Daughter of the God-King(107)
Taking a deep breath, she shouted as loudly as she could, “Parlay!” and advanced to the base of the tomb’s hill, hoping her last moments on earth were not to be spent in wretched Egypt at the wretched, faux tomb of the wretched god-king’s daughter. There was a profound silence as all gunfire ceased.
Upon seeing her advance, one of the British soldiers who had been lying prone behind a boulder rose and ran to her. “Miss,” he panted, “You must take cover.”
“I cannot,” she explained. “In fact, I think I am the only person who can resolve this stand-off.”
“It is too dangerous,” he said firmly, taking her arm. “Come with me.”
“They will not shoot me; instead I believe there has been a misunderstanding.”
As there was indeed now only an eerie silence, he glanced between her, the group of men behind her, and the tomb. “Who are they? Mr. Tremaine seems to believe they are enemy forces.”
She shook her head at him. “No—I believe it is only Mr. Drummond’s associate from the consulate, and his men. Mr. Tremaine was mistaken.” I hope, she thought, that I am not making a catastrophic mistake, here. She continued to stand at the base of the tomb, her escort in a silent group around her and the British soldier at her side. Peering up at the tomb’s entrance, she was unable to make out any figures in the shadows. “Sir, you must desist,” she shouted. “There has been a misunderstanding and the British soldiers from the consulate will be arriving in short order.” Hopefully Dimitry understood her message—that is, if he hadn’t suffered an apoplexy upon beholding her before him instead of safely tucked away in the sarcophagus.
“Where is Monsieur le Baron, madam?” The associate’s voice could be heard, and Hattie gauged that he sounded a bit apoplectic, himself.
“He is unwell,” she shouted, which was more or less the truth. “I believe we are working at cross purposes and it would be best that you descend so that we can sort matters out.”
“I wish,” his voice rang down, “that you had heeded my original request, madam.”
“I am not one for heeding requests, I’m afraid. Now, will you desist?”
There was a small silence. “Yes; I will require assurances that those on the ground will cease fire.”
“They will do so.” She smiled to herself; apparently he believed he was outnumbered, thanks to Gideon.
In the silence of the cease-fire, Hattie could hear footsteps approaching and turned to behold Bing, coming to join her. “Thank you for fetching reinforcements, Bing. I must report that the baron is dead, as is Hafez, and Monsieur Berry is disguised as an Egyptian, so pray do not shoot him.”
Bing assimilated this report without a blink. “Very good.”
With a smile, Hattie indicated the sword. “Edward’s sword, Bing.”
Reverently, Bing grasped it, and turned it one way and then the other. “Bestowed upon the pharaoh himself by the gods.”
Truly, it almost made one believe it—standing in the barren, surreal valley; the moonlight glinting off the mythical object. Bing paused for a moment. “I am not a fanciful person, Hathor, but I almost feel Edward’s presence.”
Hattie gently squeezed Bing’s arm in silent sympathy as the two women contemplated the priceless object. “Take it, Bing; it is Edward’s, by all rights.”
But the moment had passed and Bing regarded Hattie with her dry little smile as she handed it back. “No thank you, Hathor; the gods did not bestow it upon me.”
Hattie nodded, her emotions mixed. It seemed that no one would discover the Blackhouse perfidy, nor the true cause of Edward’s death. Perhaps it was for the best—lives other than her own were affected, after all. And as long as the scheme to arm the deposed emperor came to naught, there was no harm done.
The two women looked up to observe the associate and his men making their way warily down the makeshift wooden steps. Now that she knew it was he, Hattie easily spotted Dimitry, his gaze meeting her own, even in the darkness and across the distance.
Hattie stepped close to her companion and looked up into her face. “I may be required to leave forthwith, Bing. I do not know yet where I will live, but I will write you the moment I know and you must”—Hattie emphasized this last—“come visit me at your earliest opportunity. I will have your promise.”
“You have it,” Bing assured her.
“I know Robbie will see you safely home.”
But Bing needed no such assurance. “Not to worry, Hathor—Mr. Smithson and I have come to an understanding.”
Hattie could not resist smiling upon the other with delight. “Who would have imagined all this when we left Cornwall, Bing?”