HAD TO settle an argument over who drank Gencer’s raki. The answer was Safi. She is, as you can imagine, fast asleep. Okay, where was I?
Right. This morning in the tunnel.
So I scampered ahead of Osman, swinging my flashlight from side to side. I ducked my head to avoid stalactites; the uneven walls scraped my elbows.
Being shorter, Osman should have had an easier time, but he fell behind, screaming in his bravest Bartevyan voice, “Hey, wait up!”
Safi peeked her head out of my jacket. “It’s okay, Safi,” I said. “We’ll slow down. My little brother is investigating secret codes in the walls. Or maybe he’s just afraid.”
“Little brother?” echoed Osman’s voice. “In case you missed that day in biology, twins means born at the same time.”
“In case you missed that day in common sense, that is physically impossible,” I replied. “I was born ten minutes earlier.”
“Wow,” Osman said. “I wonder what it’ll feel like when I’m that old, Safi.”
Osman pushed past and stomped ahead of me in the dark. His flashlight beam flitted across the walls, then disappeared. I rounded a corner and saw him, standing still in the center of a large cavern.
“Unbelievable …,” he said in a hushed voice.
“What?” I asked.
He turned to me, his eyes wide. “It’s ten minutes later and it feels exactly the same.”
Diary, would it be wrong for a girl to wring her brother’s neck?
I arced my flashlight around the massive chamber. Scenes from old battles played themselves out on the walls in faded blacks, yellows, blues, reds—bearded soldiers brandishing spears, a winged woman holding a yellow ball of fire, and a square-jawed king wearing a glorious robe and holding an ornate staff topped by an inverted triangle.
I let out a gasp. Osman was slack-jawed. “Father was right,” he said. “This is the Big One! This is it!”
His flashlight played along one of the walls. At the base of a flaking image were dark, charcoal lines. Some kind of writing. “I think I can read this …,” Osman said in a hushed voice. “Those books we picked up from the library trash … one of them was about hieroglyphics and runes …”
Osman leaned closer, moving his lips silently. “What does it say?” I asked.
“‘The Ring of … Har … pay … Harpagus,’” he exclaimed with glee, “… shall be revealed to the firstborn son of the Lord of Antiquities, known to all as Osman the Wise, ruler of his sister, Aliyah the Lame and Half-Witted …”
I would have bopped his head with the flashlight if it weren’t trained on something against the opposite wall—three large wooden rectangular containers, leaning up against the rock. I moved closer, running the light up and down rotting, ancient planks with faded traces of rich decoration. “Coffins …,” I murmured.
“Smells more like tea,” Osman said.
“Not coffee, coffins—look!” I said.
Osman’s face fell. “Okay, this isn’t a treasure room, it’s a grave. And we’re after money, not mummies.”
“Where do you think treasures were buried?” I said. “With the dead! Maybe King Harpagus was buried here!”
“He wasn’t a king, he was a rattrap,” Osman said meekly. “You said so.”
“Satrap,” I corrected him. “Maybe Safi sniffed out Harpagus, lying in there with his ring still on his finger.”
“Finger bone …,” Osman said.
“Are you afraid?” I asked, stepping into the room.
“Not if you go first.” Osman’s face had lost its color, but his curiosity was getting the better of him. He followed me into a dank, musty room, its air acrid and freezing cold. “What’s that smell?”
“Vole poop,” I said with a shrug. “Or maybe bat.”
“Stop it!” Osman said, still staring at the coffins. “You’re forcing out the Brave from Bartevyan! You’re leaving just the …” He thought a moment. “Tyan!”
But I was training my flashlight at the ceiling, to a small recess, partway up the wall—a squarish natural shelf formed by the rock. In it, I could make out a dark, rectangular shape about a foot long. “What’s that?” I asked.
Osman gulped. “Doesn’t exactly scream ‘This is a ring box!’ to me,” he said.
“But if it is,” I said, “we wouldn’t have to disturb the Addams Family over there, against the wall.”
“Good point!” Osman stood under the recess, knelt, and braced his hands against the wall. “You go first. On my shoulders. Don’t say I never helped you out.”
“Can you hold my weight?” I asked.
“Depends on how much filet mignon you ate last night,” he said as I cautiously stepped onto his shoulder.
The walls were freezing cold, and sparkles of frost danced on the stone in front of me. My eyes barely reached the opening.
I fished out my flashlight and thrust it forward. The beam lit up a small carved stone box, covered in symbols that resembled the ones on the walls. I reached forward to take it, my head echoing with Father’s favorite words, “Trust me, Aliyah …”
Something was scrabbling against my stomach. I nearly fell.
Safi.
Her pinprick claws danced up my sleeve, and in an instant she was climbing onto the ledge. Pain shot up my arm, and I let out an involuntary yelp. Safi squeaked and threw herself backward over my face, her claws buried in my scalp. My arms windmilled as I tried to get my balance back. I reached upward. Clasping the box, I toppled off Osman’s shoulders.
I hit the ground with a thump. I blinked my eyes to see Osman standing over me, his flashlight trained on the box, which lay on my chest.
“What’s inside it?” he asked.
“I’m fine, thank you very much!” I snapped.
He was already on his knees, reaching for the box. “Ali, you’re a genius. We’re rich. We’ll split this fifty-fif—”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив
