Daughter of the God-King (22 page)

“Lady, lady—come look.”

It wants only this, thought Hattie in annoyance as they made their way to the quay to secure passage by
felucca
back to the
Priapus
. A vendor had blocked her progress, imploring her to examine his wares which consisted mainly of very poor replicas of the Temple of Arum.

“Lady,” the man implored, closing his fingers around her arm with one hand as he gestured with the other toward the makeshift table.

He was a bit too aggressive and Hattie pulled her arm away. “No,” she said firmly, but he only grasped both her hands in his and began to pull her into the crowd. Now thoroughly alarmed, Hattie crouched and pulled back with all her strength, her feet sliding over the gravel path as she turned to call for Bing. Instead, a rough-hewn sack was lowered over her head and she could feel an unknown accomplice pin her arms down from behind. She shouted, only to feel a hand cover her mouth over the sack as she was lifted off her feet. Struggling, she was powerless to raise much of a resistance but as she kicked out she made contact and had the pleasure of hearing a man grunt as she was hustled away. She fought to breathe, and thought she could hear Bing shouting from a distance.

Her abductors slowed, and she could hear them speaking in Arabic to one another as she was lowered with relative care onto a hard surface. She was finding it difficult to breathe through the sack and just as she began to fight panic, the sack was slid off her head. Panting, she squinted against the sunlight and saw three men crouching in a cart around her while a fourth acted as the driver, urging the donkeys to move along. One man grasped her hands as another brandished a length of rope to bind them. Gauging her moment, Hattie struck both her hands up in a blow to his chin, then scrambled toward the side of the cart. Exclaiming in annoyance, the three pulled her back but not before she implored the startled faces who lined the streets, “Help—get help!”

This time, she was firmly pinned on her back on the floor of the cart by the others whilst her hands were bound. The vendor leaned in so that she could feel his breath on her face, and said in broken English, “Lady—quiet please.”

In response she screamed as loudly as she was able, and he quickly put his hand over her mouth. Just as quickly, she bit down hard on his hand and between the three men, they managed to insert a gag into her mouth. For the remainder of her journey she lay on her back, fuming, while the men kept a careful watch around them. Trying to breathe evenly, she assessed the situation. Not good, she concluded—although it appeared they were instructed not to cosh her, which was a hopeful sign. For a wild moment she wondered if the prisoner was behind this abduction but rejected the idea—there would have been no need to have the associate warn her off. For the same reason, it seemed equally unlikely that the associate had masterminded this insult; his manner toward her had been deferential. The baron, then, she guessed; unhappy that she had not willingly come to the French consulate. Or Drummond, perhaps—but to what end? None knew she intended to slip away except Dimitry and Bing. Frowning, she gave it up and awaited events—she had every confidence that Bing would marshal her allies; she had been warned about the British consul but she would certainly seek out Robbie and with any luck, find Dimitry—perhaps even return to the Osiris Inn. Hattie had only to be patient, matters were not as grim as they seemed, and she had Bing’s pistol.

The cart finally came to a halt and the sack was once again shimmied down over her head. The vendor counted under his breath, and the three lifted her and unloaded her out the back. Kicking and twisting furiously, Hattie hoped that since it was still daylight she could draw enough attention so as to allow her rescuers to trace her. Or perhaps she could hold the pistol to a hostage and parlay her way out—unless they never unbound her, which seemed a likely possibility, given her attempts at escape. She would wait and reassess her strategy; perhaps it would be best to feign passivity, although she wasn’t certain she could do such a thing.

After having been deposited on a chair, the sack was removed. Her hair tangled around her face, Hattie gazed in bemusement at Hafez, the Minister of Antiquities who regarded her with a solemn expression. They were in a rude hut, barely big enough for the number of people crowded inside.

“Forgive me, Miss Blackhouse,” the minister apologized, bowing. “I am down to my last bargaining chip, I’m afraid.” He carefully untied the gag and Hattie’s captors, observing this, stepped back a cautious pace.

“What is the meaning of this—this
outrage
?” Hattie asked in an ominous tone. In truth, she had quickly grasped the meaning of this outrage upon being confronted with the minister; it appeared Hafez was afraid he’d be summarily murdered by Chauvelin—as had his other allies—and had decided he’d use her as a hostage until he could come to terms with his enemies.

Hafez spread his hands. “You will come to no harm if you cooperate—my assurances on it.”

She tossed her head to clear the curls away from her eyes. “I wish that I could say the same for you—you will be made to pay for this, and pay dearly.”

Hafez moved to twitch the curtain back and peer out the door as he mopped the perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief. “I would point out that you are in no position to make threats, Miss Blackhouse.”

“Shame on you,” pronounced Hattie with disdain. “You backed the wrong horse; then you and your cohorts turned coat and scurried over to the British. Did you think Napoleon’s people would overlook your double-dealing?”

Annoyed, he allowed the curtain to fall back. “You must calm yourself, Miss Blackhouse—I ask only that you sit quietly.”

As this seemed unlikely, Hattie eyed him with skepticism. “What is it you hope to gain? You cannot imagine to survive—your cohorts certainly didn’t. You would be better served to seek my favor, and ask that I intercede for you.”

He approached to stand before her in a manner meant to intimidate. “It is none of your concern—stay quiet.”

Hattie curled her lip in scorn. “My only consolation is that Bing is not here to see this.”

Fast losing patience, Hafez leaned over to put his finger in her face, warning, “You will stay quiet, or I will gag you again.”

So that he would not think she had been cowed, Hattie lifted her chin and looked around her. She was in the worker’s village, in one of the huts hidden away in the maze of other huts, which meant she may be difficult to find. Possessing her soul in patience, Hattie tried to sit quietly in the hope that they would unbind her so that she could summarily shoot someone.

After about an hour, murmuring voices could be heard outside the curtain, the general tone evidencing concern. The curtain twitched aside and the faces of several native men were revealed, one asking a question.

“Get help,” Hattie implored in an urgent tone, wishing she knew some Arabic.

Hafez stepped to the curtain and angrily gestured the men back. “Gag her,” he instructed the vendor of trinkets.

And so the gag was reapplied while Hattie sat and seethed, waiting for she knew not what.

Finally, as the light began to fade, noises and voices outside the hut signaled the approach of a sizable party. Hafez gave an instruction in Arabic to her captors, then passed outside the curtain. The vendor stepped forward, drew his pistol, and held it to Hattie’s head. They cannot mean to kill me, she assured herself, but found that the proximity of the barrel caused a curious sensation in her midsection. The curtain parted and Hafez reentered, accompanied by the baron and an escort of several native men.

Upon seeing her situation, the baron paused upon the threshold and spoke in French. “Surely there is no need for such measures?”

“There is every need,” Hafez insisted. “I cannot trust you.”

The Frenchman considered Hattie’s situation with a frown. “No—you would not dare.”

Hafez cocked his head. “It is not I who would have to explain to him that she was dead due to my carelessness.”

Ah, thought Hattie, enlightened; the fact that the baron was another Napoleonite came as no surprise at all—he seemed well-suited for treachery.

Conceding, the Frenchman spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “What assurances can I give, then?”

“You will assure me that no harm befalls me, the artifacts are returned to the ministry, and no one speaks of any of this. I can guarantee that nothing is ever said to the British authorities.” He emphasized the last, as apparently this would be the main reason for his assassination by his former allies.

“And the weapons?”

Hafez said emphatically, “I don’t care what happens to the weapons—take them with my blessing.”

Nodding, the baron rested his pale eyes upon Hattie while he thought this over. “Agreed,” he said. “Now, unbind her.” To Hattie he said in English, “I am sorry for this, Mademoiselle Blackhouse; please be assured it is none of my doing.”

Once the gag was removed, she replied coldly, “I insist that I be returned to the
Priapus
immediately.” As Hafez’s man continued to hold a pistol to her, she commanded, “Call him off.”

But the baron spread his hands in apology. “I regret that is impossible at the moment; Monsieur Hafez feels it necessary to have you along as a guaranty.” With a gesture, he indicated she was to be untied.

“Along where?” asked Hattie, with a sinking feeling.

“We visit the tomb—Monsieur Hafez knows the location of some articles that are of extreme interest to me.”

So—the secret chamber was the object, although this made little sense; if Dimitry was working with the enemy, he now knew where it was and presumably had already been to visit it last night. With a leap of her pulse, she held out cautious hope that this meant her husband was not aligned with this villainous crew, which would be the first piece of good news she had heard this entire miserable day. Once unbound, she calculated whether it was the moment to use the pistol and decided against it, as the vendor still held his own weapon upon her. Instead, she rose to her feet, dusted off her skirts and announced, “I am going nowhere but back to the barge.”

But Hafez was unimpressed by her bravado and replied with some menace, “You will come quietly or I will have you bound and carried again, Miss Blackhouse.”

In response, Hattie made a dash toward the door but was grasped and pulled back just as she threw the curtain aside. Outside, there was a small throng of men who watched her recapture with no little uneasiness, murmuring among themselves. “Stop them,” she pleaded as she was forcibly wrestled back inside, but no one stepped forward and despite her struggles to resist she was dragged back to the chair, seething with impotent rage.

The baron watched her desperate movements with an avid expression, which she recognized as being grounded in lust, now that she was familiar with such things. “She is very like him,” he commented in French to Hafez.

Utterly furious, Hattie spat into his face and in response, the Frenchman struck her across the cheek with the back of his hand with such force that she stumbled back against those who held her.

“No need for that,” Hafez chided—he was alarmed because there had been a collective gasp among the Egyptians when the blow landed.

But the baron was unrepentant as he wiped his face with a handkerchief, his cold, hooded gaze upon Hattie. “She must learn who is her master—regrettable but necessary.”

But Hafez could not agree with such a strategy, and warned, “You will gain a powerful enemy.”

“On the contrary—after my services to him in this matter I imagine that he will be so pleased so as to bestow her upon me; it is not as though she is legitimate, after all.”

Hafez made no comment, but his expression conveyed his skepticism that such a thing would ever come to pass. Hattie was skeptical herself, having now determined who would be the beneficiary of the business end of Bing’s pistol.

As her captors once again bound her hands, the murmuring outside became louder, and a shouted question could be heard.

“What is it?” asked the baron, with an irritated glance toward the curtained entry. “What do they want?”

Hafez made a gesture of impatience. “You have stirred the bees—they are ignorant and believe she is the reincarnation of Seti’s daughter. Fool! You should not have struck her; I will speak to them.”

He stepped outside the curtain and could be heard speaking in Arabic to the throng, his voice conciliatory. The baron took the opportunity to step over to Hattie, and ran a hand slowly down the side of her face, although his gaze was on her breasts. “I regret that my action was necessary, my dear. We shall come to terms—never fear.”

While Hattie bit down hard on the rag in her mouth, the vendor gestured nervously with the pistol, indicating the older man was to retreat. Acquiescing, the Frenchman stepped back, holding his hands up in a gesture of cooperation. One of the black-clad native men stepped forward, crouching before her to check her bindings. He raised his face to hers and Hattie found that she was looking into the eyes of her husband.

Astonished, Hattie quickly lowered her gaze as Dimitry stepped back. He was dressed in the native
gallibaya
and sported a neatly trimmed beard which, coupled with the
tarboosh
headdress, obscured his appearance. Nearly light-headed with relief, Hattie awaited events.

Hafez returned, and announced that it would be best to conclude their business as quickly as possible before the crowd was stirred into action. “They are unhappy with what they perceive to be a grave insult.”

“Very well,” replied the Frenchman with a wary glance toward the doorway. “Let us go, then.”

Once again, Hattie was loaded onto the cart while the native bystanders watched and muttered in an ugly undertone, rising in volume so that those who served Hafez and the baron were forced to wave their weapons in a threatening manner so that they stayed back. She noted that the crowd had increased, and wondered if she should struggle against her captors so as to incite a possible riot—the circumstances seemed ripe for it. Watching Dimitry from the corner of her eye, she decided she’d best not attempt any heroics for fear he had a plan that would be disrupted—but on the other hand, it may be to the greater good to disrupt Dimitry’s plan, depending on his allegiances. On the horns of this particular dilemma, she finally decided to hold her powder—a melee might jeopardize his plan and it did seem more and more likely that he was working against the enemy, hence the disguise.

Thus, as evening fell she began the slow journey to the tomb of the god-king’s daughter, keeping her chin raised and refusing to look at anyone although she could feel the scrutiny of many watching eyes as they passed through the narrow streets. The donkeys trod methodically and the wooden wheels churned on the rough gravel as they made their way into the sacred Valley of the Kings, the cliffs around them as indifferent to the schemings of men as they had been forty centuries ago. Hattie flexed her hands, which were beginning to go numb; I suppose this is what it felt like to be riding in a tumbrel, she thought, and then quickly banished the comparison from her mind.

Upon sighting their approach, the British guards at the tomb drew their muskets and waited at the ready while Hafez approached them. Hattie watched while the minister made gestures and discussed the situation—it was unclear what possible explanation would be proffered for her own state of capture, and it seemed to Hattie the guards remained uneasy as they lowered their weapons and allowed them to pass.

Once again, Hattie climbed the wooden steps at the entrance to the tomb—only on this occasion she was bound and gagged, with Hafez’s men firmly holding her arms on either side with their pistols trained upon her. Despite her perilous situation, she tried to puzzle out where the secret chamber should be and frowned, realizing it made little sense—the chamber should open off from the entry hall, but she remembered no door or other opening along the stark walls in the entry hall.

Several of the men lit lanterns and as the party ducked into the entryway, Hafez began to negotiate with the baron about how many men were to accompany them inside. This seemed understandable; Hattie easily surmised that if it weren’t for the fact that Hafez was holding her as hostage, his life wouldn’t be worth much once the secret chamber was revealed—the baron and his cohorts had proved to be ruthless killers in pursuit of this particular goal. In the end, Hafez brought two men into the tomb to guard Hattie while the baron brought only one—Dimitry—and he was allowed in only after he had relinquished his pistol. Her relief at this arrangement was short-lived, however; Hattie saw the baron give her husband a significant look in the dim light—one that indicated a covert plan. With a sinking heart, Hattie realized that Dimitry appeared to be aligned with the despicable baron—even though this was hard to imagine. She then reassured herself by remembering that whatever his motives or allegiances, Dimitry could not be pleased with the other man’s actions toward her—he who had raged when Robbie negligently touched her hand; she could only hope he was playing a deep game, and wait to see what developed.

At a location nearly halfway down the slanting floor of the entry hall, Hafez paused and spoke in Arabic to the vendor who escorted Hattie. The man stepped forward to thrust a staff into the dirt at the base of the stone wall, and grasping the staff with both hands, he began to apply leverage on the length of wood, working it back and forth into the hard-packed dirt until it could be heard to scrape against a plate of some kind, approximately a foot beneath the surface. The man leapt up to apply his full weight to the staff, and with a groaning noise, a portion of the wall began to move. As they watched, the contours of a door were revealed where some of the seams between the bricks became more pronounced. Pressing his hands against the left upper corner of the hidden door, the servant slid it back on oiled hinges, and a dark recess could be seen within.

Despite herself, Hattie was fascinated and stepped forward with no coaxing from the men at her sides to enter the secret chamber. The flickering light of the lanterns revealed muskets—hundreds of them—stacked up against the walls, and other treasures carefully lined up on lengths of burlap—golden figures, decorated jars and caskets; mainly small items, which she imagined could easily be smuggled out. Hattie reviewed them in silence, no longer intrigued; this was no treasure hunt—instead it was a means to war.

The baron stepped in and took a careful review of the items assembled. “And where is the Glory of Kings—the
Shefrh
Lelmelwek
? I do not see it.”

Hafez scanned the interior himself, which was not difficult, as it was perhaps fifteen feet by twenty. “It must be here—I have seen it myself; perhaps it was moved.”

“You assured me it was here.” The baron’s voice held a hint of accusation.

Hafez stepped through the length of the chamber and scrutinized the assembled items with increasing desperation, searching through the dully glimmering gold. “It was here—as late as last week; I swear it.”

In two strides, the Frenchman took Hafez by the shoulders and shoved the heavy man with some force against the wall, causing several muskets to clatter to the stone floor. “You hope to gain leverage to protect yourself; you know the emperor desires the sword.”

“No,” Hafez insisted in a strangled voice, his breath coming in rasps. “Take your hands off me or she will suffer for it.” His face mottled, Hafez’s eyes rolled toward Hattie, and in response the nervous vendor drew the hammer back on the pistol beside her ear. God in heaven, she thought, and struggled to remain calm.

The baron looked toward Hattie and loosened his grip but did not release the minister, instead warning in a voice filled with menace, “You have one minute to tell me where the sword is; the emperor wishes to have it when he returns in triumph and I will not disappoint him.” The minister was roughly shaken to emphasize the last few words.

“I don’t know, I tell you—it was here—I swear it.”

While the assembled men stood in a tense standoff, Hattie heard a whizzing sound near her ear, and the vendor beside her first grunted, then made a horrendous gurgling sound as a plume of blood sprayed across her face. She gasped as the man sank to the ground, a familiar thin blade lodged in his throat.

Almost before she could process this development, Dimitry was upon her other guard, twisting his arm behind him with a quick movement so as to grasp his pistol, and then holding the man before them like a shield, the pistol to his head.

Hafez stared at the fallen man in horror, the pool of blood widening at his feet. “Let us start afresh, shall we?” said the baron coolly, as though nothing untoward had occurred. “Where is the sword?”

Hafez swallowed, aware that he no longer had any leverage. “I will find it, I swear—”

“Unfortunately there is no time and I have little patience.”

Desperate, Hafez suddenly shoved at the baron and broke for the door, but with an almost causal air, the Frenchman drew his own weapon and shot him in the back, the large man collapsing in the doorway as he desperately clawed at the ancient stones for a moment, then lay still. Almost immediately, Dimitry discharged the pistol he held on his own man, who slumped to the floor. In the ensuing silence, acrid smoke drifted in the glow of the lanterns as Dimitry bent to retrieve his blade from the fallen vendor’s throat and Hattie stood in shock, contemplating the carnage around her.

“Hafez? Monsieur le Baron? What goes forward—I heard a shot.” Within moments, Drummond’s associate appeared in the entry hall outside the room, and dispassionately reviewed the bodies on the stone floor for a moment. His gaze then rested on Hattie, and with a sound of dismay, he stepped over the body of the minister to pull out his handkerchief and wipe the blood from her face. “Good God—what is the meaning of this? Unbind her immediately.”

“I regret to say it was necessary—she was inciting a response among the natives.” Hattie noted with surprise that the baron was apologetic; it was clear he deferred to the other man.

The associate produced a knife and cut her bindings himself. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Blackhouse.”

But the associate’s deferential attitude had given Hattie an idea—after all, there was no point in having the blood of a ruthless conqueror in your veins unless you put it to good use. As soon as her gag was removed, she rubbed life back into her wrists and announced coldly, “When my father hears of this, there will be no corner in hell for any of you to hide.” With a deliberate movement, she lifted her skirts to step over the fallen minister and exit the tomb.

They all stared at her in dismay, but the associate reluctantly stepped before her to block her retreat. While she glowered up at him from beneath her brows he said in a placating tone, “I assure you, madam, that you will suffer no further indignities. However, I’m afraid I cannot allow you to leave just yet—there are some questions I am compelled to ask.”

Hattie raised her chin and crossed her arms, her gaze on the stone wall. “I will answer no questions; I demand that I be let go
immediately
.”

“I believe you mentioned your marriage, madam.”

“What?” exclaimed the baron, astonished. “Married to who?”

The associate turned his head to regard the Frenchman. “You did not know of this?”

“
C’est pas vrai
—it is nonsense,” the other insisted. “She has no husband; perhaps she seeks to throw dust in your eyes.”

“She claims to have married Count Leczinska.”

There was a long, silent pause while the baron considered this revelation. Hattie was impressed; the man’s gaze never traveled to Dimitry, standing silently behind her. “Impossible,” he finally pronounced. “Perhaps it was a ploy to take her to his bed.”

The associate shrugged. “Perhaps—but it is inconceivable either way; he would never marry her without the emperor’s consent and he would never be mad enough to seduce her.”

The two men turned to consider Hattie, who stared at the wall, stone-faced, and wished she was anywhere else or at least that she knew her lines—she would have given anything to have a quick conference with Dimitry.

“Perhaps,” suggested the associate, “you could explain yourself a bit further, madam; it is possible—although I am loathe to suggest it—that you have been ill-served by the count.”

“I have been ill-served by no one but yourselves,” Hattie retorted, her low voice echoing off the walls, “—and by
heaven
, my father will hear of it.”

“We shall say no more,” the baron hastily assured her. Then, to the associate, “Better that we discuss the matter with Leczinska at a later time, perhaps.”

But the associate was not so certain and regarded the other with a grave expression. “I wonder,” he mused in a somber tone, “—if the count is who he says he is.”