The Buried Pyramid

by Jane Lindskold

  Stephen provided some small distraction for them by translating the inscriptions on the walls. His cultured accents reading off prayers and invocations that had been old millennia ago must have sounded quite peculiar to whomever listened from outside the chamber.

  Noon passed and the Bedouin grew quieter, probably taking their afternoon rest. About the time Neville’s watch announced that civilized British were taking tea, there was the sound of booted feet crunching on the sand above.

  Neville looked up, expecting to see the sheik, but instead confronted the sun-browned, sardonic features of Captain Brentworth.

  “I see you decided to go on a dig after all, Sir Neville,” Brentworth said. The smile with which he accompanied these words was not a friendly one. “I hope you don’t mind our relieving you of your find.”

  Neville felt his skin grow hot at the implications of that arrogant “our.” He spoke before he could think.

  “Is Lady Cheshire with you then?”

  A new voice, laughing, light, and feminine, gave him his reply. “Of course. Who do you think arranged all of this? My goodness, Sir Neville, but you have led us on a merry chase! You should never have refused to share your information. I should so much rather have been your partner than your opponent.”

  She purred the word “partner” in a fashion that made Captain Brentworth temporarily shift his glower to her, but she put out her hand and caressed him lightly and the glower faded.

  Like a dog, Neville thought, patted by the master.

  He wondered if he had looked as foolish as Brentworth, and decided he probably had, but forgave himself. No man could look at Audrey Cheshire and not be excused some foolishness.

  Voices raised in command came from the direction of the camp. There was a female screech, Sarah Syms saying “Take your hands off of me, you brute!”

  Neville felt a momentary wash of confusion. Surely no man would even look at Sarah Syms’s horsey features with lust when Audrey Cheshire was near. Then again, didn’t the Arabs really like their horses, even let them sleep in their tents?

  Cheshire and Brentworth had looked back, almost casually when the fracas arose, but now they were on their feet, every line of their bodies defensive.

  “What are you doing?” Lady Cheshire said sharply. “Leave my companion alone! Why are you bringing her here?”

  The sheik reappeared. Neville could only see his lower body clearly, but from the spread of his legs, he was defiant.

  “Silence, woman! I have had enough of your shrewish words. The time has come for you to know who commands. Drop your weapon.”

  This last was directed towards Captain Brentworth, who had been in the act of drawing a regulation issue pistol from the holster on his right hip.

  Neville saw Brentworth’s hand freeze in mid-motion, drop, and hang limp. An anonymous robed form came forward and removed the gun, patted Brentworth down and removed a second gun from his boot top.

  “What are you doing?” Lady Cheshire demanded, and Neville couldn’t help but admire her spirit.

  There was an abrupt crack, and a muffled scream. Audrey dropped to her knees, and Neville saw the welt rising on her elegant features. His wide green eyes were wild and terrified. He realized with something like sorrow that she didn’t look lovely anymore.

  “Now,” the sheik said, “all of you other English, in the hole with your countrymen.”

  Captain Brentworth put himself protectively between Lady Cheshire and the sheik.

  “What is this nonsense?” he barked. “We paid you good money to locate these people and this place. We have promised you more on our return. What are you doing?”

  “You think that we are your lackeys,” the sheik replied, his tones a snide caress. “You are wrong. Neither you nor my friend the headman Riskali, who sent word to me that in his village were English looking for guides to help them pursue other English into the desert, know that my people have ancient knowledge of the secrets this desert cradles in her care.”

  The sheik’s voice rose as he spoke, becoming taut and shrill, a transformation all the more terrifying for his former calm control.

  Jenny hissed in Neville’s ear, “They’re distracted—listening to him rant. Should we make a break for it?”

  Neville shook his head. “We’d just be shot.”

  Eddie growled unhappily, “We may be anyhow, and I’d gladly take someone with me.”

  Neville glanced at him and saw his friend’s features remote and fierce. Jenny looked no kinder.

  “I want Lady Cheshire,” she said. “If she had kept her nose out of our business, none of this would have happened. You heard the sheik. Cheshire told him we were here!”

  Above, Lady Cheshire had raised her tear-streaked face to confront the sheik, “What ancient knowledge? Do you mean these ruins? We will gladly share with you any treasure we find. We could work together. I have contacts in the antiquities markets. You would do far better working with us than selling your finds on the streets of Luxor.”

  The sheik spat in the sand in front of her, somehow giving the impression that he failed to spit on her because that would somehow profane his spittle.

  “Truly, the Prophet knew what he was saying when he decreed that woman is subordinate to man. Your face is fair, your form skinny but not displeasing. Were you not destined for a judgment that far overrules my own, I would take you as a concubine—or, better, sell you in the markets to the South, for truly I believe touching you would shrivel a man’s member.”

  He licked his lips as if reveling in some carnal fantasy only reluctantly relinquished.

  “But you have trespassed against an ancient law and an ancient trust. No amount of English gold will free me from my duty.”

  The shadow of his rifle swept over the pit. “Walk now, down to join the other English. Call your followers to join you. Do this or we will throw you down, and the hole is deep enough that you will feel pain unnecessarily.”

  “He’s serious, Audrey,” Captain Brentworth said. “You can’t bluff your way through this one.”

  Slowly, the color draining from her cheeks and leaving the mark of the sheik’s blow to show in high contrast, Lady Cheshire held up her hands.

  “Lower me down, Robert. Help Sarah and Rashid before you come.”

  The chamber was cramped now, but Jenny and Neville kept to the fore with guns ready—though if there had ever been a problem that shooting couldn’t solve, this was it.

  Eddie Bryce pushed past them and stood in the pit, eschewing the shelter so as to look up at the sheik. Scorn shaped every line of his body, and he was terrible in his anger.

  “So, you boast of your ancient trust,” he said, and he spoke the pure Arabic of the Koranic scholar. “You are the protectors of the Pharaoh Neferankhotep. You are the servants of commands given by heathen gods! To you I say this: There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is His prophet. Your faith is a lie. You and your men are lower than vipers, for at least a viper wears its own skin. You creep like a thief, wearing the guise of a just man.”

  For the first time, the sheik faltered. Clearly, he had never before perceived a conflict between his duty to the pharaoh and his duty to Islam. The first was a trust handed down for untold generations from father to son, mother to daughter. The second was not only religion, but social and educational structure. Against this, Eddie had struck a bitter and telling blow.

  The sheik paused, and Neville wondered if he was actually going to back down.

  Then the sheik laughed. “Fools!” he cried in accents harsher than Eddie’s. “There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is His prophet. That is true. It is also true that a son should be faithful to the commands of his father. My father commanded that I follow this path set by his father, and by his father before him. Such has it been for me and the men of my tribe from a time before Mohammed walked the Earth and spoke the truth that brought light to the world.”

  Since this exchange had taken place in Arabic, the other Bedouin had followed th
is argument with ease. Like the sheik, they had initially been unsettled, now they took refuge from that uncomfortable sensation in anger.

  If he ordered them to shoot us like fish in a barrel, Neville thought desperately, they’d do it and laugh. Be quiet, Eddie…

  But Eddie Bryce, now wholly Ibrahim ben Josef, couldn’t hear Neville’s thoughts—nor, had he been able to do so, would he have ceased his righteous indignation.

  “So, what do you intend for us, oh faithful one?” Eddie’s words were polite, but the sneer in his voice was potent as a slap.

  The sheik moved as if he would slide down into the pit and assault Eddie with his bare hands, but he stopped himself in mid-motion. Perhaps he recalled how easily he could become a hostage if he came down. Even a fanatic does not sacrifice himself lightly when there are alternatives.

  Good try, Eddie, Neville thought, suddenly understanding.

  “What do I intend?” the sheik responded, stepping back from the pit’s edge. “You shall know, all too soon, and wish to go back from that knowing. So has it ever been for the hundreds, if not thousands who over the ages have attempted to violate the tomb of the good king. Back now, in with your friends, or I shall have you shot where you stand.”

  Eddie obeyed, and as he crowded in with them, Neville squeezed his shoulder.

  “Clever gambit,” he whispered.

  “Almost managed it,” Eddie said. “Swine’s no true son of Islam.”

  Not hearing this last insult, the sheik strode over to where the carving of Horus had impassively watched events, neither approving or disapproving these actions done in his name.

  Neville checked the angle, wondering if he could possibly nail the sheik before he did whatever he was about to do. Apparently, the sheik caught the direction of his gaze.

  “Shoot the next one who moves,” he said in English, meaning the warning as much for his prisoners as for his men.

  Neville could feel all those in the chamber willing themselves into complete immobility. Beside him, Eddie breathed something that might have been a curse. He didn’t move his lips, but the tone was unmistakable. One of the women—Cheshire or Syms, certainly—sobbed in an upwelling of panic, but none of the men dared offer comfort.

  Before the sculpture of Horus, the sheik made a sweeping bow. In an eerie, sing-song voice he began to chant, his men echoing him in a wailing refrain. His words were Arabic, but there was that in their cadence and shape that hinted at an origin far more ancient.

  In the beginning, the word was Ptah.

  (The word was Ptah.)

  Creation sprang forth.

  (Creation sprang forth.)

  Maat is the balance by which creation abides.

  (Maat is the balance.)

  Judgment belongs not to man.

  (Judgment is not man’s.)

  For how can the weight also be the scales?

  (The weight cannot be the scales.)

  Is your soul as light as Maat?

  (Is it?)

  Discover the judgment of the gods!

  (Discover!)

  On the rising note of the final refrain, the sheik pressed the full weight of his body against the flail in Horus’s hands. For a terrible, hopeful moment, nothing happened. The air rang with unexpected silence. Then a terrible grating vibration ensued, felt first rather than heard. Something shifted behind the chamber’s painted walls.

  Behind him, Neville heard someone begin to pray, quickly, and without a great deal of hope.

  The sheik leaned over the edge of the pit, laughing maniacally. “Discover the judgment of the gods! Discover the lightness of Maat! Discover the belly of Ammit!”

  With the roaring of a wind from nowhere, the spine-chilling shriek of rock against rock, the floor dropped from beneath their feet. Accompanied by a cloud of sand, they fell, screaming in raw terror that overcame the bravest of them.

  Above, the floor slid back into place, leaving only darkness, then bone-breaking pain, and finally, mercifully, unconsciousness.

  19

  In the Pit

  As far as she could tell, Jenny came around first, rasped into consciousness by the rough workings of a sandpaper tongue against her cheek. She’d been dreaming that she’d been thrown by a particularly stubborn bronc that kept laughing as it bucked, and waking wasn’t all that unwelcome—at least until she realized how much she ached.

  “Mozelle…” she murmured, trying to open her eyes. She couldn’t. Then she realized that they were open. The darkness was so complete that she had to touch her eyelids to make certain.

  A small furry head bumped against her cheek. Jenny struggled upright, oddly disoriented in this total darkness. Mozelle felt her movement and climbed into her lap, up her torso, and settled on her shoulder, buzzing approvingly.

  Jenny started to stand, then realized that for all she knew she could be on the edge of a precipice. True, the floor around her felt solid for as far as she could slide, but that didn’t mean that one step farther was another drop into nothingness. Her heart beat unnaturally hard at the idea, her gorge rose and for a long moment she fought against being sick.

  “Hello?” Jenny called softly. “Anyone here?”

  Her voice was swallowed by the surrounding darkness, then someone groaned.

  “Uncle Neville? Stephen? Eddie?”

  The groan came again, followed by a word.

  “Stephen.”

  “Do you have any matches?” she asked. “I don’t, and I’m afraid to move.”

  “Matches?”

  Silence. Jenny imagined Stephen taking inventory of himself, perhaps patting down his pockets.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, taking comfort in her own voice, “I should have asked if you were all right.”

  “I hurt like the dickens,” Stephen replied, “but nothing seems broken. I’m checking my pockets. If I remember… Yes!”

  “What?” Jenny asked eagerly.

  “I have a full box of matches, and,” he paused, triumphant, “a full five inches of candle stub!”

  “Light it!”

  She heard the scrape of the match even as she spoke. The pale glimmer of candle flame wasn’t exactly bright, but it was wonderfully comforting. It showed Stephen’s face and hand for a moment before he raised it and held it higher to better illuminate their surroundings.

  “Any sign of the others or our lanterns and candles?” Jenny asked. “Uncle Neville made sure Eddie bought a bunch.”

  “I don’t have much hopes for the lanterns,” Stephen said, but…”

  He shuffled to his feet, and the light fell upon a heap of their baggage. It also found Mozelle. The kitten had located a package of dried fish and was tearing into it with intense enjoyment.

  “Move, kitty,” Stephen said, “we may need those. I’ve heard dry fish shed light when they burn.”

  “Yuck!” Jenny said.

  “Better than darkness,” Stephen said, “but you and Mozelle are in luck. I’ve found a box of nice, if slightly melted, candles.”

  “Light a couple,” Jenny said. “We need to check on the others.”

  Stephen paused in the act of obeying. “The air in here…”

  Jenny had assisted her father after a mining accident.

  “I know,” she said, “but we have to risk it.”

  Their talk had disturbed some of those in the gloomy reaches of the cavern. Groans and muttered questions echoed oddly off the stone, reminding Jenny of a description she’d once read of Hell. Had it been in Dante? The memory seemed impossibly far away.

  She accepted the candle Stephen handed her. It was almost as thick as her wrist, and burned with the slightly sweet odor of good beeswax. She stuck several spares under her belt.

  “I hear someone over there,” she said. “See who it is. If you find my doctor’s bag, let me know.”

  “Yes, Madame General,” Stephen said with an attempt at a laugh.

  Jenny discovered Uncle Neville near her, hauling himself to a sitting position, hands metho
dically checking himself for injuries. His eyes blurred and unfocused.

  “Are you all right, Uncle?” she asked.

  “Think I’ve wrenched that ankle again,” he said, shaking himself to an awareness of her and the light, “and wrenched my shoulder, but I don’t think anything’s broken.”

  Jenny lit a candle and set it in the sand beside him.

  “I’ll be back to look at you in a moment,” she promised.

  Jenny was already checking the forms nearest to her. Mrs. Syms was face-down in the sand, and for a horrible moment Jenny thought the older woman had smothered. Turning her over and rinsing her mouth with water brought Mrs. Syms sputtering to consciousness.

  “My shoulder!” she moaned. “I’ve broken it. Nathan, why is it so dark?”

  Jenny probed the shoulder, feeling the older woman wince.

  “Here’s a candle,” she said. “Let me check that shoulder. Ah… the collarbone is broken, I think. I’ve bandages in my kit, if I can find it.”

  Stephen had lit a couple more candles, and by their illumination Jenny found her medical gear, glad that Uncle Neville had ordered them to move all but the bulkiest items of their gear into the chamber.

  Uncle Neville was helping Eddie, and Stephen was bending over a form indistinct in the flickering light of the half dozen or so candles spotted about the room. Someone else, large, so probably Captain Brentworth, was painfully hauling himself erect.

  “Jenny,” two voices said almost simultaneously.

  They stopped, then Uncle Neville said, “When you’re finished there, come take a look at Eddie’s elbow. It’s swelling pretty badly.”

  “I think I may need you first,” Stephen said. “I’ve found Rashid, and he won’t wake up.”

  “Be careful how you move him,” Jenny said. “See if his throat is free of sand. I’ll be right over.”

  Jenny finished a fast wrap on Mrs. Syms’s shoulder.

  “Stay quiet and still,” she said, catching up her bag. “I’ll mix you something for the pain in a moment.”