms. “Stop!” he shouted. “Let him go!”
The brute half turned to meet this new threat, and Kit thrust the point of the cutlass at his unprotected chest, stopping just short of piercing the skin. The attacker growled and made an ill-judged swipe at the blade. Kit held firm. “I said stop!” he shouted, driving the man back onto his heels with the point of the rusty blade.
“Tav!” cried the Burley Man. “Over here!”
Kit gave another jab with the point of the blade, and the man fell over backward. In the same instant, Giles swung his free hand into the face of the thug still clinging to his arm, connecting with a satisfying crunch of bone on gristle. “Agh!” shrieked the man, staggering back, both hands clutching his nose as blood gushed down the front of his kaftan.
Lady Fayth screamed, and Kit turned to see her attacker on the ground, clutching her ankle as she swiped at him with the butt of the pistol. He raced back to her side, reaching her just as the Burley Man succeeded in toppling her. Kit caught her as she fell, taking her weight. Momentarily unbalanced, Kit felt his own foot clasped and yanked from under him. He sat down hard, losing his grip on the cutlass as he crashed onto his rump. Lady Fayth fell on top of him, and as they lay in a tangled heap, Kit felt his weapon wrenched from his grasp. He made a wild grab, snagged the hilt, and hung on. “Giles!” he cried. “Help!”
With his free hand, Kit punched at his attacker and succeeded in landing a solid blow in the man’s gut. He felt the blade loosen and, with a mighty heave, pulled the cutlass from the Burley Man’s grasp. The rogue roared and smashed him in the eye with an elbow.
Kit, his eyes watering, clutched the cutlass hilt and rolled away. He pushed himself up and tried to rise—only to be met with a boot in the ribs. Unable to breathe now, he tried to squirm away. He heard Lady Fayth scream again, and he swung blindly at his attacker with the cutlass, making a wide sweep of his arm, driving his assailant back. But before he could swing the blade again, the resounding crack of a rifle shot exploded in the canyon, and a chunk of rock above his head shattered, sending splinters and dust over him. Instinctively, Kit ducked; and even as he turned in the direction of the shot, a second, gut-clenching sound rumbled through the wadi: the feral growl of a very large and angry cat.
Two more Burley Men in Arab dress were standing before the temple. One was tall and lank with a white kaffiyeh, the other thickset and bareheaded; the tall one held a rifle, and his muscular companion grasped the iron chain linked to the cave lion’s heavy collar. The beast itself strained forward, the hair across its shoulders raised in bristling spikes, its mouth open, tongue lolling as it watched the newcomers with its pale yellow eyes. Giles and Lady Fayth, startled by the sight of the beast as much as by the rifle shot, ceased struggling. All grew deathly still.
“That’s right,” said the tallest man, striding toward them. “Everybody calm down now before someone gets hurt. Baby hasn’t eaten today, and she’s getting a little restless. You, there”—he waved the rifle barrel at Kit—“put down that blade—slowly, slowly. We don’t want you to cut yourself. There’s not a doctor within a hundred miles of this place.”
“Who are you?” Kit demanded.
“I’m the man with the rifle. Now, do as you are told, and put down the sword.” Kit obeyed. “Good. Kick it aside.”
“You won’t get away with this.” Kit gave the blade a shove with his foot.
“No?” The man moved toward him. “I think you’ll find I already have.”
“Rogue!” spat Lady Fayth. “You, sir, are a low criminal.”
“Oh, I am much more than that, my darling.” He gestured to his henchmen to seize and bring the others. “Con, Dex—take them.”
Giles and Lady Fayth were seized by Burley Men. “What do you ruffians intend doing to us?” Lady Fayth demanded.
“That ain’t for us to say,” replied the one called Con. “Lord Burleigh’ll decide when he gets back.”
“Take them below,” said Tav. He gestured with the rifle barrel for Kit to join his companions. The would-be rescuers were taken to the low doorway of the underground chamber and shoved down the narrow stone steps.
“We’ve brought you some company, Your Lordship,” announced Tav, his voice ringing loud in the stone chamber. “I would offer to introduce you, but I think you all know one another.” He gave Kit a nudge with the muzzle of the rifle. “Get on with you. Straight through there.”
Kit stepped through the short tunnel-like entrance into another slightly larger chamber, the end of which was covered by a heavy iron grate door. Sir Henry shuffled into view behind the bars of his prison.
“Phew! It stinks something terrible down here!” said Tav.
“You devil,” spat the nobleman. “Let them go. They have nothing to do with any of this. They know nothing of value to you.”
“With respect,” countered Tav, “I do most heartily disagree.” To the one called Con, he said, “Lock them up.”
A key was produced and the grate unlocked. Giles, Kit, and Lady Fayth were shoved roughly through the door and into the rock-hewn chamber to be instantly assailed by the sickly sweet stench of ripe death—a smell so strong it made them cough and gag. The room was bar
e, save for the bottom half of a large stone sarcophagus and walls covered with bright-coloured panels of almost life-size paintings—most featuring a shaven-headed Egyptian in a kilt and ornate chest plate. Every inch of the room was painted—even the ceiling: a sea of blazing blue full of white stars.
Sir Henry opened his arms to embrace his niece. “Haven, are you well? Have they mistreated you?” This minor exertion appeared to exhaust him; he staggered backward and collapsed in a fit of coughing.
“Uncle!” she cried, rushing to his side. “Here, let me help you. Do not speak.” To Giles, she said, “Is there water? Hurry! He’s choking.”
Sir Henry raised a shaking hand to stroke his niece’s cheek. “You should not have come,” he said, and coughed again. Kit heard the deep rattle in his lungs.
Giles found a jar and bowl in one corner; he filled the bowl and brought it to his master.
“Drink a little,” said Lady Fayth, taking the bowl and raising it to Sir Henry’s lips. He took a sip, then slumped back against the chamber wall. “What has happened here?” she asked.
“Where is Cosimo?” asked Kit, already knowing, and fearing, the answer.
Sir Henry, his skin pale and waxy, stretched out his hand and pointed to the sarcophagus in the centre of the room. Kit rose and approached the open stone coffin, dread making his heart thud; he looked inside to see the body of his great-grandfather, flesh pale and bloodless, eyes closed, hands folded across his still breast. Kit tried to speak, but his voice faltered. Giles stepped beside him and peered into the sarcophagus with him. Both men drew back as the noxious perfume of death rose from the corpse; their eyes watered and their stomachs squirmed.
“I am sorry,” rasped Sir Henry. “He died in the night.” The words set off another fit of coughing, worse than the first. “The rogues put him in there. . . .” He gulped air and continued. “Terrible thing. I must soon follow him.”
“We are here now, Uncle,” said Lady Fayth. “We will help you.”
“No, no.” Sick sweat beaded on Sir Henry’s forehead. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “I have much to tell you.”
Kit, sick at heart and woozy with the smell, staggered back from the sarcophagus and marshalled his scattered faculties to listen to what Sir Henry was trying to say. “Do not stay here,” he whispered. “Use any means to get away . . . something in the air. . . .” He coughed, and Lady Fayth helped him take another sip of water. When the coughing subsided, he continued. “There—on the wall . . .” He pointed to a particular painting. “Just before nightfall, the sun will shine through the doorway. You must . . .” He gasped, swallowed, and forced himself to go on. “. . . must be ready.” He began coughing again and this time refused the drink. Giles and Lady Fayth eased him the rest of the way to the floor and made him more comfortable lying down.
“Be ready for what, Sir Henry?” asked Kit, kneeling beside him.
“Copy . . . the map.”
“The map?”
“The Skin Map.” The nobleman gestured vaguely at the painting. Kit moved to it for a closer look. The panel depicted a bald Egyptian in ceremonial kilt and ornate jewelled chest plate, holding a curiously shaped flat object in one hand and pointing toward the heavens with the other. The object in the Egyptian’s hand looked a little like a scrap of papyrus that had been decorated with a random scattering of hieroglyphs. Kit held his face closer and recognized the tiny whorls and line-pierced spiral designs. “Copy them,” urged Sir Henry. “Use them to further the search.”
“We will copy them, Uncle,” said Lady Fayth. “But you must rest now. Do not speak. Save your strength.” She offered the bowl again.
“Ah,” he sighed. “Thank you, my child.” He seemed to be sinking further beneath the illness that was killing him.
“The symbols on the map, Sir Henry,” said Kit. “We don’t know how to read them. Can you tell us?”
“He died peacefully,” said Sir Henry, almost dreamily, “knowing he had passed the torch to you. He put all his hope in you, Kit. He was content.”
“The symbols, Sir Henry,” persisted Kit. “Can you tell us what they mean? We don’t know how to use them.”
But the nobleman had closed his eyes. “Sir Henry?” There was no reply.
“He is sleeping now.” Lady Fayth pressed his hand and then rose. “We will let him rest.”
Kit turned to Giles. “We have to find some way to copy the symbols,” Kit told him. “We can put them in the green book, but we have to find something to write with.”
A quick search of the chamber failed to turn up a single useful item and, with great reluctance, both men turned towards the sarcophagus. “Do you think he might have had something, sir?” asked Giles.
“Maybe,” allowed Kit doubtfully. “I suppose we should look.”
“With your permission, sir,” said Giles, moving to the coffin. Kit nodded, and the coachman began going through Cosimo’s pockets. He quickly finished and reported that he had found nothing.
“Then I guess that’s it.” Kit sighed. He ran his hands over his face as a tremendous fatigue drew over him. “What a mess I’ve made of this—this whole thing.”
“You were not to know, sir,” Giles told him.
Evening came on and, as Sir Henry had said, a shaft of sunlight through the vestibule illumined the interior of the tomb. Kit, feeling helpless, stood before the painting and tried to memorise the dozen or so symbols on the painted map so that he might reproduce them later. Giles and Lady Fayth joined him, each taking a section of the painting; but there were too many and the opportunity all too brief. They were able only to commit a paltry few to memory before the sunlight faded, gradually dimming away until darkness claimed the tomb of Anen.
Sir Henry continued to sleep, his breath heavy and laboured. Kit, fatigued by the shocks and alarms of the day, began to hurt. His ribs ached, his head throbbed, the muscles in his neck and arms burned, and he seemed to have been peppered all over with bruises. He settled into a convenient corner and found himself next to Lady Fayth. “So,” he said, sliding down beside her, “your name is Haven. I didn’t know that.”
“A lady does not give her Christian name to just anyone,” she replied primly.
“But we’ve known each other for days and days.” He could not decide whether to be offended or by how much, but in any case was too tired to protest further.
“You were wonderful,” she told him, and he heard her sigh. “So very gallant.”
“You weren’t so bad yourself,” replied Kit, a sudden warmth spreading through his aching limbs. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
“I have two elder brothers.”
“That would explain it.”
“I am so sorry about your great-grandfather,” she said. Kit felt her fingers on his arm. “So very sorry.”
“Thanks,” he said. Overcome by an oppressive exhaustion, he yawned, and the movement brought instant pain to his jaw. When the pain subsided, he whispered, “Good night . . . Haven.”
“Good night, Kit,” she whispered back. He closed his eyes, and it seemed that he had just drifted off when he was being nudged awake again. “Hmm?”
“Shh!” hissed Lady Fayth. “Someone is coming.”
Kit made to sit up, and the effort renewed all his aches and pains. “Ohh . . .”
The chamber was still dark, but less dark than it had been before. A thin light trickled into the cell from the vestibule beyond. The light grew brighter, and then there was a lantern being held up to the grate. “Well, well, well—what have we here?” The booming voice resounded in the bare chamber. Kit came fully awake. He turned to look at Lady Fayth, who was on her knees beside him. “Looks like everyone is present and accounted for now.”
The face at the grate, as revealed by the lantern, was vaguely attractive in a broad sort of way, with a luxurious moustache and large dark eyes; but there was a ruthlessness about the mouth that gave the lie to the overall genial impression.
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“Let us go, Burleigh,” said Kit, climbing to his feet. Giles rose and came to stand beside him.
“So, you know who I am. And I know you. Isn’t this splendid?”
“Keeping us captive won’t get you anywhere.”
“It may surprise you,” replied Lord Burleigh, “but I am rather inclined to agree with you. Oh, I must say, the atmosphere down here is most foul! However do you put up with it?”
“That’s all your fault. Cosimo is dead, and Sir Henry here is—”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Burleigh quickly, “it is all very grim. So, let us not waste time wallowing in blame and recrimination. I propose we work this out between us. The simplest thing would be for us to join forces to work together for the common good—one hand washing the other. Help me find the Skin Map. Pledge yourselves to my service, and I will set you free.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“You will rot in here just as your great-grandfather did, and as Sir Henry soon will. It’s the miasma of the tomb, or the mummy’s curse, or some such thing, you see? Carries one off just like that!”
“We’d be crazy to join you,” spat Kit. “Murderer!”
“So be it,” replied Burleigh with a shrug. Withdrawing the lantern, he prepared to leave. Then, turning back, he addressed Lady Fayth, who was kneeling at her uncle’s side. “What about you, Haven? Does this rash young man speak for you as well?”
Silence, deep as the tomb in which they stood, descended upon them. No one moved, hardly daring to even look at one another. Then, slowly, Lady Fayth rose to her feet.
“Haven?” Kit said, breaking the silence.
She crossed to him and held out her hand. “Uncle’s journal,” she said. “I want it.”
“You can’t—”
“Give me the book!” she demanded. When he made no move to obey, she snaked a slender hand into his pocket and extricated the cloth-wrapped book. Kit grabbed her wrist.
“He’s your uncle—your own flesh and blood! How can you betray him?”
“Unhand me,” she said, pulling free of his grasp. She moved toward the door.
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