Ghosts of Karnak (8 page)

The ibis-headed god was present, too, along with a symbol the Ghost recognized. He fumbled in his pocket for a moment, withdrawing the sheaf of photographs Donovan had given him on the roof. He spread them out on top of the casket until he found the one he’d been looking for—the cartouche, depicting someone’s name. It was here, too, just beneath a painting of the ibis-headed god.

He bundled the photographs up again, returning them to his pocket. Was that enough of a link? If it was simply the name of an Ancient Egyptian deity, then surely it was ubiquitous? He’d have to talk to Arthur or Astrid to be sure.

He turned his attention to the casket. Again, it was nothing but a prop, a hurriedly made approximation of the real thing. He could see where the wood had been hammered together with modern nails, hidden beneath a layer of hastily applied gold leaf.

The script on the outer casket was dense and unreadable, at least to someone so untrained in the art as the Ghost. Cautiously, he tried the lid. It came away easily, constructed from thin sheets of ply that had been covered in a layer of papier mâché.

Inside, he expected to find a coffin, but was surprised to see two pillows and a cotton sheet. It was a makeshift bed. It had been slept in recently, too; the sheets were mussed, and there was a depression in the pillows where the person’s head had lain. It couldn’t have been very comfortable, unless the person was out for the count. Someone must have kept them fed and watered throughout the trip, too. Was this their game, then? People smuggling? Donovan had mentioned the Reaper’s involvement in such activities. Could this be connected? Had they brought someone back from Egypt who wasn’t on the passenger manifest? Or even… someone who was?

He reached in and grabbed one of the pillows. It carried the faint scent of women’s perfume, along with a few loose strands of blonde hair.

The Ghost swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He recognized the scent immediately. It was one of Ginny’s favorites. He’d spent lazy hours in bed beside her, breathing in that scent, tracing his fingers along the curve of her hip while she’d kissed his neck and playfully slapped his hands away.

What had she gone and gotten herself mixed up in?

He threw the pillow back where he’d found it, and replaced the casket lid. Again, there was every chance it was just a coincidence. There had to be hundreds, if not thousands of women out there with the same perfume. He had to avoid drawing conclusions, at least for now, despite everything his gut was telling him, despite the gnawing sense of fear. He needed proof.
Real
proof.

Something occurred to him, and he glanced back at the pictures on the wall. He hadn’t noticed it earlier, but the woman kneeling before the lion goddess in the painting was blonde. He’d never seen a blonde Egyptian before.

The sound of distant voices brought his reverie to an end. He had to get out of there, and fast. He reached for the hole in the wall, pulling himself through. The dockworkers, or guards, or whoever was on their way, would be there within moments. The wreckage of the statues would hold their attention for a few minutes—long enough for him to get off the ship and be up on the nearby rooftops before the police were called in, assuming he could avoid running into them on his way out.

With one last glance back at the ruins of the wooden crate, the Ghost melted into the shadows, and slipped away.

The motorcar purred across the smooth desert sands, leaving two snaking trails across the starlit dunes.

Ginny sat in the back beside Amaury, peering out of the window in wonder. It was beautiful out here—desolate, but beautiful. Light was only now beginning to break over the horizon, a shining red disc shimmering across the glassy sand, like the world was only just waking from a long and restful slumber.

She’d risen shortly after midnight, bathed and dressed, and found the others waiting for her in the hotel lobby. They didn’t look as if they’d been to bed, and sure enough, Landsworth had slept most of the way out here in the car, snoring noisily as their Egyptian driver wrestled with the wheel, leading them deeper and deeper into the empty desert.

They’d left Luxor behind them over an hour ago, and Ginny hadn’t seen a landmark or settlement since. She had no idea how the driver had any sense of where he was going; he didn’t even seem to be consulting a compass.

“It’s very…”

“Bleak?” suggested Amaury.

“No, not bleak,” said Ginny. “Just… well, I’m not sure, really. Peaceful, but… empty, I suppose. I’d expected to see more buildings, villages, towns, that sort of thing. Ruins, even. I can’t even see the city anymore. It’s just… empty.” She sighed. “If you were to strand me here now, I wouldn’t have any sense of how to find my way back.”

Amaury laughed. “The desert is a dangerous place, Miss Gray. You can rest assured that you will not have to find your own way back.” He grinned. “Although you might be longing for it, soon enough.”

The car was drawing to a stop. “What do you mean? What’s going on?” she said, craning to see out of the windscreen.

They’d stopped before what appeared to be a small encampment, with pitched tents, a campfire, and a number of men milling about. On the edge of the camp, tied to a post by coils of thick rope, were four camels.

“Oh, you can’t be serious,” she said. “Camels!”

“I’m afraid the motorcar cannot take us any further,” said Amaury, laughing. “The terrain becomes too uneven as we get closer to the site of the tomb.” He shrugged. “And besides, you said you wanted to see the
real
Egypt.”

“I said I wanted to see the
Luxor Temple
!” said Ginny, with mock protest. “I’m just glad that I didn’t wear a nice dress.”

“It’ll be worth it,” said Amaury. “Trust me. You’re only the fourth westerner to visit this tomb. You have a chance to see it before the tourists descend and my friend Landsworth here strips it of everything valuable for his colleagues at the museum.”

“What? What was that?” said Landsworth, suddenly jerking awake now that the engine had cut out. He twisted in his seat, looking back at Amaury. He narrowed his eyes. “You were talking about me, weren’t you?”

Amaury laughed. “I was telling Miss Gray here that you’ll soon have plundered the tomb for your exhibition, is all.” He turned to Ginny. “That’s why he’s worried about the press. Doesn’t want them giving everything away before he has chance for a grand unveiling.”

“Which museum do you work for, Mr. Landsworth?” said Ginny.

“I’m more of a… freelancer,” said Landsworth, “although this particular exhibition is being sponsored by the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.”

“My home town,” said Ginny with a grin. “I’ll make sure all my friends come along.”

“Very kind of you,” said Landsworth. “Now, what about these ruddy camels?” He clicked the door open and almost fell out of the car as his foot sank into the sand. Ginny stifled a laugh; Amaury wasn’t so kind.

“Watch yourself there, Landsworth,” he said. “We need you to keep the bank off our back.”

“Glad to know I’m good for
something
,” muttered Landsworth, before stomping off toward the camp, his feet kicking up little clouds of sand in his wake.

“Come on,” said Amaury. “It’s not far from here. Just another hour or so.”

“An hour, on one of
those
things?”

“You’ll be fine,” said Amaury, opening his door. “What is it you say? ‘It’s just like riding a bicycle.’” He clambered out of the car, holding it open for Ginny to follow.

“I never learned to ride a bicycle!” she called after him, but his only reply was another heartfelt laugh.

* * *

An hour later, and Ginny had just about figured out how to remain seated on top of the creature as it lumbered ponderously across the sweeping sands.

The sun had risen now, bringing with it the first indication of the heat to come, and while the men had simply wrapped scarves around their heads—all beside Landsworth, who had insisted on wearing his hat—Ginny had managed to balance a parasol over one shoulder whilst clinging onto the saddle for dear life with the other.

She’d only fallen off twice, and while the others had found this rapturously funny, she was counting it as a success.

The landscape around them had altered, too; now there were rocky formations amongst the dunes, peeking out from beneath the golden sand. They’d passed the ruins of an ancient structure, now just a collapsed pillar and a tumbledown wall, still guarded by the gargantuan feet of the colossus who had once stood here. She was reminded of Shelley’s “Ozymandias”, and wondered what it had been like here once, in that long-lost era of great kings and bizarre ritual. Perhaps Amaury’s tomb might provide some insight, some glimpse into the ancient past, a sense of what it must have been like to live amongst these people.

She watched him now, balanced expertly upon the back of his camel, quietly surveying the landscape. A cigarette drooped from the corner of his mouth, and his hand was raised to his eyes, shielding them from the harsh glare. He was handsome, she supposed, and amusing, and there were clear overtones to his interest in her. Yet she found she could not even consider him in that way. Or rather, she did not
want
to consider him like that.

All the way here she’d thought of Gabriel, and even now, thousands of miles away on a different continent, thirsty and perspiring on the back of a camel, her thoughts returned to him. She would send him a postcard when she returned to Luxor that evening, and begin making arrangements for her return to New York. She’d stay a few more weeks, make the journey back to Cairo to see the pyramids, and after that, take a berth on a steamship home. A month here would be long enough to see everything she wanted to see, to make the long journey worthwhile—and besides, she wasn’t sure she could stand being away from him any longer than that. Not if she didn’t have to.

She sensed another camel drawing up beside her, and turned to see Landsworth, hunched uncomfortably in his saddle, sweat dribbling down his forehead and staining the front of his shirt. At least he’d made the concession of foregoing a tie that morning, although his pale suit still looked uncomfortably hot, and he was obviously suffering.

“Here,” she said, holding out her water bottle. “Take a sip of water. You look as if you could use a drop.”

Landsworth nodded gratefully, and took it from her, gulping at it as if it were the first drop of water he’d seen all day. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, replaced the stopper, and passed it back. “Most generous of you, Miss Gray. Although, if truth be told, I could use a drop of something stronger.”

“Ah, well you have me there,” she said. “I’m avoiding the stuff.”

“Good for you,” he said enthusiastically. “Best to keep your senses about you, what?”

“Something like that,” said Ginny.

He tugged on the reins of his camel, drawing closer to her. She wrinkled her nose at the smell, which she presumed to be the beast and not the man. “Listen, you seem like a good sort of girl, so I’m going to give you a little bit of advice.” He lowered his voice. “Just keep your wits about you around Amaury. That’s all. You might want to think about going off to visit the Luxor Temple tomorrow, after all.”

Ginny frowned. “Are you driving at something, Mr. Landsworth?”

He sighed. “No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just… oh, never mind.” He gave a dismissive wave, and then yanked at the reins again, and his camel pulled away.

She watched him clomp away, moving up the caravan to speak with their Egyptian guide. She glanced over at Amaury, but he didn’t seem to be paying her or Landsworth any attention—the dig site had suddenly hove into view over the crest of a dune, and the sight was enough to take her breath away.

The guide pulled his camel to a stop, raising his hand and issuing a low, braying sound that seemed to mean something to the other camels, which all juddered to a halt, forming a small group on the top of the dune.

The excavations had clearly been going on here for some time. Amaury had given her a clear impression they’d discovered a tomb, but had failed to mention the vast necropolis that surrounded it. It was the size of a small town, and a veritable army of Egyptian workers crawled all over it, armed with trowels, brushes, and spades. From up here, she could see the broken stumps of a vast colonnade, the ruins of several buildings, the top half of a toppled statue; she hardly knew where to look. Onyx figures stood in a series of recesses sunk into a wall: one with a bird’s head, another a lion’s, and a third with a jackal’s. A plaza, partially unearthed from its sandy grave, displayed great symbols carved into the ground—a series of nested shapes, a circle inside a square, inside a triangle, inside a larger circle.

These were things that no human eyes had seen for millennia, their true meaning lost to posterity. She thought again of Shelley’s words, although it was not despair she felt, but elation.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Amaury, from beside her.

She turned, surprised, to see him standing by her camel. The others had dismounted, too, while she’d been surveying the dig.

“It’s… well, it’s not what I expected,” said Ginny.

Amaury smiled and held out his hand. “You haven’t seen the best bit yet. Here, allow me to help you down.”

Ginny took his hand, and lowered herself down from the saddle. Amaury handed her the parasol. “You might want to hold on to this,” he said. “It gets hot down there when the sun’s beating down.”

“It’s hot
now
,” said Ginny, with an exasperated sigh. How much hotter could it get?

“Come along, and watch your footing on the way down,” said Amaury, starting off down the side of the dune, his feet splashing in the loose sand like water. The guide set off behind him, and Ginny glanced over at Landsworth, who she noted was regarding her with a curious expression. She’d decided she really didn’t like him much, and that his “warning” back there had probably been some sort of veiled pass at her, trying to put her off Amaury in the hopes he could move in on her himself. She shuddered at the thought of it. She’d be on her guard around him from now on—around them both. If either of them did try anything, she knew how to look after herself—especially against a podgy little Englishman like Landsworth.