Valley of the Kings by Cecelia Holland Page A

ferry onto the quay at Luxor, put down his suitcases, and said, “I need a hat. My head is getting sunburned.” With a smile he put out his hand to me.
    Under the thin prickle of his close-clipped hair, his scalp was turning red. I reached for one of his bags. “Come and get indoors, then.”
    â€œI’d rather go directly to your dig.”
    I led him off the brick quay and onto the road to Kurna. He could put up with me; Americans were supposed to be egalitarian. He hurried along until he caught up with me.
    â€œWhere are you digging? Let’s go there.”
    â€œThere’s nothing to see, yet,” I said.
    â€œWhat do you mean? You cabled us—”
    â€œI know what I cabled you.” I gave him the swiftest of oblique looks. “I’ve covered it back up again. Thieves abound here. When Carnarvon comes we’ll set to work again.”
    â€œOh,” he said, his thin face settling a little. But he did not look as if he believed me.
    Eighteen days after we had uncovered the first step, I stood at the ferry stage watching Carnarvon approach in a small boat. Evelyn was beside him. Lady Evelyn. When she saw me she waved and smiled. She wore one of her odd straw hats and a plain white dress; she looked lovely. Beside her sat her father, expressionless, his hands on his knees.
    â€œWell, Carter,” he said to me. “What have you found?” His voice was tight. Although he managed to keep his tone even, his handshake was long and warm and excited.
    â€œI don’t know yet,” I said. “Come and look.”
    Evelyn was surveying the far bank of the Nile, littered with ruins, the columns of the temple like piles holding up the sky. She turned her level blue gaze on me. “You’ve waited for us, Howard? How extraordinary. I should think you’d have dug it all up by now.”
    â€œWe’re all part of it,” I said.
    I did not dare even approach the site until Carnarvon was there to use his influence with the government.
    We went down the ferry stage to the tether line, where an array of shaggy gray donkeys was tied up. Ahmed had saddled four of them for us. There was a new service available to the valley, an old and smoky lorry, but the ride was slow and often unpleasant. Carnarvon was walking along beside me, his hands in his pockets.
    â€œVery honorable of you,” he said to me. “Waiting until we got here. I hope you haven’t dragged me away at the height of the bird season to witness another of your flashy false alarms.”
    I kept my mouth shut. Let the old bastard see for himself. On his far side, Evelyn hooked her arm through his and lengthened her stride.
    â€œEvie,” Carnarvon said, “the thing’s been there donkey’s years, no need to run. Carter, how long has it been there?”
    â€œIf it’s Eighteenth Dynasty,” I said, “at least thirty-two hundred years.”
    Evelyn detached herself from her father. Ahmed held out the reins of a donkey to her, and she slid them over the beast’s head. Across the broken cavalry saddle, she said, “Is it Eighteenth Dynasty, Howard?”
    â€œYes, I think so,” I said. “Some ruins from the Nineteenth Dynasty were on top of it.”
    Athletically she climbed onto the donkey and reined his head around toward the yellow cliffs. I mounted. My donkey took me after her at a trot. Evelyn—Lady Evelyn—tucked her riding whip under her arm.
    â€œI can’t wait to see,” she called.
    â€œWas it a hard trip down from England?”
    Her swift glance told me as much as a paragraph. Carnarvon and Ahmed were clattering after us, the Earl sitting well back in his saddle, his stirrups let down straight as a hussar’s. Ahead, the notched terraces of the cliff were coming clearer as we approached. I urged my donkey toward the trail to the valley.
    Ahmed had sent the crew out to the valley, but they had orders to wait until