Daughter of the God-King Read online

  Hattie was having trouble keeping track of all the variables. “You are stealing the sword?”

  Despite the exigent circumstance, she could see that he smiled, as though at a private joke. “I know a man who deserves it more than Napoleon.”

  Reminded, she told him, “I have Bing’s pistol.”

  He met her eyes, his own very serious. “You must not kill the other man—Drummond’s associate. I need information from him.”

  She nodded, rather flattered that he believed her capable of successfully shooting someone in the first place. While he gently pressed down on her shoulders, she swallowed hard and obligingly lay back; trying to assure herself that after everything she’d been through, surely she could manage an hour or so in a stone sarcophagus. Dimitry shoved the lid back, leaving it misaligned so that it didn’t close completely. She heard his footsteps quickly recede, and Hattie was left in the pitch darkness atop the still-warm body of a dead man.

  Straining her ears, she listened for a few moments but could hear nothing. Small surprise, the walls in these tombs were typically five or six feet thick; composed of limestone. She began tapping one of her feet on the end of the stone enclosure. There were twenty-six tombs discovered thus far—more or less. Her breathing sounded unnaturally loud in the silence. The Great Seti’s tomb had not yet been found and perhaps it was not nearby, since this tomb was a false one; there was no god-king’s daughter, after all. Instead, the queens and princesses were in the Valley of the Queens, several miles away. It had been sheer foolishness to believe that the ancients would make an exception for a mere female and construct her tomb where only the god-like pharaohs were allowed—the Blackhouses liked their little joke.

  Hattie wondered how many minutes had gone by—the body beneath her was beginning to grow cool. Bing must be worried, although nothing seemed to discomfit Bing. And Dimitry was someone else—someone other than the someone else she already believed him to be. It was dizzying—truly; one needed a playbill to keep track of all these tangled identities, the associate included. Dimitry should be careful not to talk in his sleep although of course, she’d be the only one listening—that is, if they managed to survive this and go home to the place of priests and icons and dogs and horses.

  Wriggling, she lifted her knees to her chest and placed her feet on the bottom of the sarcophagus lid. Pushing as hard as she could, she moved it aside enough so that she could squeeze out. Cannot do it another moment, she thought in a panic. Sorry, Dimitry.

  Breathing in the musty air, she tried to calm down and get her bearings; it was inky black and impossible to see her hand in front of her face. She carefully crawled out of the sarcophagus and once on her feet, leaned in to carefully feel around until she seized upon the stupid sword; it was probably best to keep it with her, so that the prisoner never got his hands on it—one needn’t be superstitious to err on the side of caution. She debated for a moment whether she should search the dead baron for any additional weapons. No—she decided; cannot do that, either.

  Groping carefully with one foot tentatively in front of her, then the other, she made her way forward until she came to the wall. She then used her free hand on the roughened brick to find her way to the doorway and as soon as she passed through, she could feel the air stirring slightly and imagined the darkness was not quite as absolute. I have no idea what I am doing, she admitted—I only know I cannot remain in here. Unfortunately there was nowhere to go other than out the entry; she could no more hide in the weapons chamber than she could stay in the sarcophagus—she would go mad.

  Sword in hand, she carefully advanced up the slanted floor of the entry hall until she could hear voices before her, and soon thereafter could make out a square that was a lighter shade of darkness representing the tomb’s entrance. She sidled along the rough stone wall, straining her ears.

  “…revealed themselves?” It was the associate, sounding harried.

  “No, monsieur; they stay hidden.” Dimitry, she thought, at his most servile.

  “Mere troublemakers, perhaps. Keep watch, and everyone fire at will.” He paused. “Where is du Pays? We must secure the girl.”

  Dimitry offered, “Shall I fetch him here, monsieur?”

  In an impatient tone, the other man replied, “I will fetch him instead; he’d better not be offering her insult, back there.”

  Oh-oh, thought Hattie, in a panic—I cannot let him find me here—I will tangle up Dimitry’s plans if the stupid associate seizes me again. For a moment, she considered returning back to the hated burial room but figured she could easily be discovered and so instead, she gripped the sword between her teeth and dropped to her hands and knees to scramble through the rubble-smoot as quickly as she was able. Biting down against the pain of crawling over the rubble, she emerged out the opening on the side of the sloping hill, panting, and then carefully skittered down the cascade of discarded rocks and debris feet first, scraping her hands and the backs of her legs in the process.

  After she landed in an ignominious heap at the bottom of the rubble pile, Hattie examined her cut and bleeding hands for a moment whilst she caught her breath, then rose to her feet. By the light of the half moon, she began to circle around the narrow valley in front of the tomb to where the entrance road was, careful to stay out of the sight-line of the men above who defended the tomb and holding the sword by her skirts. She formed a vague idea of escaping to a safe place—perhaps the Osiris Inn—to wait for Dimitry; above all, she could not allow the associate to seize her so that Dimitry was stymied again.

  Because she was keeping a sharp eye on the tomb’s entrance, above and to her right, she nearly ran into Smithson, who was carrying a large clay water jug. “Why, Mrs. Berry,” he whispered, bowing. “How very nice to see you again.”

  Chapter 43

  Hattie could not have been more astonished. “Why, what is toward?” she whispered.

  In response, the vicar placed the jug on the ground and drew her beside him as they walked away from the tomb, at a right angle from the entrance. “Miss Bing and I are creating a diversion, along with the two British guards,” he explained in a low voice.

  “I see,” said Hattie, who didn’t see at all. “Am I to be rescued?”

  “Mr. Tremaine has ridden to fetch the British soldiers at the consul’s Office and our task is to keep those in the tomb pinned down until reinforcements arrive to surround them. We are trying to confuse the enemy and convey the impression there are more than four of us.”

  And I imagine this is why the guards are British, Hattie thought as Smithson directed her behind a large boulder and instructed her to stay down; in the event they would be needed for a skirmish such as this one.

  “That is a fine sword you have there.”

  For the first time, Hattie examined it by the moonlight. It was rather shorter than other swords she had seen, with a strangely-shaped hilt that was hooked at a right angle; a fearsome object. “It is the Shefrh Lelmelwek.”

  It was clear her companion was not up to speed. “That is nice,” he observed kindly. “Now, cover your ears.” Smithson aimed his pistol carefully and fired on the clay pot, which exploded with a loud crash.

  Exclamations could be heard from the tomb as fire was returned in the direction of the smashed pot, and Hattie was all admiration. “Joshua’s strategy at Jericho.”

  “Gideon against the Midianites,” he corrected her with a small smile, referencing the Bible story of the outnumbered Israelites. “And it continues to be a useful ploy.”

  “I have escaped,” Hattie pointed out modestly. It seemed the good vicar was unaware such heroics were no longer necessary.

  “Mr. Tremaine believes there are other forces at work here, left over from the recent war,” Smithson explained. “He wishes to take all these men into custody so as to sort it out.”

  Hattie nodded, thinking hard—here was another dilemma in what was apparently a never-ending series of them; Drummond must be unaware that his associate was the enemy�
��s point man in Egypt, and Dimitry said he needed information from the man—probably the particulars about Napoleon’s planned escape from Elba. With this in mind, it seemed she should try to work against any rescue of the associate by the British, and trust that her husband was indeed this mysterious Le Sokol person, working for the Allies and not against them.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by another crash from the other side of the tomb. “Bing,” she deduced with a smile.

  “Miss Bing,” Smithson agreed as he fired another round into the shards of the broken pot, drawing more fire upon it. “She raised the alarm when you were taken and then it wasn’t difficult to trace you here—the natives were up in arms and showed the way. Indeed, many are here in the valley, but Mr. Tremaine didn’t think it wise to enlist them to assist us.”

  Ah, thought Hattie; here is a task that is exactly suited to me and to no other. I suppose I am not slated to go off and hide somewhere until it is safe—that is not who I am and not who I ever was; I had almost forgotten, I was so thrown off by all of this.

  Just then, she heard a gunfire report from the tomb, followed by a loud pinging noise as the bullet hit her boulder. She gasped, and the vicar calmly advised, “Best stay down, Mrs. Berry—the ricochet is unpredictable.”

  As she crouched beside Smithson, Hattie thought through her plan; if those in the tomb were pinned down until the British arrived, Dimitry would have little chance of securing Drummond’s associate for himself. A means to allow them to escape was necessary—some type of diversion, and she had the very solution here at her fingertips. “I am going to retreat a ways,” she informed the distracted Smithson, gripping the sword as she crept away from the barren area that stretched out before the tomb. The moonlight aided her endeavors as she circled around, and soon she could hear the murmuring of many voices as she traversed the boulders and gravel that littered the landscape. I wore the wrong shoes for this, she thought, ruthlessly pushing the remaining pins back into her tangled hair. As she scrambled over a final mound of rocks to reach the road, she came upon the group of native men, conversing in low tones and watching the gunplay in the distance. Edward had said that superstition was a crutch for the fearful, so it was time to inject a healthy dose of courage into the proceedings. Drawing herself up, she advanced toward them, holding the sword aloft and trying to look warrior-like.

  Upon viewing her approach, the men stared in astonishment, several steepling their hands before them and bowing with deep respect. Hattie stood among them and indicated with the sword. “Does anyone speak English?” She was met with only silence. “Does anyone speak French?” she asked in that language, and several men indicated they did. “Good.” In her best portrayal of a reincarnated princess, she gave instruction, “We are going to put a stop to this sacrilege—I need a contingent of men to approach the tomb with me. We will need a torch, and something to hold as a white flag.”

  Hattie noted they all stared at her as though she were mad, but there was nothing for it; she needed to warn Dimitry that she was out here, that the British reinforcements were on the way, and that his time to secure the associate was running short. Hopefully they would not shoot her outright—there was enough moonlight to reveal that she was female and wearing a dress that had once been a pretty sprig muslin but which was now considerably the worse for wear; it would be a tragedy beyond bearing if Dimitry were to shoot her by mistake.

  “This is a sacred place,” she explained in a firm tone. “There is to be no more violence—I assure you, they will not shoot me.” They nodded in agreement and she looked upon the intent faces, realizing there were some who stood in superstitious awe and some who merely listened to an English girl with a plan, which was just as acceptable to her. I have no desire to be the god-king’s daughter, she thought; I am Hattie-with-an-as-yet-unknown-surname and no one, not my parents or the prisoner himself, can take that away from me.

  Without asking for volunteers, she held the sword and began to walk in the direction of the tomb. Two or three men immediately fell in beside her, one holding his kaftan above his head, the white cloth signifying a parlay. Hattie did not turn but she could sense the others join in, so that there was soon the tramping of many feet behind her.

  Taking a deep breath, she shouted as loudly as she could, “Parlay!” and advanced to the base of the tomb’s hill, hoping her last moments on earth were not to be spent in wretched Egypt at the wretched, faux tomb of the wretched god-king’s daughter. There was a profound silence as all gunfire ceased.

  Upon seeing her advance, one of the British soldiers who had been lying prone behind a boulder rose and ran to her. “Miss,” he panted, “You must take cover.”

  “I cannot,” she explained. “In fact, I think I am the only person who can resolve this stand-off.”

  “It is too dangerous,” he said firmly, taking her arm. “Come with me.”

  “They will not shoot me; instead I believe there has been a misunderstanding.”

  As there was indeed now only an eerie silence, he glanced between her, the group of men behind her, and the tomb. “Who are they? Mr. Tremaine seems to believe they are enemy forces.”

  She shook her head at him. “No—I believe it is only Mr. Drummond’s associate from the consulate, and his men. Mr. Tremaine was mistaken.” I hope, she thought, that I am not making a catastrophic mistake, here. She continued to stand at the base of the tomb, her escort in a silent group around her and the British soldier at her side. Peering up at the tomb’s entrance, she was unable to make out any figures in the shadows. “Sir, you must desist,” she shouted. “There has been a misunderstanding and the British soldiers from the consulate will be arriving in short order.” Hopefully Dimitry understood her message—that is, if he hadn’t suffered an apoplexy upon beholding her before him instead of safely tucked away in the sarcophagus.

  “Where is Monsieur le Baron, madam?” The associate’s voice could be heard, and Hattie gauged that he sounded a bit apoplectic, himself.

  “He is unwell,” she shouted, which was more or less the truth. “I believe we are working at cross purposes and it would be best that you descend so that we can sort matters out.”

  “I wish,” his voice rang down, “that you had heeded my original request, madam.”

  “I am not one for heeding requests, I’m afraid. Now, will you desist?”

  There was a small silence. “Yes; I will require assurances that those on the ground will cease fire.”

  “They will do so.” She smiled to herself; apparently he believed he was outnumbered, thanks to Gideon.

  In the silence of the cease-fire, Hattie could hear footsteps approaching and turned to behold Bing, coming to join her. “Thank you for fetching reinforcements, Bing. I must report that the baron is dead, as is Hafez, and Monsieur Berry is disguised as an Egyptian, so pray do not shoot him.”

  Bing assimilated this report without a blink. “Very good.”

  With a smile, Hattie indicated the sword. “Edward’s sword, Bing.”

  Reverently, Bing grasped it, and turned it one way and then the other. “Bestowed upon the pharaoh himself by the gods.”

  Truly, it almost made one believe it—standing in the barren, surreal valley; the moonlight glinting off the mythical object. Bing paused for a moment. “I am not a fanciful person, Hathor, but I almost feel Edward’s presence.”

  Hattie gently squeezed Bing’s arm in silent sympathy as the two women contemplated the priceless object. “Take it, Bing; it is Edward’s, by all rights.”

  But the moment had passed and Bing regarded Hattie with her dry little smile as she handed it back. “No thank you, Hathor; the gods did not bestow it upon me.”

  Hattie nodded, her emotions mixed. It seemed that no one would discover the Blackhouse perfidy, nor the true cause of Edward’s death. Perhaps it was for the best—lives other than her own were affected, after all. And as long as the scheme to arm the deposed emperor came to naught, there was no harm done.

  The tw
o women looked up to observe the associate and his men making their way warily down the makeshift wooden steps. Now that she knew it was he, Hattie easily spotted Dimitry, his gaze meeting her own, even in the darkness and across the distance.

  Hattie stepped close to her companion and looked up into her face. “I may be required to leave forthwith, Bing. I do not know yet where I will live, but I will write you the moment I know and you must”—Hattie emphasized this last—“come visit me at your earliest opportunity. I will have your promise.”

  “You have it,” Bing assured her.

  “I know Robbie will see you safely home.”

  But Bing needed no such assurance. “Not to worry, Hathor—Mr. Smithson and I have come to an understanding.”

  Hattie could not resist smiling upon the other with delight. “Who would have imagined all this when we left Cornwall, Bing?”

  “Not I, certainly,” her doughty companion admitted. “I shall think of you often.”

  Hattie’s smile faltered. “I may not be able to come visit you in England for a while—I’m afraid it is rather complicated.”

  Bing’s shrewd eyes met hers. “If I may be so bold, Hathor—we each make our own way; one’s heritage matters not a whit next to one’s legacy.”

  While Hattie stared at her, Bing nodded sagely. “Now, allow me to go inform Smithson that he is not to shoot Monsieur Berry.”

  Chapter 44

  After conferring with the British soldiers, Drummond’s associate approached Hattie and quietly drew her aside. “I’m afraid I must depart straightaway and I insist that you accompany me, madam—I have learned to my dismay that you cannot be trusted to do as you are asked.”