Chapter 13 – The English Gentleman
Ardeth balanced his weight carefully on his feet, trying not to put too much pressure on the wrists chained high over his head and trying to remember a time when he had been more stupid than he'd been the night of the gala. The night he'd refused a bodyguard. It was hard to think of one.
"O'Connell is going to kill me," he thought as he relived the events that brought him to this less than pleasant position.
He remembered struggling, and the sick sweet smell of the drug-soaked cloth. Then there had been nothing but light and darkness and voices for what seemed like a very long time. When he finally found enough energy to concentrate on the voices, he'd discovered that he'd been unconscious for eighteen hours. Long enough that his captors were getting worried or so he surmised by their conversation.
"And long enough for O'Connell to start searching," Ardeth told himself as his mind slipped once more into darkness. After another long sleep, he'd opened his eyes. It was then that they came for him.
Ardeth fought against them as best he could but the chloroform had taken its toll and he could only struggle weakly. The larger one, the one they called Blick, had simply knocked him upside the head and the resulting blow was enough to stun him senseless. When his head stopped reeling, he was suspended from the ceiling of what appeared to be a large basement with the smaller man, Ollie he'd been called, standing guard.
Ardeth ignored the smaller man and let his eyes roam the space, taking inventory of possible escape routes and useful objects. Unfortunately, the place was practically bare. Only a few broken chairs and a large brick furnace were in sight. Stacks of firewood and kindling had been piled against one wall along with bundles of old newspaper. A coal bin held a supply of fuel for the furnace. Other than that, there was nothing of value or use to be found.
The room itself was made up of stone walls and high wooden beams. And it was very large. Ardeth closed his eyes and willed himself to think past the pounding headache that the drug and his treatment had induced. He could ignore the pain. What he needed now was information. He twisted in his chains, trying to get a better view of his prison.
"You'll not get free a'those," gloated Ollie. "So ya can stop yer squirmin'".
Ardeth said nothing but slowly turned his head until his full, unblinking gaze was resting firmly on Ollie's round face.
"Got yer attention then, did 'oi?" Ollie laughed as the tall foreign man began to turn toward him. He took a moment to revel in the bruised and swollen face, then he met those staring dark eyes and his laugh faltered.
Ollie Wentworth had never seen anything in his life that scared him as much as those cold, empty eyes. No, not empty. They were full, full of the promise of death and great torment. He could see the images of exactly how he would die pass through those deep depths and he felt a cold chill run down his spine.
"'Ere now, wha... whad er you up to?" he stammered. "You stop that, now. You 'ear me?"
"Stop what? Honestly, Mr. Wentworth, what could he possibly be doing to you?" A cold voice echoed along the stone and a shadow passed just outside Ardeth's line of sight.
Ollie jumped at the sound. "Mr. Black! 'E's... well... 'e's starin' at me!" he blurted.
The unseen man sighed loudly, his annoyance clear in his tone when he spoke. "Go upstairs and see Arnie. I have another job for you."
Ollie nodded and backed away from their captive, afraid to turn his back to the chained man.
Black smacked at him as he passed and cursed. "Get going! He's not going to hurt you. Now move!"
The round, little man scampered out of Ardeth's sight and Ardeth heard him pounding up a set of wooden stairs somewhere off to his left, filing the information away with the other things he'd learned about his prison.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Bey. I trust you rested well?"
Ardeth said nothing; he simply stared at the skeletal man before him. While he appeared to be the very essence of an aging English gentleman, Ardeth saw beyond the veneer. Every inch of this distinguished looking man screamed of cold cruelty and refined evil.
"This," he thought with wry humor, "should be interesting."
The gentleman continued, seemingly unperturbed at Ardeth's silence. "I do apologize for your extended sleep but my employees lack a certain finesse in these matters. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sidney Black, your host of sorts, and I would very much like to ask you a few questions about the location of Hamunaptra." The thin man smiled cordially but Ardeth could see that the smile did not reach his eyes.
"Then your efforts have been in vain as Hamunaptra does not exist." Ardeth's words were calm if a bit slurred.
"Ah. Yes, well, you would say that, I suppose. Still, I have information that it does, in fact, exist and that you know where it is."
"Do I?"
Black absently smoothed a finger over his razor thin mustache. "Yes. You do. You see, Mr. Bey, I know all about the Med-jai. They are the keepers of the sacred sights of Egypt and protectors of the City of the Dead. A city that is rife with treasure. Treasure my organization wants very much to obtain."
Ardeth's face betrayed nothing. "The Med-jai, like the fabled city and its' equally fabled treasure, are just that - fables."
Black smiled condescendingly. "It is very noble of you, Mr. Bey, to guard your secrets but I know the truth. The Med-jai exist. The city and its treasure exist. And you, sir, are the key to them all. You are Med-jai and you will tell me where the city lies."
"Again, your efforts are in vain. For even if I were to possess such information, why would I tell you?"
"Because, Mr. Bey, I can be a very persuasive man when I have to be."
It was Ardeth's turn to smile. "Well, then, Mr. Black, I suggest you begin, for we are in for a very long afternoon."
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"I say! You're Spencer Milton, aren't you? Viscount Milton?"
Milton looked up from his brandy and studied the smiling blond man standing next to his chair. "Do I know you?" he asked, wary but pleased at the delight the man seemed to feel in seeing him.
"Not really, no. I mean we've not met in person but I've read so much about you and your family I feel I know you." The blond man beamed.
"You've read of my family?" Milton asked, his ego inflating at the thought that someone found his family as important as he did.
"Oh, yes! I mean, who wouldn't? What with all you've done for the University and the sheer amount of history your family has been involved with. It's really such a pleasure to finally meet you!"
Milton smiled arrogantly. "Yes, well, my family has had a bit of a history. Very important people, the Milton's have been over the years."
"Oh absolutely!" The blond man beamed even more. "I dare say, I'm a bit overcome and forgetting my manners. I'm Jonathan Carnahan. Professor Carnahan, actually. I teach Egyptology at Oxford in the very building named for your ancestors, Milton Hall. Would you mind terribly if I joined you?"
"Please do," Milton gestured for Jonathan to sit across from him. "I'm always pleased to meet someone who appreciates the history my family represents. Would you care for a brandy?" He gestured for a serving man to bring another without waiting for Jonathan's reply.
Jonathan let a star-struck smile light up his face. "Thank you. It's an honor, really. I've studied so much about your family. Wonderful things they've done for the University. Wonderful things. Why the Asbury medal alone should secure your family name forever in the annals of Oxford." He watched Milton's face carefully and was pleased when a black look crossed the man's face.
Jonathan immediately adopted a contrite tone. "Oh, I'm so dreadfully sorry. I shouldn't have brought that up. I mean, it must have been terrible to see your family honor done in so by a heathen foreigner. I have no doubt, from reading the accounts of the tournament, that the man - Bey was his name? - cheated. Obviously. I mean there is no other way he could have won otherwise."
"You are among the minority, sir." Milton's voice was harsh with rage. "The judges deemed the tournament a fair contest despite my and my family's numerous protests."
"Well, clearly they were mislead. I think it's quite obvious from my research who the winner should have been. In fact, I've found some documentation that I believe may be related to the tournament, documentation I found hidden in one of the old workrooms."
"What kind of documentation?" Milton asked.
"Well, I think, and it's only a theory mind you, but I think I've found some notes made by one of the judges that indicate something fishy was going on. But I'm not sure which tournament they're from. I know there was more than one year in question but there are no dates. Only your name, and this Bey fellow's, and some remarks about illegal moves." Jonathan sighed. "I've been trying to find someone who was at the events to take a look at them for me but I can't find anyone who was at all three. And unless you were there and remember all of them, it would be hard to put the notes into context if you know what I mean." Jonathan watched with barely suppressed glee as Milton took the bait.
"I suppose I could have a look at them for you," Milton suggested smoothly.
He couldn't believe his luck! It seemed that, finally, some justice would prevail. He'd never lived down having been defeated not once but three times by a desert mongrel. To this day it was thrown up at him at odd moments and it had only fueled his hatred of Ardeth Bey. He'd always maintained that Ardeth had cheated, conveniently forgetting that in the last bout he was the one who'd charged Bey's unprotected back. If these notes were indeed made by one of the judges, perhaps he could reclaim some of the honor he'd lost all those years ago. "They do relate directly to me, after all."
Carnahan's face lit up even more. "Oh, would you?" he gushed. "I'd be ever so grateful. You're sure it's not a bother?"
Milton waved his hand magnanimously. "No bother at all. I'd be happy to help. Just bring the papers by and I'll do my best to help you."
"Oh, dear." Jonathan let his face fall. "I'm afraid I can't do that. You see, when I found the papers, I turned them over to the library and they can't be removed. You'd have to come to the University to look at them." He sighed unhappily.
"Well, then, you'll just have to take me to them, won't you?" Spencer Milton was already out of his chair.
"You won't regret this, my lord!" Jonathan assured him as he took to his own feet.
Milton smiled benevolently at the professor and indicated he should lead the way. Things were definitely looking up. He had Bey where he wanted him. And now he would have his family's honor restored. "You know, Professor Carnahan, this day can't get any better!"
Jonathan laughed as he held open the door. "You are right about that, my lord. You are most certainly right about that."