Tomb of the Golden Bird (6 page)

Howard, I should say—had found. Lest the Reader wonder why, allow me to remind him or her of how such tombs were constructed. Steps were cut down into the bedrock at the base of the cliff, within a descending stairwell, and when the desired depth was reached, a squared-off doorway gave entrance to the corridors and chambers of the sepulchre itself. This doorway must be well below the level of the topmost steps, since there had been no sign of it as yet, and detritus lay deep over the area—almost thirteen feet down to bedrock in some places. Howard kept on until growing darkness made careful work impossible. Emerson would have gone on beyond that time, had I not tactfully reminded him that the decision was not his to make. He was extremely restless that night, mumbling and throwing himself from side to side until I threatened to expel him from our chamber. If I had not protested, Emerson would have headed for the Valley at dawn next morning; when interrogated, he had to admit that by his calculations it would take another day of hard work to clear the entire cutting. "We ought at least pretend to be casual visitors," I informed him. "Howard will not take it amiss if we drop by on our way home from the West Valley, but if you push him too far—" "Curse it," Emerson shouted. "See here, Peabody—" "Mother is right," Ramses said. "What?" Emerson stared at him. "Oh. Well. If you think so." I wished Ramses had not interfered. We had had the beginning of a nice little argument developing. Our morning's work in the West Valley was a waste of time, though. Neither Emerson nor Cyrus could concentrate, and the former was, for once, the first to suggest that we stop for the day. Exhibiting the delicacy which was so characteristic of him, Cyrus refused Emerson's invitation to call on Howard. He did not, as he might have done, point out that it wasn't Emerson's tomb. "I feel kind of funny about hanging around," he explained. "Why?" Emerson asked, in honest bafflement. "Well, Carter didn't ask me." "He didn't ask us, either," I said. "But that will not deter my husband. Come to dinner this evening, Cyrus, and we will tell you what went on." Nefret had decided to spend the morning at her clinic, so it was just the three of us, Emerson, Ramses, and I, who wended our way to the East Valley. Emerson had underestimated the zeal of Howard's crew. We arrived on the scene in time to see that the rubbish above the steps had been removed. Howard gave us only an abstracted greeting before urging his men to proceed. There was no thought of stopping now, and no possibility of leaving. One by one the descending stairs were exposed as the cutting deepened. The sun was low in the west when the level of the twelfth step was reached, and there before us was the top of a doorway blocked with plastered stones. Howard sat down suddenly on the ground and wiped his forehead with his sleeve, too overwrought to take out his handkerchief. "I can't stand the suspense." He groaned. "Is the blocking intact? Are there seals on the plaster?" This was as good as an invitation to Emerson, who probably would not have waited for one anyhow. Howard tottered after him as he descended the steps. "I can't see," Howard muttered. "It's too dark down here. The exposed section seems to be solid—" "Keep your hands off the plaster," said Emerson curtly. "Peabody, toss down a candle." I handed Ramses my torch. He had courteously refrained from comment or suggestion, feeling, I suppose, that his father was doing enough of both, but I knew the dear lad was as eager as we to inspect the doorway. With a smile at me, he descended in his turn. The rest of us crowded round the opening, breathlessly awaiting a report. It came at last, in the form of a groan from Howard. My heart sank; and then Ramses's even voice called up, "Plastered stone blocks. There are several seals stamped in the plaster—the seals of the necropolis, the jackal and the nine kneeling captives." "No cartouche?" I asked. "Not here. But the lower part of the doorway is still hidden by rubble." "I must see," Howard cried. "I must see what is behind that door." "It will take several more hours to finish clearing the rubble from the stairwell," Ramses said coolly. "And it's getting dark." "I must see," Howard repeated. "I must!" "Some of the plaster at the top has fallen away," said Emerson. It was the first time he had spoken since Ramses went down with a light, and it was clear to me that he was having some difficulty speaking calmly. "There appears to be a wooden lintel behind it. Peabody, I don't suppose you have such a thing as a drill on that belt of tools?" "I regret to say I do not, Emerson. I will make certain to carry one in future." "Good Gad," said Emerson, whether in response to my comment or in general, I cannot say. With Ramses's knife and an awl provided by the crew, a small hole was drilled through the beam. The wood was old and dry but very thick, so it took a while. It was like being spectators at a play—sightless spectators, since we were dependent on the reports of the actors instead of our own eyes. The suspense was not lessened thereby. It had not occurred to anyone, even Emerson, to object to Howard's mutilation of the lintel; only a mind completely lacking in imagination could have resisted the temptation to look beyond that blocked doorway. Ramses was the first to ascend the stairs. "Well?" I cried. He gestured toward Howard, who had followed him, with Emerson close on Howard's heels. "Well, Howard?" I demanded. "What is there?" "Rubble." Howard held the torch, which wavered about. "The space beyond the door is entirely filled with stones and chips, from floor to ceiling." "But surely that is good news," I said. "If the passage beyond—it must be a passageway—is closed, the tomb has been all these years undisturbed!" "Yes, I suppose so," Howard said flatly. "I—to tell you the truth, Mrs. Emerson, I am so worn down with suspense and excitement, I am incapable of thinking." "It has been quite a day," I said sympathetically. "You ought to go home and rest." Emerson said only, "Hmph." Howard's bowed shoulders straightened. "Not before I have filled in the excavation." "Filled it in! But surely—" "In fairness to Lord Carnarvon I must do so. He will want to be present when we take down the door." "But that will mean a delay of weeks," I cried. "How can you bear to wait?" "In fairness to his lordship, I must," Howard repeated. Emerson said, "Hmph." This grunt was particularly expressive. If Emerson had been allowed to take over the concession, there would have been no delay. On the other hand, if Emerson had been in charge, Howard would have been relegated to a subordinate role, and the glory, if glory there should be, would be Emerson's. It may have been this realization that consoled Howard. He sounded almost cheerful when he directed his crew to begin filling in the stairwell. "We will leave you to it, then," I said. "Congratulations, Howard." "A bit premature, perhaps," said Emerson. "The necropolis seals indicate that it was the burial of a person of importance, but the dimensions of the stairwell are not those of a royal tomb." "Never mind," I said, giving Emerson a little nudge with my elbow. "It is a tomb and it has not been entered for thousands of years. Just think, Howard, you have stolen a march on our tomb-robbing friends from Gurneh. They are only too often the first to find a new tomb." "You are babbling, Peabody," said Emerson, taking me by the arm. "Time we went home. Didn't you ask the Vandergelts to dine this evening? Speaking of tomb robbers, Carter, two of the ibn Simsahs were among the spectators this afternoon. Hope springs eternal in the breasts of those bastards." "I saw them too," said Howard somewhat huffily. "They can hope all they like, but there isn't a chance they can dig through the fill in the stairwell and the corridor without being caught in the act." "Hmph." Thus Emerson conceded the point. "Will you join us for dinner, Howard, after you have finished here?" I asked. "No, thank you, ma'am, it is most kind, but I am going straight to bed. As you so neatly put it, this has been quite a day." The tourists had departed and ours were the only horses left in the donkey park. Emerson helped me to mount, and as we rode slowly homeward, I said, "Emerson, you have done nothing except grunt today." "Not true," said Emerson, stung. "I gave Carter a good deal of useful advice." " 'Discouraging' is the adjective I would choose. Howard has made a remarkable discovery, and the signs are propitious. Why can't you admit it?" "Hmph," said Emerson.  Chapter Three By the following afternoon the contents of the cable carter had dispatched to Lord Carnarvon was known to all the informed citizens of Luxor. Foremost among these was Daoud, who quoted the cable to us verbatim. "At last have made wonderful discovery in the Valley. A magnificent tomb with seals intact." "How does he know it is magnificent?" Emerson grumbled, when Daoud reported this to him. "There will be much gold," said Daoud with complete conviction. "The golden bird of Mr. Carter is an omen of good luck." This was the common opinion in Luxor. Even Emerson admitted there was no need to place extra guards at the tomb. Its entrance had been filled in and the passage was still blocked. "Even if they bribed the guards, they would have to finish the whole job in a single night. Anyhow," he added morosely, "we still don't know what is down there. The tomb may be empty." "Quite right," I agreed. "Since there is nothing to be done until Lord Carnarvon arrives, perhaps you will consider turning your attention toour work. Shall I invite Mlle. Malraux and Mr. Farid to visit us here, or will you go to Cairo to interview them?" Emerson gave me a blank look. "Who?" I reminded him of the identity of the persons I had mentioned. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "A woman and an Egyptian," he said. "I was under the impression that we would seek the most qualified persons and not be influenced by your socialist theories." "The word 'socialist' is ill chosen, Emerson. If you are referring to my sentiments on the subject of discrimination against females and non-Europeans, I got them from you." "Hmph," said Emerson, stroking his chin. "These young people are at least as well qualified as their competitors," I went on, warming to the subject. "And less likely to find employment in a profession which, like most, is dominated by arrogant men. I am only proposing to level the playing field, in whatever small—" "Oh, bah." Emerson threw up his hands. "Have it your own way, Peabody. You always do. But," he added, frowning fiercely, "I insist upon the right to make the final decisions. I will go to Cairo myself." I had known he would. There was nothing to be done with his— Howard's, I should say—precious tomb until Lord Carnarvon arrived, and Emerson could think of little else. He was a perfect nuisance on the dig, emerging from periods of frowning abstraction to shout contradictory orders at everyone. Furthermore, the mere fact of his interviewing the pair meant that he had agreed in principle to the enlargement of our staff. I had already arranged with Cyrus that they should be housed at the Castle. From Manuscript H Insofar as Ramses was concerned, it was a relief to have his father out of the way for a few days. It wasn't easy to get on with one's ownwork even when Emerson was in a cooperative frame of mind, and for the past few days he had been hard to deal with. The French Institute staff would be arriving shortly to take over at the workmen's village of Deir el Medina, and Ramses wanted to finish the translation of the papyri they had found the year before. Cyrus amiably agreed that he wasn't needed in the West Valley. Ramses had already made copies of the texts in Ay's tomb. They would have to be collated with the photographs Nefret and Selim had taken, but that job could wait. He was alone in the house that day, except for the servants, so it ought to have been easy to concentrate, but his mind wandered—from memories of the man who had been his amiable and murderous assistant, to the voices of his children playing in the garden, to the Great Cat of Re, who was determined to recline on the delicate papyrus scraps laid out on the table. "Go and bully the dog," Ramses said, carrying the cat to the window. Once there he lingered, enjoying the fresh air and the vividly colored blossoms along the path that led from the main house to the one his family occupied. His mother had proceeded with the construction of the latter without bothering to consult them in advance, but he had to admit it suited their requirements and was far enough away so that they weren't often bothered by unannounced visits. The children had their own quarters, and a set of rooms had been set aside for Nefret's clinic. From where he stood he could see its entrance, shaded by tamarisk trees with a bench under them for waiting patients. He was about to force himself back to work when someone moved along the path. It was Fatima, wearing her self-decreed uniform of black robe and head veil; but she was acting oddly, moving at an undignified trot and glancing frequently over her shoulder. She reached the door of the clinic, cast a final comprehensive glance around, and went in. Nefret was in the West Valley with Cyrus. Fatima knew that. If she was in need of medical attention, why hadn't she mentioned it to Nefret at breakfast? Nefret always kept the clinic door locked, but Fatima, as head housekeeper, had a full set of keys. Surely she had better sense than to dose herself. More curious than concerned, Ramses decided he had better ascertain the reason for her extraordinary behavior. He walked along the edge of the path, stepping lightly. His mother's favorite roses, pink and white and crimson, had sprinkled the ground with a rain of petals. The tall spires of hollyhocks had been partially denuded by Charla, who made dollies out of the blossoms. The unopened bud, inserted into the base of an inverted blossom, did bear a faint resemblance to a turbaned lady in a full skirt. A long row of wilting ladies, pink, rose, yellow, and crimson, lay along the path. The door of the clinic was closed. He opened it. Fatima spun round with a little shriek, clutching something to her breast. She was standing in front of the open medicine cabinet. "What's going on?" Ramses asked. "Are you ill?" Fatima shook her head dumbly. Her round, plain face was the picture of guilt, mouth ajar and eyes staring. "I'm sorry I startled you," Ramses said gently. "What are you looking for?" Fatima burst into tears. He'd been afraid she would. He put his arm round her shaking shoulders, patted her, made soothing noises, and waited patiently until her sobs subsided into broken exclamations of self-reproach. She had deceived them, she had concealed the truth, she had done wrong. The
object she clutched was a bottle containing pills of some sort. All at once Ramses had what his mother would have called a foreboding or premonition. It was, in fact, a sudden coming together of miscellaneous bits of knowledge. Fatima did not resist when he took the bottle from her. Quinine. "It's all right," he said. "I understand. Where is he?" They all knew Fatima fed the local beggars. Occasionally one of these unfortunates was given a bed for a night or two, in a room in the servants' wing. (They could always tell when this had happened because Fatima scrubbed and disinfected the room next day.) Still sniffing, she led him to a small chamber next to her own comfortable quarters. She'd put him to bed and drawn the curtains over the single window. The room was dim and stuffy. It smelled of carbolic and lye soap. Ramses stood by the bed looking down at the sleeping man. What he had looked like when he arrived at the house Ramses could only guess; Fatima must have cleaned him up, for he was now beardless and pale, his prominent nose jutting up between hollow cheeks. For only the second time in his life, Ramses saw the basic Sethos, stripped of disguise, his features undistorted. His resemblance to Emerson was unnerving—it was like seeing his father aged and ill and defenseless. "How long has he been this way?" Ramses asked. "Last night he came," Fatima whispered. She was crying again. "He was very sick with fever." "Malaria," Ramses said. "He's had it before. Did he send you to get the pills?" "When he woke this morning." She wiped her wet face. "He wrote the word so I would know what to look for. He did not want you to know he was here. I did not have a chance to get away before now. I am sorry, Ramses." "He's the one who should be sorry. He had no right to put you in this position!" "Oh, but he is my friend. And he needed my help." That would do it, Ramses thought. Sethos had gone out of his way to ingratiate himself with Fatima, treating her with the same courtly charm he bestowed on "real" ladies, and paying her extravagant compliments. An appeal to her large sympathies would have tipped the scale of divided loyalties. Malaria wasn't curable. Once infected, the victim was subject to recurrent bouts whose onsets were unpredictable. Ramses tried to remember what Nefret had told him about the disease when she had nursed Sethos through his first attack. In this form the sufferer was coherent and fairly comfortable in the morning. In late afternoon chills set in, to be followed by high fever and, sometimes, delirium. "We'd better wake him up and get him to take this," Ramses said. He bent over Sethos, who was wearing one of Emerson's nightshirts, and shook him, none too gently. Sethos opened his eyes. He showed no surprise at the sight of Ramses, though his expression was not welcoming. "I didn't suppose she'd be able to hold out for long," he said resignedly. "She didn't tell me. I caught her stealing your quinine." Ramses opened the bottle. "How much are you supposed to take?" "One grain three times a day. I've been on the run for weeks. No chance to replenish my supplies." "I will bring food," Fatima said, and bustled out. "This was a filthy trick to play on her," Ramses said. "Why didn't you come to Father or me?" A spark of unregenerate amusement lit the pale eyes in the sunken sockets. "I didn't want Nefret to get her hands on me when I was weak and helpless." "I'm in no mood for humor." "Give me credit for a faint residue of decency, then. I wouldn't have come near the place if I hadn't been laid low by this damned malaria. I heard— Oh, thank you, Fatima. That looks delicious." He pulled himself to a sitting position and took the tray from her. His hands weren't too steady. Was the afternoon onset starting already? Ramses had no way of knowing for sure, but Sethos could even use weakness as a defense. "You heard what?" Ramses asked. With a little cluck of distress, Fatima took the bowl of soup from the tray and began feeding her patient. "Do not bother him, Ramses, he is falling sick again." Sethos obediently opened his mouth when she pushed the spoon against his lips. After he had swallowed, he said, "I may as well wait to explain myself until my entire doting family is assembled. You will tell them I'm here, of course." "Of course. You heard what?" "Open," Fatima ordered. Sethos grinned at Ramses. After he had finished most of the soup he said weakly, "I'm sorry, Fatima. It's very tasty, but I can't—I can't eat any more." He sank back on the pillow and closed his eyes. Ramses couldn't resist a parting shot. "I'm going to fetch Nefret." Even that threat didn't get a response. A long shiver ran through Sethos's body. Fatima pulled another blanket over him. "I will sit with him, Ramses, until Nefret comes." If not an order, it was a very strong suggestion. Ramses beat an ignominious retreat, swearing under his breath. Work was out of the question. He did not carry out his threat of going for Nefret; by the time he reached the West Valley she and the others would be getting ready to close down for the day. He decided to make a quick survey of the premises. Sethos had got to the house without being intercepted, but he might have been followed. Jamad was enjoying his afternoon nap, stretched out on a pile of straw in one of the stalls. Ramses saddled Risha himself. He made a circuit of the house, going some distance into the desert before returning toward the river and skirting the edge of the cultivation. The scene was disarmingly peaceful. The fields were lined with egrets, like a lacy white border; the farmers welcomed them, since they ate insects that might damage the crops. Ramses saw nothing to arouse misgivings. Maybe Smith had actually kept his promise to lead the watchers away. He got back in time to greet his mother and Nefret, who were accompanied by Selim and Daoud. They all settled down on the veranda and Ramses was trying to think how to break the news to them when the door of the house opened and Kareem staggered out, balancing a loaded tray. A round-faced, unquenchably cheerful youth, he was the only so-called footman to survive Fatima's nagging. Ramses got to him in time to keep a pile of cups from sliding to the floor. Unabashed, Kareem smiled proudly and managed to get the tray onto the table without further mishap. "You see, we are ready for you, Sitt Hakim," he announced. "Where is Fatima?" that lady inquired. "You had better sit down," Ramses said. "She's not ill, is she?" Nefret asked anxiously. Her mother-in-law was quicker. Or perhaps, Ramses thought, shehad got the news in a dream, from Abdullah. "He's come," she said. "Where is he?" Ramses got rid of Kareem by sending him to fetch the napkins he had forgotten. "Sit down and have your tea first," he urged. "Everything is under control." "Ha," said his mother. But she did as he asked, pouring with a steady hand, while he told them. The responses were varied. Selim's neat black beard parted in a white-toothed grin. He had enjoyed his earlier adventures with Sethos, whom he considered quite a dashing person. Daoud, holding his cup daintily in the palm of his big hand, only nodded. Very little surprised him. "Malaria again?" Nefret put her cup down and started to rise. "Damn. I'd better go to him." "He's had one dose of quinine," Ramses said. "Don't go rushing off, darling, you look tired. What are we going to do about this development?" His mother selected an iced biscuit from the plate. "What can we do but accept it? Finish your tea, Nefret, and then we will have a little chat with . . . with our visitor." "All of us?" Selim asked hopefully. "Why not?" When they crowded into the small, shadowy room, Sethos was awake. "Splendid." He gasped, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. "Daoud and Selim, too. Where's Emerson?" "Cairo." Nefret sat down on the edge of the bed. "Open the curtains, Ramses, I need more light." "Better not," Ramses said. "I'll get a lamp." "I will do it," Fatima said. She slipped out. "She is ashamed," Selim declared. "As she should be. To deceive the Sitt Hakim—" "There was no damage done," said that lady coolly. "At least I hope there wasn't." "No one followed me," Sethos muttered. "I wouldn't have come if I had thought..." A violent fit of shivering ran through him. Fatima crept in carrying a lamp and Nefret said, "Everybody out. You can't question him now." "No," her mother-in-law agreed. "But you are not going to sit with him. I will do that. I beg you will not argue, Nefret. I know precisely what to do. Go and tidy up for tea with the children—and get Kareem to make a fresh pot." "Kareem?" Fatima let out a gasp of horror. "Did he serve the tea? It is not time! Oh, oh, oh, it is my fault. Did he break any of the beautiful dishes?" "Not yet," Ramses said. "Go and take charge, Fatima," his mother said. "You can join me here later." Fatima twisted her hands together. "You are not angry with me, Sitt Hakim?" "Not very." A forgiving smile took the sting out of the words. "Run along." Remembering the usual course of the disease, Ramses knew it would be morning before they could get any sense out of Sethos—even supposing he was inclined to tell the truth. If his mother had hoped Sethos would wax confidential while alone with her, she was disappointed. When Fatima relieved her and she joined the others on the veranda, her lips were tightly set and she indulged in an extra glass of whiskey. "Remember," she said, when Daoud and Selim were ready to leave, "no one must know he is here." "Yes, Sitt Hakim," said Daoud. He considered his reply, decided it was somewhat ambiguous, and to be on the safe side, added, "I hear and obey." "He'll tell Kadija," Nefret said, after their friends had left. Her mother-in-law smiled. Daoud's wife, a massively dignified woman of Nubian extraction, was one of their closest friends, and a natural-born healer. "He thinks of her as part of himself. She will understand the situation and keep her own counsel." They spent the rest of the afternoon entertaining the twins and trying to keep the Great Cat of Re from abusing the dog. Over dinner they engaged in futile but irresistible speculation. How was Emerson going to react? How could they keep Sethos's presence a secret? Would Kareem manage to serve the soup without spilling it? Nefret insisted on having another look at Sethos after dinner, but was then persuaded to go to bed and leave the nursing to Ramses and his mother. Sethos was in the next stage of malaria, burning with fever and semicomatose. When the fever broke later that night, they had to change the sheets. His mother modestly turned her back while Ramses got Sethos into a dry nightshirt. "His arm is bandaged," he said. "Was he injured?" His mother said, over her shoulder, "A bullet graze. It's become infected. I must change the bandage. Is he ...er ...covered?" Yes. The bullet had ripped out a sizable strip of flesh. It looked ugly, inflamed, and oozing. Sethos twitched and muttered while she disinfected it and replaced the bandage, but did not waken. Ramses succeeded in sending her off to bed once the patient was cool and comfortable. "Call me if there is any change" was her last order. "There won't be. Good night, Mother." He extinguished the lamp and made himself as comfortable as possible in an overstuffed chair brought from Fatima's room. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he kept his eyes on the shaded window. No movement, except for the swaying of the fabric in the night breeze. He considered the afternoon's activities, wondering if there was anything else he could or should do. The trouble was that most of their questions could only be answered by Sethos. Should they notify "Smith," and if so, how? What about Margaret? Sethos might know how to reach her; they sure as hell didn't. Ramses had had a long heart-to-heart talk with Kareem, and he felt sure he had put the fear of God and the Father of Curses into that inveterate gossip. Daoud was also an expert gossip, but he was a man of his word and he had sworn not to speak of the presence of a stranger. Fatima wasn't likely to talk. None of the other servants was currently sleeping at the house. They would  find out about Fatima's patient next day, though, and eventually one of them would mention that Fatima had taken in another beggar. He could only hope that Sethos's pursuers were off on another trail or that they would fail to put two and two together. He slept lightly, knowing that any unusual noise would bring him to full wakefulness. Once a rustle of the bedclothes roused him; when he bent over his uncle, Sethos was sound asleep, or pretending to be, his breathing slow and even. Resisting the impulse to shake him, Ramses pulled the blankets up to his chin and returned to his cramped chair. I woke just before dawn. The memory of the previous day's events rushed into my mind, dispelling any temptation to further slumber. Without pausing to dress, I assumed a comfortable dressing gown and went through the courtyard to the servants' wing. Ramses woke when I opened the door. Seeing me, he relaxed, yawned, and rubbed his eyes. "You look very uncomfortable, dear boy," I said. "I am." He rose and stretched stiffened limbs. "He hasn't stirred." "He is awake," I said. "Go and have a wash and some food, my dear. I heard Fatima moving about in the kitchen." Sethos waited until Ramses had gone before he rolled over and addressed me. "What, no chaperone? What would Emerson say if he found us like this, you in that very fetching dressing gown and me—" "Not a sight to inspire amorous feelings in a female. You sound very chipper. Are you hungry?" "That's the way malaria works, as you know." He stretched luxuriously. "Ah, there is Fatima with my breakfast." "Enjoy it," I said. "Why don't you go and enjoy yours?" "I have a few questions." "Amelia dear, I can't eat and talk at the same time. Ramses and Nefret will want to be present when you interrogate me, so why don't we wait until—" "I only wanted to ask about your grandson. We haven't heard from Maryam for a while." He hadn't expected such a harmless question. His eyes narrowed. Then he shrugged. "As you know, my daughter and I are not on the best of terms these days. I disapproved of her choice of a husband and was foolish enough to tell her so." "I don't understand what you have against Mr. Bennett. He is a respectable man with an excellent reputation." "You had him investigated, did you?" "Naturally. I didn't trust you to do it without prejudice. Are you sure you aren't jealous?" Sethos put his fork down. "You are spoiling my appetite, Amelia." "Painful truths often have that effect. You feel you have been supplanted, with daughter and grandson. It is only natural that you should feel resentment." "Are you always right?" Sethos said with sudden violence. "Maryam and I had become friends after years of estrangement, and I scarcely know the little boy." "Whose fault