The Buried Pyramid

by Jane Lindskold

  Jenny set down her own saddlebags, and studied their surroundings, noting the position of the camels relative to the watchmen, confirming that there was no roving post. Then she bent and extracted her rifle. Its weight was familiar in her hands as she gestured with it towards the watchmen.

  “We don’t dare let them make noise,” she whispered, “but we don’t want to harm them. Can each of you get a hold of one of them so they can’t yell, just for long enough for me to ‘reason’ with them?”

  Two sets of teeth gleamed in the moonlight. The Arabs were conservative regarding the behavior of their own women, but their desire to make a profit meant that they were willing to make an exception for infidels. During the voyage up from Luxor most of Reis Awad’s crew had decided that Jenny belonged to her own category—not a boy, but not quite a woman, either.

  With careful silence, the two sailors made their way across the sand, the larger circling to where he could grab hold of the farther guard. In a trice the guards found themselves trapped, one arm pinning their knife arms to their bodies, a broad, callused palm over their mouths. For a moment, the watchmen were too surprised to struggle. When they did, they found the contest uneven. Both guards were young men, fellahin farmers, strong enough, but lacking the corded muscles of the two sailors. One or the other might have managed to shout alarm, but even as the struggle began, Jenny walked into the firelight.

  She lifted her hunting rifle, the sleek Winchester lines no less deadly for their lack of bulk. The prisoners fell slack immediately, eyes widening in grotesque horror as they realized that the person holding the rifle was a woman.

  These were no sophisticated Cairo Arabs, no jaded merchants or sailors. These were fellahin of an isolated village whose only contact with Europeans was to watch the vessels that carried them on their incomprehensible journeys along the Nile. Even the tales told by their more traveled brethren had not lessened their isolation. In a sense it had increased it, for the Europeans had become creatures of legend along with genie, efreet, and sorcerers.

  Jenny pointed her rifle at the smaller sailor’s captive, and tossed pre-cut sections of rope and a heavy length of cloth at his feet. The message was plain, and the young villager all but tied himself up rather than invoke the wrath of the lithe, deadly figure standing over him. The second fellow, crushed almost breathless within the grasp of the stronger sailor, was even easier to restrain.

  The two bound men were propped beside the fire, ragged rugs that had served as cloaks around their shoulders. With luck, they would not be discovered until morning, and their only injuries would be stiff limbs and bruised pride.

  The stronger sailor went back to the boat for the rest of the gear, while Jenny followed the other’s directions. In good order, they saddled four of the camels and settled the beasts’ saddlebags into place. The remaining two were loaded with extra gear and quantities of water.

  The camels had rested for several days now, so took the attention in what was for camels good humor. One muttered a sulky protest. Another spat, but overall they accepted being disturbed on a night they had every reason to believe should have been peaceful.

  Keeping clear of the fields, Jenny and her sailors took the camels south of the village. The night was still, sound carrying easily through the clear air. For Jenny, who had wintered recently in Boston, the temperature was comfortable, but the two sailors shivered.

  It is winter here, after all, Jenny thought with a trace of amusement. And I’m wearing a whole lot more clothing than they are.

  Once they had reached the agreed upon point, a place where sandstone boulders provided some shelter and an easily spotted landmark, the larger sailor salaamed.

  “Our orders are to return to the Mallard , bringing the lighter so that others may use it.” He frowned. “It goes against my honor to leave a woman—even a Christian Englishwoman—alone in the desert at night.”

  Jenny smiled reassuringly. “I’m American, not English, and the others will be along soon. In any case, I brought company.”

  She lifted the flap of her saddlebag and extracted Mozelle. She had taken the precaution of doping the kitten slightly, so it wouldn’t mew and attract attention to itself.

  The sailors visibly relaxed. Several of the more superstitious members of the crew had attached a great deal of importance to the little animal, going so far as to proclaim that Mozelle was a good luck charm.

  “We will go then,” the sailor said. “Stay near the camels. Even jackals will be reluctant to trouble so many and so healthy. This close to the Nile they can find easier game.”

  With a final salaam, one that to Jenny’s imagination seemed to include the kitten, they vanished into the darkness.

  Jenny looked where they had gone, marking their solid forms until they vanished. She felt reassured. Even by moonlight, they would not likely be seen, and she and the camels would simply be more rocks.

  The stars were bright and clear. It seemed to her that even out at sea she had never seen so many. It was like gazing up into a jewel box. She thought of a painting of the goddess Nut they had seen at one of their stops, and understood why the ancient Egyptians had chosen to imagine the sky as a woman with stars adorning her diaphanous gown.

  Thinking of Nut made her rummage again in her saddlebags. There were adjustments to be made if she was to spend the night riding a camel, and she would do her companions no favors if she waited for their arrival to make them. Mozelle, coming out from under the drug now, but still sleepy enough not to wander, watched with interest.

  After enough time had passed that the moon had visibly shifted in the heavens, Jenny heard noise from the direction of the Nile. At long last, the revelers were being ferried ashore.

  She smiled. As good Mohammedans, they did not drink, but they would be logy with rich food. Many would also be logy with the dusting of opium powder Eddie had put over the candied dates that were one of the desserts—one he had learned was a favorite of old Riskali. She doubted that many of the villagers would have foregone the treat.

  Much could still go wrong, though—especially if someone went to relieve the unlucky souls who had drawn guard duty. She waited in nervous anticipation, her mouth dry, as noise became silence once more. Then, after a longer wait, she heard the sound of people making their way as quietly as inexperience would permit through the fields.

  Just in case, she raised her rifle.

  “Jenny,” came a soft call, “it’s me, Eddie, with the others.”

  She didn’t lower the gun barrel until she confirmed that they were alone. Then she slid it back into the long holster already in place on the camel her sailor/drover had selected for her.

  All three men were tense, for getting away unnoticed hadn’t been easy.

  “The villagers kept trooping from house to house,” Stephen said, eyeing his camel with apprehension. “I suppose they were telling their story to everyone who would listen. Finally, we had to try for shore and hope no one would see us.”

  “And we were worried about you,” Neville added, looking up from checking the straps on the baggage camels, “what with all that prowling around.”

  “I suppose,” Jenny said, “no one wanted to remember the two watchmen.”

  “From what I overheard when the men were coming aboard, I got the impression the ones left behind were in disgrace,” Eddie said, “and not including them in the round of visits would have been their final punishment. Ready to get moving, all?”

  Jenny indicated the camel already loaded with her gear.

  “All right if I take that one? It has my stuff. Mozelle’s asleep in one of the side pockets.”

  Eddie nodded. “I’ll take the lead camel. Daud already told me which one she is. The others should follow her out of habit. Now, if either of you tyros have trouble, don’t hesitate to let me know. Stephen, you take that one with the white blotch on his shoulder. Neville, you get the other, and ride drag.”

  The humans followed his orders without question. The camels w
ere a bit more difficult, having been rousted out once already that night, but Eddie had worked with far less tractable beasts than these and knew how to be firm with them. Within minutes of the men’s arrival, the party was ready to go.

  Risking a quick strike of a match, Eddie oriented himself by his compass.

  “We need to proceed west and a touch more south to reach the Hawk Rock. For now, let’s head west and put some distance between us and the village—I’d like to ride the rest of the night if you’re up to it. We’ll camp and refine our course come day.”

  No one disagreed, for they had discussed this before. Still, Jenny was more tired than she had been when they had designed this plan, and wondered if she could hold up her part. Only the certainty that Stephen had to be feeling the same, and the knowledge that he would be determined to hold up as long as she did, made her keep her doubts to herself.

  Before dropping his camel to the end of the line, Uncle Neville rode close to her. He removed a greasy paper packet from his saddlebag and handed it down, following it with a still-warm canteen.

  “Mutton sandwich,” he said, “and coffee. Thought you could use something after all your hard work. We’ve plenty more for later, so don’t hesitate.”

  Jenny felt indescribably grateful and tucked the packet into the convenient pouch near her knee so she could reach it after she had adjusted to the camel’s motion.

  Almost as soon as she had finished, Eddie Bryce gave a command and the camels lurched to their feet.

  “Everyone still aboard?” Eddie asked, a chuckle evident beneath his hushed voice. “Good. Hold on now. There’s nothing to do but stay aboard and let the camels do the work.”

  One by one, the camels swung to follow the lead of Eddie’s mount: Jenny’s, then Stephen’s, then the two pack animals, and lastly, Neville’s. Ahead there was nothing but sand and darkness. Above, the stars continued to glimmer. In the far distance, a jackal barked, but though Jenny’s ear strained, there was no reply.

  15

  Destruction at the Hawk Rock

  The morning sun came up behind them, its rays rippling across the sand dunes as if it was hurrying to catch up with the travelers. Although when surveyed from their comfortable perches on the upper deck of the Mallard the desert had appeared nearly as flat as a neatly made bed, the night’s travel had revealed that it was more like a sea, full of dips and rises. Somewhere in the night, Riskali’s village had been lost to sight.

  Eddie took care as the daylight brightened to make certain that they kept to the troughs between the dunes, so that they would not silhouette themselves against the skyline. Although the humans were exhausted, the camels had fallen into a steady, uninterrupted rhythm. Clearly the hours of steady walking through the cool night had meant nothing to them.

  After consulting with Neville, Eddie went ahead, looking for a good spot to camp. The best candidate, a sheltered hollow that offered some prickly grass and dubious-looking shrubs for the camels, could only be reached by continuing for a while after sunrise. By the time they had unpacked the gear and erected camel’s hair pavilions to keep off the worst of the heat, the sun would be high.

  “The sand looks so soft,” Stephen said, trying hard to keep a wistful note from his voice.

  “A bedroll will be softer,” Eddie said, “and you’ll be stiff enough come evening without lying on sand. Lend a hand, you fellows, and we’ll get the pavilion up. Jenny, start unpacking personal gear from the camels.”

  Neville thought Stephen had done well enough to deserve praise, not censure—and judging from the sour expression on Stephen’s face—the linguist felt the same. However, Neville trusted the former sergeant’s instinct for knowing the best way to get the most from a newcomer to the desert, and so did not intervene. Even he felt inclined to protest when Eddie cautioned them to take care with the water.

  “I won’t ration it, quite yet,” Eddie said. “But it may come to that. You can drink, but no washing. Use sand. If your lips are dry, there’s a grease ointment in each of your kits.”

  Neville protested, “Chad Spice’s journal mentions finding water both at Hawk Rock and the Valley of Dust. You and I know he was right about the Hawk Rock.”

  Eddie shook his head, stubbornly refusing to be persuaded.

  “We can’t trust an ancient journal, nor memories ten years old either. Water holes dry up or get fouled by men or beasts. I’m not counting on finding any water at all, and my guess is that we’ll have to turn around to resupply just as soon as we find this Valley of Dust.”

  Neville glowered at him, but he could see the other man’s point, and decided not to argue. He turned away, scowling, and for the first time in daylight got a clear look at Jenny’s costume.

  Instead of the neat and moderate black frocks she had been wearing since her arrival in England, she now wore loose, canvas-colored trousers and an equally unfitted tan work-shirt. Around her neck she had tied a red bandanna, and on her head she wore a wide-brimmed hat shaped from undyed leather. Her feet were encased in low riding boots of soft leather, decorated with beaded patterns.

  This was jarring enough, but the wide, dark-brown belt she wore about her waist bore more than its adornment of hammered silver coins. From it hung two heavy holsters, each showing the butt of an efficient-looking revolver. The belt held a sheath for a long-bladed Bowie knife, obviously intended to do double duty as a tool or weapon.

  In peculiar contrast, the kitten Mozelle frolicked around Jenny’s feet, balancing on her back legs to bat at the long fringe depending from the base of the saddlebags her mistress had just unstrapped from the nearest camel.

  Jenny appeared to feel his gaze on her, for she turned to face him.

  “I know it’s not mourning, Uncle Neville, but I already had these clothes, and it seemed foolish to wear black out under the sun. I’m sure Mama and Papa will understand.”

  “I am sure,” Neville said, finding his voice with difficulty. “I wasn’t thinking about that.”

  “The trousers?” Jenny asked. “You know Mama permitted me to wear them on the ranch. I thought this was much the same.”

  Neville shook his head vigorously, as if attempting to dislodge a fly. Off to the side, he was vaguely aware of Eddie and Stephen, who were studiously ignoring the discussion as they began erecting the pavilion.

  “The quantity of weaponry you are carrying,” he said. “I knew you had packed some in your luggage, but…”

  Jenny dumped a load of saddlebags near where the pavilion would be, and walked over to the camels to unstrap another.

  “I have the rifle, too,” she said wearily. “You saw it last night. You know perfectly well I can shoot. We’re out here in the desert, possibly being pursued by angry villagers, maybe facing bandits, maybe even those same mysterious Sons of the Hawk who attacked us in Cairo. Why would I keep my knife and guns in my saddlebags?”

  Neville frowned, then realized the frown was more for himself than for Jenny. He’d been prepared to order Stephen to keep a weapon close at hand, and Stephen could barely shoot. Jenny was not only capable, she was good. He’d seen her form as they hunted along the Nile.

  And in memory, he heard himself debating whether or not the expedition should be armed—only then it had been Alphonse Liebermann who had balked at the need for weapons, while Neville had insisted.

  Am I somehow becoming Alphonse, now that I’ve taken on his venture? Neville thought uneasily.

  “Are you prepared, then, to shoot a human being?” he asked, trying not to let Jenny sense his own internal unease. “It’s not the same as shooting a duck or gazelle.”

  Jenny’s violet eyes met his straight on. “If that human being was about to harm any one of us, I’d feel worse about shooting the duck. It, at least, would have done nothing to deserve a bullet.”

  The measured brutality of her answer left Neville feeling chilled. Then he remembered Alice and Pierre, dead not from accident or sickness, but from the deliberate calculation of human beings, and tho
ught he understood.

  Understanding didn’t make him the least bit more comfortable, but it stilled his tongue, and he turned without further comment to help erect their shelter against the innocent ferocity of the rising sun.

  Jenny was relieved when Uncle Neville didn’t press the point about her clothes or weapons. The fact was, she wasn’t going to go unarmed—not out here, not with that certainty she felt that they hadn’t seen the last of the Protectors of the Pharaoh.

  She’d planned on appealing to Eddie Bryce if necessary. She thought he’d be practical rather than proper—but she was glad not to need to do it. Uncle Neville might not believe it, but she didn’t much like arguing with him. He was all the family she had left, and with increased familiarity she saw her lost mother in him. The lines were toughened and masculine, but the kinship was indisputable.

  Stephen was probably more shocked than Uncle Neville had been, since he’d never seen anything but her hunting rifle and derringer (that last now tucked in her under-bodice as a weapon of last resort). Jenny doubted he’d ever seen a woman in trousers, either, but figured he was woman-ridden enough to know better than to comment on a woman’s choice of attire—at least when there was another man around who’d already drawn the unhappy responsibility for that honor.

  They dined lightly on cold roast mutton, flat bread, and onions, Jenny giving some of her share to Mozelle, whose needle sharp fangs reminded her whenever she doled out the shredded meat too slowly.

  “I wonder,” she said drowsily, “if Mozelle’s too young for such fare.”

  Stephen stopped unlacing his boots long enough to glance over where the kitten now slept, belly visibly rounded.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “I don’t think she’d be so cat-atonic, if she didn’t think it purr-fectly fine.”

  Jenny tossed one of her own soft-sided boots at him.

  “Nice,” he said, handing it back. “Indian work?”