CHAPTER 31

In Which the Quality of Mercy Is Strained

A razor-thin line of daylight stole into the forechamber of the high priest’s tomb, broadening as it sliced through the darkness. The tomb, empty now, scoured clean, its costly objects duly catalogued and carted off to Luxor’s new antiquities museum, remained steeped in a centuries-old silence altered only by the early morning song of a desert bird perched on the high wall of the wadi, its pipping note echoing through the canyon.

Inside the tomb, two bodies lay on the bare stone floor: two men, both asleep, one breathing heavily.

At the sound of the bird, one of the bodies stirred, and Sir Henry Fayth opened his eyes in the semidarkness of the inner chamber. He lay for a moment, listening—to the birdsong, to the man a few paces away whose breathing had become laboured during the night—then rose and went to his friend.

“Cosimo,” he said, giving his shoulder a nudge. “Cosimo, will you wake?” When that failed to rouse the sleeping man, he desisted and crawled to sit with his back against the massive stone sarcophagus dominating the centre of the room.

Now that he was awake, thirst came upon him with renewed ferocity—and with it his reawakened hatred of Burleigh. Enemy or no, it was inhuman of him to lock them away without food or water. Sir Henry would not have treated a mad dog so cruelly, much less another human being. Such behaviour was brutish and ignoble, far beneath the decency of civilised men.

He would, he vowed, protest in the strongest, most strenuous terms when the next opportunity presented itself, which would be . . . when? One full day and half of another had passed since they had last seen Burleigh or one of his toadies—thirty-six hours without food or water in the dark, airless tomb of Anen, the high priest of Amun.

That the quest should end here, like this, seemed a needlessly malicious fate for a God-fearing man such as himself. In the early days of their friendship, when he and Cosimo had first begun exploring the interdimensional highways and byways of the universe, there had been little danger, save from the local environment wherein they might happen to find themselves. Before the rot set in, before the race to find the map—that is to say, before the Burley Men—things had been much different.

Perhaps, he thought, they should surrender to Burleigh’s demands, give him what he wanted in exchange for their freedom. Or, better still, join forces, pool their knowledge. Obviously, the rogue possessed information that they lacked, and that would be useful to know.

For example, it would be helpful to learn how it was that the villains always seemed to know where and when to find them. Such had not always been the case. There was a time, when the Burley Men first appeared, that they had been ridiculously easy to elude. Once encountered, they would not meet them again for a very long time—sometimes years might pass between episodes. Not anymore. Now, each and every leap was likely to attract their interest and consequent involvement. How did they know? By what means or method were they drawn to the precise location at the exact time?

Burleigh also had knowledge of the map that they did not. Obviously, he knew Flinders-Petrie had once sojourned in Egypt, and that the map had once resided in this very tomb. What else did he know? Would it not be useful to find out?

As Sir Henry sat thinking, the light grew faintly brighter. Outside, he heard the mechanical engine sputter to life. That meant the Burley Men were up and about their nefarious duties for the day. He considered calling out to them, asking for water—just the merest sip to take away the metallic taste on his thickening tongue. Indeed, he was on the point of doing just that when he heard footsteps on the stonecut staircase leading down into the tomb. Climbing heavily to his feet, he straightened his clothes and went to stand by the iron grate that formed the door of their prison.

“Ah, Sir Henry, you are awake,” said Burleigh, his voice loud in the quiet of the tomb. He strode to the bars, holding a water skin and a tin cup. “Good. It saves me the trouble of trying to rouse you.”

“We need water,” replied Sir Henry, his eyes going to the water skin. “And medical attention—Cosimo has fallen ill.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Burleigh with mock sincerity. “Still, I feared this would happen. There is something down here, you see. I cannot say what it is—a plague miasma, a curse, who knows? Personally, I suspect that it is some compound or other the ancient Egyptians used to protect their tombs.”

“He requires immediate care,” insisted Sir Henry.

“No doubt. Without treatment his malady is fatal.” He raised the water skin, holding it just beyond reach of the bars. “Are you ready to see reason?”

“Please,” said Sir Henry, “help us.”

“Say the word, and you will have all the help you need,” Burleigh told him.

A low moan escaped Cosimo’s lips. Sir Henry glanced back at the body of his friend. “Very well, what do you want me to do?”

“Tell me where your piece of the map is hidden,” answered Burleigh. “Let’s start with that, shall we?”

“Then you will let us go?”

“Not so fast,” chided Burleigh. “First things first. If your information proves useful, then, yes, I will let you go.” He smiled. “Where is your map?”

“We don’t have it anymore. It was stolen.”

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” said Burleigh. “That will not do at all. You’re going to have to do much, much better.” His voice became hard. “Where is the map?”

“But that is the very truth,” maintained Sir Henry. “Cosimo kept the map locked away in the crypt at Christ Church in Oxford. We went there to consult it and discovered that it had been taken and a poor substitute put in its place. Truth be told, we suspected you had done it.”

“That part, at least, I do believe,” allowed Burleigh.

“Please,” said Sir Henry, holding out his hand for the water skin.

“Let’s try again,” suggested Burleigh brightly. “What do you know about the Well of Souls?”

“The Well of Souls,” repeated Lord Fayth, puzzled.

“You have heard of it, surely?”

The sound of their voices had succeeded in waking Cosimo. “Let us go, Burley,” he called, pushing himself up onto an elbow. “Keeping us here will get you nothing.”

“Cosimo!” said Sir Henry, stepping quickly to his friend’s side. “Here, allow me to help you.” He shouldered Cosimo’s weight and led him nearer the grated door.

“What have you told him?” demanded Cosimo.

“You are more than welcome to join the conversation,” invited Burleigh, forcing a smile. “I was enquiring about the Well of Souls. In exchange for information, I am willing to offer medical assistance—and more.” He waggled the water skin in his hand. “I want to learn what you know about the Well of Souls.”

“It’s a myth,” said Cosimo, pressing a hand to his head. “A traveller’s tale, nothing more.”

“And yet,” countered Burleigh smoothly, “myths generally form around a kernel of hard truth, do they not? I intend to get to the truth at the core of this particular myth.”

Cosimo glanced at Sir Henry, worked his cracked lips, and said, “All right, I’ll tell you what I know—but first you have to give us the water.”

“No,” stated Burleigh firmly. “Talk first, then the water.” He passed the tin cup through the grate.

“My throat is parched and I’m burning up with fever.” Cosimo reached through the grate for the water skin. “Give me a drink first.”

“When you’ve told me what you know.”

Cosimo, swaying on his feet, yielded. “The Well of Souls is a legend with various strains,” he began. “Jewish, Arab, Egyptian—they all have a version of it, but none of them agree on the precise nature of this supposed well, or even where it is located.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” said Burleigh encouragingly. “Continue.”

Cosimo swallowed. “A drink.”

“You are wasting time. Talk.”

“Some tales have it that the well is an earthly place, an underground region where the souls of the dead congregate to await the coming Judgement. Others hold it to be a heavenly place where the souls of those not yet born await their call to life in this world.” Breathing heavily at this mild exertion, Cosimo leaned over, resting his hands on his knees. “That’s all I know,” he concluded. “As I say, it is a myth, nothing more.”

“Oh, I am disappointed,” said Burleigh. “I had such high hopes for you. I really did.”

“What did you expect?” demanded Cosimo. “There is no such place. It’s just a story nomadic sheepherders told around the campfire.”

“You know very well it is much more than that!” charged Burleigh, suddenly angry. “What did I expect? Seeing that your life is on the line, I expected you to tell me the truth.”

“I told you everything,” snarled Cosimo. The outburst caused a coughing fit that seemed to diminish him. “I don’t know any more than that,” he concluded weakly.

Burleigh stared at him. “Why do I fail to believe you?”

“If you know more, then you have better information than I.” Cosimo, breathing hard, gulped down air like a drowning man. “I can add nothing more.”

“Can you not see the man is desperate?” Sir Henry intervened, pushing close to the iron grating. “He needs immediate help. In God’s name, I implore you to let us out.”

“Is this information so precious to you that you are willing to die for it?” asked Burleigh.

“We have told you what we know. What more do you want from us?”

“I want the location of the Well of Souls,” he said; then he amended, “Actually, I want a good deal more than that, but I will settle for that just now.”

“It isn’t a real place,” insisted Cosimo. “It is only a legend.”

“Only that? Are you certain?”

“I swear it.”

Burleigh regarded the two men for a moment, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “Look at you—adventurers, gentlemen explorers . . . dilettantes, dabblers! You still don’t know what this is all about, do you?”

Neither captive offered a reply.

“You poor deluded fools,” he said quietly, as if talking to himself. “You have no idea what is at stake.”

“You want the map,” said Sir Henry, his voice rising in desperation. “We would give it to you, but it is gone, stolen—as I have already made clear. If you did not steal it, then I have no idea who the thief might be, or where it now resides.”

“Pity.” Burleigh sniffed. “Then you and your friend are of no further use to me.” He turned on his heel and started away.

“For the love of God, Burleigh,” shouted Cosimo. “Let us go!”

Burleigh stopped in midstep and turned around. “There is no God,” he said, his voice flat and hard. “There is only chaos, chance, and the immutable laws of nature. As men of science, I had thought you would know that. In this world—as in all others—there is only the survival of the fittest. I am a survivor.” He turned again and began walking away. “You, apparently, are not.”

“You are wrong,” Cosimo called after him. “Utterly, fatally, and eternally wrong.”

“If so,” replied Burleigh, moving to the doorway, “then God will save you.”

“Have mercy!” pleaded Sir Henry. “Leave us the water.”

Burleigh shrugged. “It will only delay the inevitable, but—” He retraced his steps to the cell and placed the skin of water on the floor just within reach of the grate. “I leave it for you to decide.”