The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense by Elizabeth Peters Page A

the carriage turned into the narrow way that led to the Valley of the Kings, the hills rose up around us, cutting off the last of the sunset light. Few spots on earth are as magical as the Valley; it is not only the grandeur of the scenery, but the romance of its history. In the gray twilight one could easily imagine that the shadows cast by the carriage lamps were the ghostly forms of the royal dead, and that the howling in the hills came from the throat of the divine jackal Anubis, god of cemeteries. “Now that we are settled here for a long time, we must think seriously of getting our own carriage,” I remarked. “I don’t like depending on Cyrus or on the rattletraps for hire at the dock.” Emerson said something under his breath, and I said, “I beg your pardon?” and Emerson said, “Motorcar.” That subject caught everyone’s attention and we had a nice little argument that lasted all the way to the Castle. I pointed out that the utility of such vehicles was limited by the condition of the roads and Emerson retorted that the military was using them, and that the new Ford cars had proved to perform admirably in desert terrain. Nefret and Ramses contributed very little. To be fair, they didn’t get a chance to say much. Cyrus’s Theban residence was called the Castle, and it well deserved the name. From certain angles it reminded me of the Mena House hotel; it was almost as large as that excellent hostelry and had the same screened balconies attractively arranged at various levels. There was a stout wall around the entire estate; that night the heavy gates stood hospitably open, and flaming torches lined the drive leading to the house, where Cyrus stood waiting to greet us. He had, as promised, invited no other guests. I asked after William Amherst, who had worked for Cyrus the previous year, and was told that he had left. “Finally wangled his way into the army,” Cyrus said rather enviously. “Some kind of office job. Leaves me confounded shorthanded,” he added. “But Abu is a good reis, and Bertie’s filling in real well.” Katherine gave her son a fond look. She had grown a touch stouter, but the additional weight was, in my opinion, quite becoming. She wore a long loose gown in the Egyptian style and an emerald necklace that matched her eyes. Now that she was freed from worry about her son, who had been severely wounded in action the past year, her face had lost its haggard look and once again she resembled the pleasant, plump-cheeked tabby cat of which she had reminded me at our first meeting. Bertie was looking well too. He had taken up the study of Egyptology, partly to please his stepfather, but primarily to win favor with Jumana, and there is nothing like the vigorous pursuit of archaeology to give an individual healthy color and a sturdy frame. I did notice, when he advanced to greet me, that one leg still dragged a little. I had hoped that time would bring about a complete cure. Evidently it had not. Ah well, I thought, it will keep him from going back into the military. The only other person present was Jumana, who sat as still as a little mouse until Emerson went to her. Everyone was talking and laughing; I believe I was the only one who heard what he said to her. “You did the right thing, child. The matter is in my hands now, and there is nothing to worry about.” I could only hope he was right. It wasn’t long before Cyrus turned the conversation to the subject that had obviously become an idée fixe. “I want a crack at that treasure,” he declared. “Emerson, you’re gonna have to help me with Mohassib.” Ramses glanced at me. His dark brows tilted in an expression of amused skepticism, and I intervened before Emerson could answer. “Now, Cyrus, you know perfectly well that Emerson is the last person in whom Mohassib would confide. Emerson has told him only too often and only too profanely what he thinks of dealers in antiquities. I would like to hear more about the business.