Free The Serpent on the Crown by Elizabeth Peters

up. “You will admit, however, that this is black.”
    It was a long garment, full sleeved and hooded, like the robe of a medieval monk.
     
    S elim and Daoud turned up next morning as requested. They had, of course, heard about the midnight intruder, and both of them expressed indignation at not being allowed to assist in defending the house. Ramses had to agree to let Selim arrange a rota of guards at front and back, though, as he pointed out, there was no danger to any of the family.
    “I don’t know what the fellow hoped to accomplish,” he added. “He’d have had to search the whole house without waking anyone. It isn’t as if Father left the statue lying out on a table in the sitting room. You don’t suppose Farhat was having a try?”
    “Farhat has broken his leg,” said Selim.
    “Broken—”
    “His leg. Yes. He will not be climbing cliffs or walls for a while.”
    Ramses looked from Selim to Daoud, whose countenance bore its usual amiable smile. He decided to drop the subject.
    “I have thought that we might get a dog. Have you any likely candidates?”
    Daoud, whose large soft heart encompassed even animals scorned by his fellow Gurnawis, knew of several that might suit. “I will look at them and bring the best tomorrow. A large fierce dog, that is a good plan.”
    “Not fierce,” Ramses said in alarm. “Not with the twins around. I don’t want an animal that would injure anyone, I just want him to bark.”
    He brought out the statuette, which Daoud and Selim hadn’t yet seen, and let them examine it. Selim’s eyes brightened at the sight of it; he knew enough to appreciate its rarity and its value. Daoud touched it with reverent fingers. “The snake on the crown is missing,” he said. “What happened to it?”
    “We think it had been broken off before the thief sold it,” Ramses explained. “Petherick certainly wouldn’t have been so careless.”
    “It would be good to find it,” Daoud said slowly. “The snake has much power.”
    Ramses laughed and gave him an affectionate slap on the back. “There’s not much chance of that, I’m afraid.”
    After a leisurely breakfast they all headed for the Castle, so that the Vandergelts could participate in the meeting. Ramses had decided to take his father’s orders one step further. If Emerson wanted a master plan, with recommendations for future work, that’s what he would get, and Cyrus was entitled to express his views.
    Seven of them sat down with Cyrus at the table in what Cyrus was pleased to call his conference room: Ramses, his mother, Nefret, Daoud and Selim, Bertie and Jumana. Jumana was her ebullient self, her tendency to dominate the conversation repressed by her awe of the Sitt Hakim.
    Emerson would be pleased at the results of the conference, Ramses thought. Unlike a good many excavators, they had kept meticulous records of their progress—photographs, notes, and Bertie’s plans. He was the best surveyor of the group, and his skills had been honed by Emerson’s demands. There were actually three separate areas at the site: the village of the workmen, their small tombs on the hillside nearby, and the remains of the temples and shrines in which they had worshiped the gods. The tombs were Cyrus’s responsibility, and when Ramses looked through his reports he agreed that Cyrus and his crew had covered the area thoroughly. Almost all the tombs had been robbed in antiquity, their grave goods carried off, their small chapels destroyed. What the ancient thieves had missed, modern looters had found and sold to tourists and dealers.
    The meeting held only one surprise: Cyrus’s announcement that he was considering hiring a new artist. “He called yesterday to ask if there was a position open. Name’s Maillet. Ever heard of him?”
    “Didn’t he work with Newberry at Beni Hassan?” Ramses asked.
    Cyrus shook his head. “Can’t be the same fellow. This lad is in his early twenties. I told him I’d like to see his portfolio,