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.