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“And defeat them with a crowbar?” Sayyid retorted in a hiss, waving his questionable weapon.
He grabbed the sleeve of Neil’s shirt and hauled him forward.
They picked their way down the precarious stairwell. Someone had lain boards over the place where Neil had nearly fallen through. He still preferred not to test them, keeping to the safer edge.
Moving silently, they peered into the treasure room and found it empty. Neil stepped inside—and heard the rush of low voices from the burial chamber.
With a thrill of fear, Neil threw Sayyid a questioning look. Sayyid frowned down at the crowbar in his hand uncomfortably.
Neil didn’t even have a crowbar. He made a wild survey of the treasure room for something he might use to defend himself. A finely carved alabaster shabti? A faience vase?
The notion of using any of those precious historical objects to bash someone on the head horrified him on multiple levels.
The timbre of the voices rose in urgency and speed, like the crest of an argument.
It ended, and quick footsteps approached down the corridor.
Neil didn’t have time to think. He simply snatched up the nearest thing that came to his hand from the jumbled pile of grave goods by his boots and raised it up over his head.
Two unfamiliar Egyptians hurried through the door—and then froze, gaping at Neil and Sayyid. They threw up their hands, stammering in quick and obviously conciliatory Masri. Neil struggled to keep up.
Following orders… Please don’t kill us…
The pair were clearly crewmen from theIsisrather than Al-Saboors, but Neil was still surprised at how easily he and Sayyid had managed to cow them.
Then he glanced up and realized that he was holding an enormous scimitar over his head.
“Oh bugger!” he exclaimed, fumbling his grip on the weapon and nearly dropping it. He just managed to catch it again before it hit the floor.
Thankfully, he had grabbed it by the hilt. The bronze blade still looked wickedly sharp.
Sayyid burst out in stern Masri, jabbing a finger at the two crewmen. Neil picked up the gist of it even as he worked to stop his heart from pounding.
Looting your own history… Have you no shame… What would your mothers say?
He finished it off with a particularly pointed remark, and the two men startled, then burst out into a round of abject apologies. Neil struggled to keep up.
We are so sorry, uncle! Wretched… tricked… By God, we did not mean…
Sayyid cut in. “La ilâha illa Allâh.” He waved impatiently toward the door. “Yalla!”
“Shukrân, ya ‘amm!” they exclaimed, inching around Neil and Sayyid nervously. “Shukrân!”
Once clear, the crewmen hurried up the stairs.
Holding the scimitar limply in his hand, Neil looked wide-eyed to Sayyid. “What did you say to them?”
“I told them they were working for an English bandit and that the police would be here momentarily with the Antiquities Service,” Sayyid replied. “And that if they did not wish to be imprisoned, they had best tell their reis and take the boat as far from here as possible.”
Neil straightened, impressed. “Well done!”
“Enough standing about.” Sayyid pulled him into the burial chamber.
The space around Neferneferuaten’s sarcophagus was empty of threats, save for the red powder around the coffin. A wet canvas covered most of it, while a half-full bucket of red sludge sat at the foot of the granite box.
Sayyid peered at it with a thoughtful frown. “They are dampening the hematite and removing the stabilized mud.” He sniffed a bit. “It is not the worst idea, but they should have better protected the coffin first.”
Across the room, Neil could see the ragged hole in the floor where he and Sayyid had fallen. Broken artifacts dangled over the black edges.
