Daughter of the God-King

by Anne Cleeland

  His long fingers played on the stem of his glass. “Will you wear your yellow dress tomorrow?”

  Disproportionably pleased by the question, she smiled. “I will if you would like.”

  “Yes, I would like.” His unreadable gaze rested upon her.

  She shook her head at him with a small smile. “You are in a strange mood tonight, my friend.”

  He continued to finger his glass, a gleam in his eye. “I visited the tomb today.”

  Staring at him wide-eyed, she breathed, “Did you find it?”

  Amused, he chided, “Come now, Hattie—in the daytime? But I did note there are three stars in the corner of the chamber’s ceiling.”

  With an effort, she attempted to control her excitement. “Where?”

  Taking a quick glance around, he sketched with a finger on the table, using a candle holder as a reference. “Here is the sarcophagus; here is the entrance; here are the stars.”

  Frowning, Hattie thought about it. “Then the chamber is in this direction.” She laid a finger on the tablecloth. “We need only the exact measurements from Bing.”

  “Very good,” he said, impressed. “You have a good mind for maps.”

  “It is like chess.” She glanced up to catch a speculative look in his eye, quickly extinguished. Oh, she thought, a bit stricken—an inherited trait, apparently.

  The light mood vanished and she could feel herself blush as he smoothly continued, “It is only a matter of finding the appropriate time to unearth the chamber.”

  Entertaining an unthinkable thought, she cautioned, “I will accompany you, you know; do not even consider leaving me behind—not after all this.”

  “Hattie.” He leaned forward. “Be reasonable.”

  “I am past being reasonable,” she retorted. “It would be horrendously unfair.”

  “I will think on it,” he temporized, in the tone of a parent who has no intention of giving in to the importunings of a child.

  Before the argument became heated, they were interrupted by Robbie, who pulled up a chair beside Hattie and signaled to a servant to bring him something to eat. “Robbie,” asked Hattie in a pointed tone, “do you remember when we had to crawl down the abandoned tin mine at the Tor?”

  “Couldn’t forget—we were filthy.” He turned to Berry to explain. “One of my sisters fell in.”

  Hattie pressed her old playmate. “Was I afraid? Did I falter?”

  “Pluck to the backbone,” Robbie pronounced, picking up her wine glass and drinking from it. “Why?”

  She crossed her arms, annoyed. “Just to show I don’t scare easily.”

  He considered. “Unless you’re closed in somewhere—that scares you.”

  “That is neither here nor there,” she said hastily.

  Berry brought the discussion back to the matter at hand. “I understand you will accompany us to the worker’s village tomorrow, Monsieur Tremaine.”

  “Yes—I thought to support Hattie.” The two men exchanged a look by which she was given to understand any information discovered would not necessarily be good news. It didn’t matter; she wanted only to resolve all mysteries so that she could leave this place and move forward into her future, wherever it was. And prevent another war, for good measure.

  “Mademoiselle Bing should stay at home, I think,” Berry suggested. “It would be best if you were to appear vulnerable and bereft.”

  “I will notify her,” Hattie agreed, wondering what he was up to; he knew better than most that she could no more appear vulnerable and bereft than she could fly to the moon.

  “Have you seen Mr. Hafez?” Robbie asked, taking a quick look around. “I am to arrange for a meeting with Mr. Drummond but he has not left word of his whereabouts.”

  “He did not join us for dinner,” Hattie volunteered.

  “Perhaps he has been detained,” suggested Berry in a neutral tone. Hattie shot him a look but he did not meet her eye. Maddening man, she thought again, and watched him drink his wine, her gaze on his throat as she wondered in exasperation when he was ever going to kiss her again—there would be no opportunities tomorrow, certainly. When he lifted his eyes to hers, she was made aware he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  “We must be patient,” Berry said aloud, setting down his glass.

  “Well, I hope he makes an appearance soon,” said Robbie, oblivious to any byplay. “I need to buttonhole him.”

  “The sooner the better,” agreed Hattie with fervor.

  Chapter 35

  The next morning Hattie, dressed in yellow, stood before two Egyptian men who sat on a crude bench before a small market stall, smoking hookahs and regarding her with unreadable dark eyes. Berry addressed them in Arabic, but the two men made no reply. With a gesture, Berry indicated Hattie and said something further. One of the men took one last draw on the hookah, and then stood to disappear behind the fruit stalls.

  Berry turned to report to Hattie and Robbie. “We are looking for a certain man—it may be a few minutes before he is located.”

  Hattie tried to avoid eye contact with the remaining native, who drew on the smoking tube and continued to regard her unblinkingly. “Who is the man we seek?”

  “One of the porters who was with your parents on the site. I have indicated that you particularly desire to speak with him.”

  Hattie nodded. “And what are my lines?”

  “Appeal to his chivalry, perhaps—that you are now alone in the world and need his help. You seek to bury your parents with the rituals of your religious beliefs.”

  “Be careful you don’t offend him,” warned Robbie. “They are sensitive about certain protocols—keep your veil down.”

  “Unless it is necessary to lift it,” suggested Berry. “We shall see.”

  Hattie sincerely hoped she would not have to offer a glimpse of the god-king’s daughter to obtain assistance; she wasn’t certain how one would go about it. They were once again on the west bank, only this time they had traveled past the ruins and into the small cluster of white-washed huts nestled against the hills that provided housing for the native laborers who worked the excavations. The accommodations were very basic, and the open air market seemed to serve as a general meeting place—although it seemed unnaturally quiet for a market, and around her Hattie observed turbaned men and veiled women watching them from shadowed doorways. She lifted the hem of her best yellow from the dusty pathway and was regretfully aware the dress would be the worse for wear after this excursion. It was more an evening dress than a day, but if it was favored by Berry, she would wear it morning, noon, and night with pleasure; she was pleased to think that he took notice of such things.

  The man returned, and gestured silently for them to follow. Berry indicated Hattie should proceed, and she stepped between the stalls to follow the Egyptian, unable to resist glancing behind her to confirm that Berry followed.

  “I will stay close,” Berry assured her quietly so that Robbie would not overhear. After several twists and turns, they arrived at a makeshift café—hardly more than a lean-to—which consisted of a curtained doorway dividing a kitchen from a small dining area, the floor nothing more than hard-packed earth as the flies buzzed in circles in the center of the room. At one of the crudely-built tables sat an Egyptian man, his gaze resting for only an instant upon Hattie before he watched Berry come toward him. He did not look at Robbie.

  Berry indicated that Hattie should stand slightly behind him. “He will not speak directly to you, because you are a woman. You must not address him, but communicate only through me.”

  Hattie thought the protocol ridiculously stilted, so she cut to the heart of the matter. “Tell him I have come to bury my parents.”

  Berry translated, and the man sat for a moment, expressionless, and then spoke in Arabic. Hattie had the impression he knew English, but was using the translation process to stall and so put them at a disadvantage.

  Berry turned to her and translated, “Have they no son?”

  Hattie
was sorry to discover that this was the wrong thing to say to her, and raising her veil, she advanced on the seated man, her eyes flashing and her heart beating in her ears. “No, and they did not have a daughter, either. You are going to tell me what you know or by heaven I will not be answerable for the consequences.”

  “Hattie—for God’s sake,” warned Robbie, startled.

  But Berry said nothing as Hattie leaned over the seated man, pointing a finger in his face and hissing through her teeth, “How dare you insult me?”

  Berry said something, but Hattie knew he was not translating.

  The man’s liquid dark eyes rolled from her to Berry as he stammered in English, “Please—they have been buried. The prayers have been said—Christian prayers.”

  Surprised, Hattie straightened slowly. “Where?” she demanded.

  Shaking his head, he disclaimed in genuine fear, his arrogant pose completely vanished. “I cannot say—it is worth more than my life.”

  “Your life is worth nothing unless you tell me,” she countered in a grim tone. “Speak.”

  His eyes slid to Berry again, and he made what sounded like a plea in Arabic. In response, Berry shrugged.

  “You are a coward, in a country of cowards,” Hattie bit out in disdain. “You allow foreigners of every stripe to come in and plunder your treasures, afraid to speak out or defend yourselves. Your mighty ancestors must weep in the afterlife, ashamed of the lot of you.”

  The man spoke rapidly to Berry, who nodded in acknowledgment and then took Hattie’s arm to gently draw her away. As she turned, she could see that perhaps a half dozen other men were now crowded into the adjacent kitchen, staring at her in amazement from behind the lifted curtain. Now I’ve torn it, she thought, forcing herself to calm down; I hope Berry does not have to carry me out of here.

  “It is best to go, now,” Berry suggested, as a rising crescendo of murmuring voices could be heard. With his hand firmly on her arm, they ducked out the doorway and walked with a rapid progress back toward the market street, Robbie following close behind with his hand resting on the hilt of his pistol. As the hushed voices surrounding them became louder, Hattie saw faces suddenly appear in windows and doorways to look upon her; saw children pulled in from their play by anxious mothers who held their veils up to cover their faces. I am not afraid of any of you, she thought in defiance, and lifted her chin to stare them all down.

  They made it to the waiting cart without incident and once safely away, Robbie explained to Berry in an apologetic aside, “She’s always had a temper, I’m afraid; especially on behalf of others.”

  “He was so condescending, Robbie,” Hattie hotly defended herself. “If I were a man I would have knocked him down.”

  “If you were a man he would have knocked you right back, Hattie; try to remember the situation is a delicate one and we are seeking a favor—we need to find the missing inventory.”

  “It couldn’t be helped,” she insisted, crossing her arms. “I cannot say I am sorry for it.”

  Berry, who had been watching the exchange without comment, interrupted to point out, “He told me where your parents are buried.”

  Hattie and Robbie interrupted their quarrel to give him their full and silent attention.

  “There is a Christian graveyard—on the east bank between the Embassies, which is used to bury foreigners who die while visiting. Your parents are in unmarked graves on the site.”

  Hattie stared at him for a moment, her brow knit. “And who buried them there?”

  Berry shrugged. “I imagine it will not be difficult to find out.”

  Robbie added with some satisfaction, “And whoever buried them may know how they died, and why—or at least know someone else who knows.”

  Berry deferred to Robbie with a respectful gesture. “Exactly. You may wish to cross the river straightaway to see what can be discovered at the cemetery before others hear of this episode—I imagine word will spread very quickly. If you’d like, I can see Mademoiselle Blackhouse safely home.”

  “An excellent idea.” With an easy movement, Robbie leapt down from the cart to trot toward the quay—all the while assuring Hattie over his shoulder that he would report back to her as soon as he knew anything.

  In the ensuring silence, Berry then gave a direction to the driver, who stirred the recalcitrant donkey into action once again. Hattie regarded him as they resumed their progress. “You already knew this.”

  “No,” he admitted. “But I am not surprised.”

  Her temper having now cooled, she assimilated the Egyptian’s revelation and its implications. In a subdued tone she offered, “I imagine they were murdered by the French—upon orders by my”—she couldn’t quite bring herself to say it and amended—“the prisoner.”

  “Or someone acting for him,” Berry agreed, watching her with open sympathy.

  Arching an eyebrow, she tried to make light. “Small wonder, then, that the porter didn’t know what to tell me.”

  Berry tilted his head. “It was a terrible dilemma for him.”

  “What was it you said?”

  “I reminded him that you were the daughter of the god-king, and should not be crossed.”

  “Yes.” She dropped her gaze to examine her hands in her lap, trying to control her emotions. “Well, it certainly turned the trick.”

  Leaning forward, he placed his hands over hers. “Shall we visit their graves together?”

  She nodded, grateful for his support. “I should buy markers, I suppose. Although—although perhaps it is for the best that no one knows where they rest.” She wiped away tears with the flats of her fingers.

  “I believe,” he suggested gently, “that more brandy is needed.”

  Looking up at him with a small smile, she confessed, “I never had spirits until you and your brandy.”

  “Well, you shall have them again, I think.”

  They came to a stop before a modest establishment whose sign proclaimed “The Osiris Inn,” and he dismounted to hand her down from the cart and escort her inside. The innkeeper, a bald, stout man with an elaborate black mustache, observed their approach from behind the desk and showed no sign of welcome or even of interest; Hattie had the fanciful impression that if the earth had suddenly opened up and swallowed them, his impassivity would continue undisturbed. The man must have some sensibility, however—there was a small golden icon hanging on the wall behind him, the type one saw in an orthodox church. If Hattie thought it a trifle odd that the Osiris Inn boasted such an icon, she made no comment. Berry made an inquiry and the man indicated they were welcome to step into the dining parlor, a thankfully cool room that was empty of any other guests. It was an odd hour, Hattie surmised, and the luncheon crowd had not yet arrived.

  As they were seated, drinks were served and Hattie tentatively sipped the concoction, which was the color of raspberries. “Oh—it is good; rather like negus punch.”

  “Passion fruit, with vodka,” Berry informed her with a warm smile, touching her hand on the glass. “Do you like it?”

  “I do,” she said, although there was a strong, tangy under-taste. “Is wod-ca a form of brandy?”

  “The spirits are from a different source—the taste is not as strong.”

  She nodded, and drank so as to match him in sophistication—it appeared he was a man who was accustomed to drinking spirits so she had best acquire a taste for them, and truly the drink was rather good. It was such a comfort to put the events of the morning behind her and sit with him—just the two of them, for once—in this quiet and peaceful place. A benevolent feeling of warmth was making its way down her veins as she felt all her concerns dissolve away. “What have you done with Mr. Hafez? Smithson will carry off the palm with the poor minister all unknowing.”

  He regarded the linen tablecloth for a moment, deciding whether to tell her. “Mr. Hafez would rather not be found, at present.”

  “Does he yet live?”

  He was amused. “Yes, he lives.”

  “
It is not such a strange question,” she pointed out in her own defense. “Given recent events.”

  “No—it is only that you are so sangfroid.” He lifted her hand to turn it over and kiss her wrist, his mouth warm on her skin. “You continually surprise me.”

  Her pulse leapt at the contact, and she was reminded that he hadn’t kissed her since Cairo and that this lack should be remedied as soon as humanly possible. “Do you remember what we spoke of—that which you said I wasn’t to speak of again?”

  “We will not speak of it,” he said firmly, and motioned to the mustachioed gentleman for another round of drinks.

  She subsided, castigating herself for raising the issue too soon—he was not yet ready to face facts. She sincerely hoped he wasn’t going to avoid making love to her in some misguided attempt to change her mind; at the moment she was fighting a very strong urge to crawl onto his lap. After she downed another half-glass of the punch, she asked, “If there is another war, will you fight?” She knew she should not be asking him such a thing but found that she was having trouble monitoring her words.

  Tenderly he placed a hand against her face, the palm completely covering her cheek. “I am very careful, Hattie.”

  “I know.” She leaned into his hand. “Sorry. Sometimes I worry.”

  “You needn’t,” he said gently. “I will always come home to you.”

  It was shaping into her worst fear—that after having the ground cut out from beneath her with respect to every other constant in her life, she would lose him, too. Stop being maudlin, she commanded herself—you are not one of those women. Mustering a smile, she teased, “And where is home?”

  “Wherever you are,” he answered easily.

  Shaking her head, she pronounced, “You are the most complete hand—I can never catch you.”

  “Not true—I am well and truly caught.” Rising, he came around to help her to her feet, his hands beneath her elbows. “And here is Monsieur Smithson.”