Two more Burley Men in Arab dress were standing before the temple. One was tall and lank with a white kaffiyeh, the other thickset and bareheaded; the tall one held a rifle, and his muscular companion grasped the iron chain linked to the cave lion’s heavy collar. The beast itself strained forward, the hair across its shoulders raised in bristling spikes, its mouth open, tongue lolling as it watched the newcomers with its pale yellow eyes. Giles and Lady Fayth, startled by the sight of the beast as much as by the rifle shot, ceased struggling. All grew deathly still.
“That’s right,” said the tallest man, striding toward them. “Everybody calm down now before someone gets hurt. Baby hasn’t eaten today, and she’s getting a little restless. You, there”-he waved the rifle barrel at Kit-“put down that blade-slowly, slowly. We don’t want you to cut yourself. There’s not a doctor within a hundred miles of this place.”
“Who are you?” Kit demanded.
“I’m the man with the rifle. Now, do as you are told, and put down the sword.” Kit obeyed. “Good. Kick it aside.”
“You won’t get away with this.” Kit gave the blade a shove with his foot.
“No?” The man moved toward him. “I think you’ll find I already have.”
“Rogue!” spat Lady Fayth. “You, sir, are a low criminal.”
“Oh, I am much more than that, my darling.” He gestured to his henchmen to seize and bring the others. “Con, Dex-take them.”
Giles and Lady Fayth were seized by Burley Men. “What do you ruffians intend doing to us?” Lady Fayth demanded.
“That ain’t for us to say,” replied the one called Con. “Lord Burleigh’ll decide when he gets back.”
“Take them below,” said Tav. He gestured with the rifle barrel for Kit to join his companions. The would-be rescuers were taken to the low doorway of the underground chamber and shoved down the narrow stone steps.
“We’ve brought you some company, Your Lordship,” announced Tav, his voice ringing loud in the stone chamber. “I would offer to introduce you, but I think you all know one another.” He gave Kit a nudge with the muzzle of the rifle. “Get on with you. Straight through there.”
Kit stepped through the short tunnel-like entrance into another slightly larger chamber, the end of which was covered by a heavy iron grate door. Sir Henry shuffled into view behind the bars of his prison.
“Phew! It stinks something terrible down here!” said Tav.
“You devil,” spat the nobleman. “Let them go. They have nothing to do with any of this. They know nothing of value to you.”
“With respect,” countered Tav, “I do most heartily disagree.” To the one called Con, he said, “Lock them up.”
A key was produced and the grate unlocked. Giles, Kit, and Lady Fayth were shoved roughly through the door and into the rock-hewn chamber to be instantly assailed by the sickly sweet stench of ripe death-a smell so strong it made them cough and gag. The room was bare, save for the bottom half of a large stone sarcophagus and walls covered with bright-coloured panels of almost life-size paintings-most featuring a shaven-headed Egyptian in a kilt and ornate chest plate. Every inch of the room was painted-even the ceiling: a sea of blazing blue full of white stars.
Sir Henry opened his arms to embrace his niece. “Haven, are you well? Have they mistreated you?” This minor exertion appeared to exhaust him; he staggered backward and collapsed in a fit of coughing.
“Uncle!” she cried, rushing to his side. “Here, let me help you. Do not speak.” To Giles, she said, “Is there water? Hurry! He’s choking.”
Sir Henry raised a shaking hand to stroke his niece’s cheek. “You should not have come,” he said, and coughed again. Kit heard the deep rattle in his lungs.
Giles found a jar and bowl in one corner; he filled the bowl and brought it to his master.
“Drink a little,” said Lady Fayth, taking the bowl and raising it to Sir Henry’s lips. He took a sip, then slumped back against the chamber wall. “What has happened here?” she asked.
“Where is Cosimo?” asked Kit, already knowing, and fearing, the answer.
Sir Henry, his skin pale and waxy, stretched out his hand and pointed to the sarcophagus in the centre of the room. Kit rose and approached the open stone coffin, dread making his heart thud; he looked inside to see the body of his great-grandfather, flesh pale and bloodless, eyes closed, hands folded across his still breast. Kit tried to speak, but his voice faltered. Giles stepped beside him and peered into the sarcophagus with him. Both men drew back as the noxious perfume of death rose from the corpse; their eyes watered and their stomachs squirmed.
“I am sorry,” rasped Sir Henry. “He died in the night.” The words set off another fit of coughing, worse than the first. “The rogues put him in there…” He gulped air and continued. “Terrible thing. I must soon follow him.”
“We are here now, Uncle,” said Lady Fayth. “We will help you.”
“No, no.” Sick sweat beaded on Sir Henry’s forehead. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “I have much to tell you.”
Kit, sick at heart and woozy with the smell, staggered back from the sarcophagus and marshalled his scattered faculties to listen to what Sir Henry was trying to say. “Do not stay here,” he whispered. “Use any means to get away… something in the air…” He coughed, and Lady Fayth helped him take another sip of water. When the coughing subsided, he continued. “There-on the wall…” He pointed to a particular painting. “Just before nightfall, the sun will shine through the doorway. You must…” He gasped, swallowed, and forced himself to go on. “… must be ready.” He began coughing again and this time refused the drink. Giles and Lady Fayth eased him the rest of the way to the floor and made him more comfortable lying down.
“Be ready for what, Sir Henry?” asked Kit, kneeling beside him.
“Copy… the map.”
“The map?”
“The Skin Map.” The nobleman gestured vaguely at the painting. Kit moved to it for a closer look. The panel depicted a bald Egyptian in ceremonial kilt and ornate jewelled chest plate, holding a curiously shaped flat object in one hand and pointing toward the heavens with the other. The object in the Egyptian’s hand looked a little like a scrap of papyrus that had been decorated with a random scattering of hieroglyphs. Kit held his face closer and recognized the tiny whorls and line-pierced spiral designs. “Copy them,” urged Sir Henry. “Use them to further the search.”
“We will copy them, Uncle,” said Lady Fayth. “But you must rest now. Do not speak. Save your strength.” She offered the bowl again.
“Ah,” he sighed. “Thank you, my child.” He seemed to be sinking further beneath the illness that was killing him.
“The symbols on the map, Sir Henry,” said Kit. “We don’t know how to read them. Can you tell us?”
“He died peacefully,” said Sir Henry, almost dreamily, “knowing he had passed the torch to you. He put all his hope in you, Kit. He was content.”
“The symbols, Sir Henry,” persisted Kit. “Can you tell us what they mean? We don’t know how to use them.”
But the nobleman had closed his eyes. “Sir Henry?” There was no reply.
“He is sleeping now.” Lady Fayth pressed his hand and then rose. “We will let him rest.”
Kit turned to Giles. “We have to find some way to copy the symbols,” Kit told him. “We can put them in the green book, but we have to find something to write with.”
A quick search of the chamber failed to turn up a single useful item and, with great reluctance, both men turned towards the sarcophagus. “Do you think he might have had something, sir?” asked Giles.