CHAPTER TWELVE

Cairo’s narrow streets twined and coiled along ancient footpaths. They wended their way beneath the shadows of the myriad balconies that clung to the sides of the buildings like cliff swallows’ nests and crept through cramped passageways. They disappeared into blind alleys, occasionally reappearing and widening enough to allow a view of the fairy-tale skyline, the light-pierced stonework of striped turban-topped minarets and parapets filigreed against the dazzling afternoon sky.

Desdemona strode through the crowded streets with feigned confidence. If Duraid realized she was lost—and really it was not so much lost as uncertain as to where she was—he would nag her to distraction by insisting they return home. Duraid, though twelve, had the soul of a mother hen with one chick.

Well, Desdemona thought, she wasn’t going to go home, at least not until she’d met with Joseph Hassam. A note from the well-known Copt antika dealer had been waiting for her when she’d returned from lunch. He had something “interesting” available for her consideration. If she could come at two o’clock.

It was one forty-five.

Perhaps Joseph had an Apis bull the likes of which her own message had asked him about. It was admittedly a slim chance. Such coincidences rarely occurred in the world of antika dealing. However, the only way to be sure was to find Joseph’s shop.

“Sitt doesn’t know where we are, does she?” Duraid asked dolefully from a few paces behind her.

“Yes, Sitt knows where we are,” Desdemona replied without turning. “Sitt simply wishes to absorb the local color. Isn’t it splendid?”

Duraid grunted. Being a lady, she ignored him. To prove her point, she stopped, drinking in the flood of sensation like a connoisseur sips a rare and potent brandy. The scents of cardamom-spiked coffee mingled with the sweeter ones of cinnamon and cloves, oranges and lemons. Beneath these wafted the heavier aromas of dust-laden donkeys, warm human bodies, and the flat mineral scent of sun-heated stone. And over this rich concoction, like the final ingredient in a cauldron of aromatic sensation, lay the densely green, fecund fragrance of the Nile.

It was a pity Lord Ravenscroft hadn’t yet learned to appreciate Cairo’s sensory pleasures, she thought. Doubtless he would. Anyone with a poetic soul was bound to become enamored of Cairo. Even Harry, the most pragmatic of men, savored Egypt’s rich complexity.

The thought of Harry slowed her steps. She wasn’t too surprised by Blake’s hinted disclosure. Knowing Harry, he’d probably been expelled for selling test answers.

“Sitt, can we go home now?” Duraid asked.

Her eyes snapped open. “Nope. We’re almost there.” She struck off purposefully toward the river, breathing an inaudible sigh of relief when she saw the small plaque advertising Joseph Hassam’s establishment.

“See?” She pointed at the low, dark doorway. “What did I tell you? Lost, indeed. We’ve arrived.”

“Yes. I see. Sitt has the luck of the afreet.”

“I resent being compared to little devils, Duraid.”

“There is no comparison,” Duraid said. She gave him a sharply suspicious glance. He gazed back innocently.

“You stay outside,” she said. “I am here to negotiate.”

“You should not go in there alone. It is not proper.”

Duraid was such a stickler. “Yes, yes. Well …” If given the opening, he would keep her here arguing for hours; he’d done it before. “Well … sorry.”

Before he could reply she’d ducked beneath the low lintel and was squinting as her vision adjusted to the cool, dim interior. Inside, the shop was long and narrow. A low, round table stood at the far end, fat pillows lining its circumference. Brass goblets, an ornate hookah, and a pitcher stood on its top, along with several irregularly shaped flat stones. Ostraca.

It wasn’t the hoped for Apis bull, but then, she’d never really expected that windfall. And ostraca always sold well to tourists who were inevitably charmed by the diminutive pictures etched onto shale or plaster, the ancient equivalent of doodling.

“Hallo?” Desdemona called, threading her way past a cluttered Louis XIV desk. Her gaze fell on the papers scattered over the desk. Harry’s name leapt out at her. Craning her neck, she scanned the top sheet. Her scowl deepened as her eyes narrowed.

It was a bill of sale—the sum of which made her catch her breath—written out to a Mr. Hatfield for “an authenticated Middle Dynasty papyrus with attendant, extensive English translation.” It named Harry Braxton as the original owner—a fact that made getting it through customs easier.

“Extensive translation” was a tepid term for the weighty tome that had accompanied that papyrus. She knew. She’d done it. And she had been promised 10 percent of the selling price.

She hadn’t gotten it. She hadn’t made 5 percent of the stupendous figure staring her in the face.

Harry owed her money.

“Ah, hallo!” A small, middle-age man in a European-cut jacket and white turban emerged from behind an embroidered curtain. “Miss Carlisle. I am so pleased you have come.”

She smiled tightly, gesturing toward the bill of sale on the table. “How good of you to invite me here, Sid Hassam. I could not help but notice that you have sold a papyrus to a Mr. Hatfield. He seems to have left his bill of sale here.”

“Ah, yes. Mr. Hatfield.” Joseph said the name with such tender fondness, Desdemona could only suppose that Mr. Hatfield had not bothered to haggle over his purchase’s asking price. “He has left Cairo. I would send him this bill, but”—Joseph shrugged—“I do not know where he has gone.”

“Perhaps I can be of service.” She smiled winsomely. “I’ll just pop this in at the British consulate on my way back home, shall I?”

“Oh, that would be most generous of you, Sitt Carlisle. Thank you.”

Without further ado, Desdemona snatched the bill up and stuffed it into her pocket. Proof! She couldn’t wait to wave this under Harry’s nose and demand her back wages.

Joseph motioned her toward the table. “You will find I offer only the very best, most rare of items.”

“We’ll see,” Desdemona said, trying to remember Harry’s attitude on the few times she’d actually seen him conduct business. “Even if you don’t have anything I fancy, I have had a lovely walk on a lovely day. I am enriched by the experience. Nothing could disappoint me after such a nice walk. Nothing. Not even faked relics, which, of course, I am sure you would not bother showing me.”

She smiled. There was an appreciative glint in Joseph’s raisin-dark eyes. “A woman who knows to enjoy the journey as well as the goal. How delightful. Won’t you please be seated?”

Gracefully she sank onto one of the pillows, carefully arranging her skirts over her feet and folding her hands in her lap. When negotiating, Harry always gave the impression he was simply idling away a few free hours and that the results were of no consequence to him.

“Lemonade?” Joseph offered her a goblet.

She received it with a murmured thanks, taking a sip and carefully avoiding looking at the ostraca placed so temptingly beneath her nose.

“I have a question—” she began.

“Are you all right, Sitt?” Duraid’s young voice suddenly bellowed from through the doorway.

Desdemona smiled again. “My bodyguard,” she explained.

“Ah.” Joseph nodded.

“Sitt?” Duraid’s voice came more stridently.

“He’s very loyal.”

“I see,” Joseph answered.

“Sitt?”

“Yes!” she shouted back, winning a startled glance from her host. “I’m fine! Buy some figs. Take a nap. Be quiet!”

“Yes, Sitt. As you wish, Sitt. But first I would like to see you, Sitt,” Duraid said stubbornly.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Desdemona said, raising her arm and waving it over her head. “Here. See?”

“No.”

“Duraid—”

“Should I come in, Sitt?” Duraid asked. “I should come in.”

“No.” Muttering invectives, Desdemona scrambled to her feet and flapped her arms up and down. “See? I’m fine. Fine!”

The small head silhouetted against the bright outside street nodded. “I see. You are well. I am most pleased.”

“Now, go away.”

“Yes, Sitt.”

Suddenly realizing how this must look to her host, Desdemona glanced down. “He wouldn’t have quit squawking until he’d seen me with his own eyes,” she explained.

“You are much loved by your servants.” Joseph murmured.

She blew a gusty sigh. “It’s a curse.”

Joseph’s eyes widened. Few people understood the tribulations that came with loyalty.

“Duraid will behave now. About my question …”

“Absolutely authentic, Sitt.”

“That’s not what I was going to ask.”

“Ah, forgive me. And that was …?”

“Why did you decide to offer the ostraca to me? Who told you I would be interested?”

“Why, Master Harry,” Joseph answered in surprise.

She should have known. Still, she could not suppress the prick of disappointment. “He wants me to translate the glyphs on them before he buys them?”

“Oh, no. No. He simply told me that if I should ever have some pieces he would—” Joseph left off abruptly, swallowing hard.

“—not bother with,” she finished for him. “He told you I might be interested in his leavings?”

Joseph shook his head in quick, hurt denial. “No, Miss Carlisle. It is not this way at all. I handle only the finest pieces of the ancients’ art. Master Harry does not handle smaller consignments, that is all. He said you might be interested.”

She sank back, trying to sort out her emotions. As tightly as the reeds clung to the banks of the Nile, Harry was twined in every aspect of her life.

“I see. And you, Sid Hassam. Why did you choose to take his advice?”

The Copt lifted his hands. “A whim. I was preparing for a transaction with a very wealthy foreigner. In clearing house, I chanced upon these forgotten treasures. I then recalled Harry telling me of your interest in such things.”

Foreigner? Desdemona wondered. Could it be the American, Cal Schmidt, and could the merchandise have been an Apis bull?

“And then, too, there is the matter of the turkey factory.”

Startled, she looked up. Joseph was smiling at her.

“Your activities on behalf of the street children of Cairo are not unknown, Miss Carlisle. They are appreciated.”

“I haven’t done much. Just bought a few turkeys—”

“—and purchased the property on which they are raised. And trained the children in the manufacture of the scarabs and suggested the most likely areas in which they might sell them.”

She felt herself blush. Hard-nosed dealers did not blush. She had certainly never seen Harry blush. “It’s not charity. I take a percentage of the net.”

“But of course you do! Only a saint or a fool would do otherwise. Saints, blessed as they are, are such uncomfortable business associates. Fools are dangerous business associates. But you—lovely and practical. A rare combination,” Joseph said approvingly. “You are different.”

Different. All her warm cozy feelings vanished. This was not her idea of a proper negotiation. At this rate Joseph would be giving her the ostraca. She didn’t need another person to be indebted to, especially since Harry had apparently already filled that category to capacity.

“Hm,” she said, glancing down. Her breath caught.

There were three ostraca. Each, though thousands of years old, was vibrant with color and emotion and humor. One was a leopard seated at a table, offering a lotus blossom to a tiny, crabby-looking monkey. On the other, a mouse dozed beneath a palm frond. But the third … the third was exquisite.

It showed the half-completed sketch of a woman, a royal personage from the sheer pleating of her girdle and the scepter by her side. Her palm was raised. Seeds filtered through her gracefully opening fingers, scattering in an unseen breeze.

“Lovely, aren’t they?” Joseph said blandly.

“They’re wonderful,” she breathed. She clamped her mouth shut. Too late; he’d heard. His smile was benign and remorseful.

“Yes,” he said. “I have always thought to keep them myself.”

Liar.

“I would not sell them at all, having just decided such when you arrived. But now, being only a weak-willed male, I find myself enhanced by your beauty and enticed into foolishness by your charm. For you, and you alone, I am willing to part with them for the ridiculously small sum of twenty pounds.”

She allowed herself one last glance at the lovely woman sewing seeds. “Twenty pounds?” She lifted her brows, echoing the remorse in his tone with a milder version of her own. “Oh, well. Perhaps I can have another glass of lemonade before I go?”

“But, Miss Carlisle—” he protested. She grinned. He grinned back. The negotiations had begun.

Duraid came abruptly awake as a fly landed on his lip. Swatting irritably, he uncurled himself from his post near the door and rose. He stretched, looking around. He’d been asleep longer than he’d intended. Quickly he ducked his head through the open door.

Sitt Carlisle was sprawled against a pile of pillows. She was babbling cheerfully. Duraid sighed with relief. Magi would flay him alive if anything happened to Sitt.

He looked over his shoulder, noting the purple-stained shadows creeping across the dusty street. He did not want to be in the bazaar after dark. He did not want Sitt to be in the bazaar after dark.

Perhaps he should advise Sitt of the hour. Once more he stuck his head through the door.

“—I do not know how I have let you rob me of such a treasure,” the Copt was saying. He sounded gleeful.

“I don’t know why I paid so much for them.”

“It must be charity on my part.”

“It must be pity on mine.”

Both started giggling. Duraid frowned.

“My children will starve if I continue to allow my good sense to be overruled by my silly sentimental nature.”

“Your children probably go to school in Paris,” Sitt answered in a tone that made the desert sands seem moist.

“You can starve in Paris as well as Cairo.”

Both broke into gales of laughter. Sitt fell over on her side. She made no effort to right herself.

“Do you have any Turkish delight around here?” Duraid heard her muffled voice ask.

“No,” the Copt said.

“Anything … crunchy?”

“Crunchy? I do not think so.”

“Rats.”

Something was not right. Sitt was still leaning on her side.

“But”—the Copt’s voice brightened with inspiration—“we can always partake of another bowl from the hookah. To seal our bargain.”

Another … bowl? In horror, Duraid rose to his feet.

“Again?” Sitt asked thoughtfully.

“As is custom.”

“Oh! Well, I wouldn’t want to flaunt custom.”

Once more they burst into laughter.

Allah alone knew what effects hashish would have on the Sitt. In the best of times, she was unpredictable. If she took it into her head to be difficult—Before the thought was complete, Duraid was running. He had to find Master Braxton.