Jewel Of The Nile

Chapter Forty-Four

"So what should I do?" Hermione had asked earlier.

They’d been up late, glancing through Farouk’s collection of Priestess documentation, and with every page she’d read, the jade pendant around her neck seemed to grow heavier. Farouk had looked up from the twelfth-century journal he was perusing and blinked at her.

"About what?"

She pulled it out of her neckline and let it dangle, twisting gently, by its fine silver chain. "This."

"Ah."

"Do I keep wearing it to bed?" she demanded. "Or do I fight it?" Unpleasant little buzz of the chain in her hand at those last words, making her shiver. Farouk looked grave.

"Save your strength," he said finally, after a reflective pause. "To struggle at this point would be painful, and would gain you nothing. Tomorrow …"

"Tomorrow?" Hermione frowned. "What happens tomorrow?"

"The Potions expert arrives to begin analysis of the crypto-ink." Farouk shrugged. "And we go into the Alexandria bazaar, and buy you a new wand."

"Oh! I mean, good." Hermione dropped the chain, distracted by this new, happier thought, and let the Priestess settle back between her breasts. "I’d thought I’d have to wait until I could get back to Diagon Alley and visit Ollivander’s."

"Ollivander?" Farouk looked thoughtful. "I’ve heard that name before."

"He’s ever so knowledgeable," offered Hermione. "Though just the slightest bit … um, disconcerting. And the shop’s been established since 382 B.C.—"

"—He’s respectable enough, as British wandmakers go. A mere upstart, of course—"

"—oh, really?—"

"—compared to the shop in Alexandria," Farouk continued placidly. "This is a much older civilisation, after all, my dear. Inaru, our local family of wandmakers, were already the finest name in the field when the Witch of Endor came in for her first wand. I don’t know the exact dates, but I’d wager that they predate the Ollivanders by at least twenty-five generations."

"Impressive," Hermione said, and made a mental note to find out exactly who the Witch of Endor was, when she next had a free moment. "Is there a branch of Gringotts there, too? I’d like to buy a change of robes. And I need to owl Areli, if there’s a post office – she’s probably really worried that I didn’t come to work yesterday."

"We’re not savages, Miss Granger," Farouk said wryly. "I think you’ll be able to find whatever it is that you’re looking for."

He’d looked amused, enough so to draw Hermione’s suspicions, But it was late, and she was tired. And so she’d bid him goodnight and gone up to bed in that spare white-draped room, swathed in moonlight and mosquito netting and feeling every kink and strain of last night’s sojourn in the back seat of Khaled’s Jeep. Even so, her sleep was deep and undisturbed, and it was with great reluctance that she began the long swim up from deep subconscious into morning and wakefulness.

And then, twenty-five pounds of furry, exuberant something landed atop her midsection and began, with four-inch claws that Hermione could feel even through the thick duvet, to knead.

"Ouch!" Hermione jackknifed upright and rubbed blearily at her eyes. "Cleo? But how did you …where did you …?"

She glanced at the doorway, then at the empty expanse of bed next to her, half-expecting to see a spill of red-gold hair, a wicked adventurer’s grin.

No one.

Cleo was rubbing her face ecstatically against Hermione’s shoulder, pausing for gut-deep purring and the occasional tongue-swipe in the direction of her face. Hermione stroked the soft dust-coloured fur absently with one hand and caught a flash of white on the near nightstand.

A note. She snagged it with her free hand, turned her face resolutely away from Cleo’s eager nuzzling, and read:

**

Madison—

Thought I’d be able to look after your wildebeest until you got back, but she seemed to know that something was up. I couldn’t get her to eat anything, so I thought I’d bring her by. Sorry I couldn’t stay until you woke up; I’m due down in Soweto in twenty-five minutes to assess a couple of gold mines someone wants to insure through Gringotts. I’ll be back next week sometime.

I stopped by the Consortium yesterday afternoon to let Areli know where you are. She says you’ve got vacation time coming anyway, and that if they need anything for the Lilly project, she’ll owl you for it. You’re under direct orders to get some R and R, and to get this Priestess business straightened out once and for all.

I’ll miss you. Take care of yourself.

Love, Bill

**

"Sweet," Hermione said out loud, and found the sensitive spot under Cleo’s chin with her thumb. "And as for you, you bad thing … when have you ever turned down a meal?"

The caracal flattened her ears in ecstasy. She was making a sound like a leaky inner tube – Hermione knew from experience that this denoted extreme self-satisfaction.

Hrsssssssssssrssssssssssssshrs.

"I suppose you’re hungry now. It’s nobody’s fault but your own, you know."

Hhrrrrrrrsssssssss.

Sighing, Hermione nudged Cleo off her midsection and slid out of bed. "Well, as long as I’m up."

Hhrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

They headed for the kitchens.

**

Breakfast. The Great Hall.

Sybil was making a rare morning appearance, mostly for the pleasure of seeing young Master Potter sidle in, moving rather more carefully than usual, and bend a still-blushing face over his oatmeal. He’ll think twice before he sticks that straight little nose of his in where it doesn’t belong again, she thought, and smiled to herself behind her teacup. Good-natured little Filius noticed – those sharp eyes didn’t miss much – and nudged her playfully with his tiny elbow.

"Good news today, Sybil?"

"Hmm?" She let her gaze go vague and dreamy, pitched her voice half an octave higher. "Oh—oh, yes. Such lovely weather we’re having."

"Indeed."

"Though we’ve a storm blowing in on the night of the Ball, I fear," Sybil lied. Flitwick frowned politely.

"Isn’t that a shame."

Two seats down, Minerva McGonagall harrumphed from behind her Daily Prophet.

"Says right here that it’s supposed to be clear all week."

"Ah, Minerva." Sybil kicked the mistiness up another couple of notches; annoying McGonagall whenever possible had become, over the years, a sort of personal vision-quest for her. "Such a pity about next week’s match with Ravenclaw."

Flitwick emerged hopefully from his plate of eggs. "Oh, is Ravenclaw going to win? How marvellous."

Minerva rolled her eyes, but wasn’t quite able to stop her teeth from grinding at the same time.

"I wasn’t aware that you followed Quidditch, Sybil."

"Such a shame about poor Mr. Potter," Sybil continued dreamily. "That ankle’s never been the same since the Tri-Wizard Tournament, has it? Ah, well – Seeing isn’t preventing, after all … the Fates will what they will. Wouldn’t you agree, Minerva?"

Flitwick hid a smile with his napkin.

Vague vapid expression firmly in place, Sybil sipped her tea and glanced over to where Potter was shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Minerva fuming from behind her newspaper.

I ought to get up early more often, she thought … and reached for the platter of bacon with a self-satisfied little sigh.

Breakfast, after all, was the most important meal of the day.

**

Gringotts Alexandria was a slightly run-down British-Colonial style building that looked as if the movie set for Casablanca ought to be across the street. Judging from the size of its foyer, it was about half the size of the London branch, with palm-frond fans swaying lazily in the corners, and dusty Venetian blinds in place of the stuffy velvet drapes. Even its goblin employees seemed more casual in their khaki uniforms, not as brisk as their British counterparts.

Hermione, whose paycheques from the Consortium went straight to her Cairo account without her having to lift a finger – if she needed cash, she got it straight from the automated Portvault in the inside lobby of her apartment building – had been wondering how they’d handle her withdrawal request … after all, the gold itself was all in Cairo, and the goblins didn’t have electronic transfer options – did they? But the teller at the window took down her vault number without comment, flipped through a thick file of paperwork for a moment, then nodded jerkily.

"I’m making a note of the withdrawal to send to the Cairo branch," she told Hermione. "You can go with Lugnut here; you’ve been authorised to remove the requested amount from our common vault."

Ah. Well, that made sense.

Lugnut looked young – if that word could be used to describe any goblin, really – and was dressed even more casually than the tellers, in khaki short-pants, a plain cotton tee shirt, and a curious tight-fitting cap over his pointy ears that looked as if it was made of rubber. "Here, take this," he said, handing Hermione a similar-looking headpiece. "And this."

Gillyweed. Hermione, grimacing faintly, glanced at Farouk for collaboration. He was grinning.

"Go ahead. It’s fun."

Tentatively, she pulled the cap over her ears, poked the slimy thimbleful of weeds into her mouth, and swallowed as quickly as possible. "Now what?"

"Now," said Lugnut, grinning toothily, "you get in."

It looked more like a roller-coaster car than the mine-carts at the London branch. Hermione slid into the passenger seat, wrinkling her nose at the dampness of the cushion. "It’s a bit wet …" she began – but never had time to finish.

The cart was moving, and not gently, either – the downward incline was so steep that it felt almost like free-fall. Hermione shrieked and clung to the armrests, the cold air of underground whistling painfully through her rapidly developing gills. She took a deep searing breath – there had to be water, but where, and when? – and then they were leveling out, and before she could open her mouth to protest, they were underwater.

Salt on her lips. This had to be the Mediterrenean, or some hidden inlet of it – and it was every bit as scary and forbidding as the mine-shafts of underground London, dark and cold and utterly unnavigable. Hermione shut her eyes as the water-car dipped again, as it swerved and twisted and the soft wet fins of quick-passing fish brushed at her cheeks.

"Nearly there," she heard Lugnut shout, and then the car was slowing, stopping in front of a heap of ocean-floor basalt, the leftover spew of some long-ago, centuries-submerged volcano. She saw the dim glint of a key in his hand, enchanted, no doubt, to glow, heard the soft snick of an invisible lock.

"All right," said the goblin. "Take what’s yours." And ushered her into a thieves’ paradise of underwater riches.

The ride back was swift and silent. Hermione kept her eyes open and almost immediately wished she hadn’t; more acclimated to the darkness now, she could pick out menacing shapes at regular intervals – guard-sharks, no doubt, she imagined, and thought wistfully of Fidel and the rooftop lagoon back in Cairo. The sackful of Galleons clinked heavily between her clamped-together knees; her head swam with dizziness and, underneath that, the gnawing beginnings of a need for oxygen.

When they burst up into air and rolled to a halt beside the smirking Farouk, she shook her fist weakly at him.

"You might have warned me."

He shrugged and laughed, already drawing out his wand for a Drying Charm. "How?"

He had a point there.

They visited Inaru Wands, coming away shortly with mint tea on their breaths and a brand-new ten-inch wand of golden curly-maple, with what genteel old Mr. Inaru had described as "the latest development in wand cores": not one, but three unicorn tail-hairs hand-braided together into a slim tight rope. Pricey, Hermione supposed – she’d paid eighteen Galleons for it, as opposed to Ollivander’s standard charge of seven – but it was limber, and beautiful, and fairly buzzed in her hand. Out on the street, she drew it out of its velvet case and held it on her palm, drinking in the fine balance, the high-gloss polish, the shivering tightrope of power vibrating down her love-line.

"It’s beautiful," she said. "I rather want to go home and try it out now."

"No new robes?" Farouk reminded her gently, and she shook her head, laughing.

"I’ll Summon them. I’ll Transfigure them." She swish-flicked idly in the direction of the empty air, bouncing on the balls of her feet as golden sparks showered around them. "I can’t wait, I don’t think."

"Fine."

And so it was that they arrived back at the villa just past dinnertime, mouths still tingling from the ground spiced lamb patties they’d bought from a street vendor – Farouk tired but smiling, Hermione alight with expectation. They were met at the door by one of the grey-robed housekeepers.

"Your guest is here," she murmured to Farouk. "We offered him food, but he refused it. I had him shown to the library."

"Ah, the good Professor. No doubt he’s anxious to get started."

Hermione frowned.

"Professor?" she queried. "The Potions expert is a professor? Where does he teach?"

"Hogwarts, of course." Farouk smiled at her. "Your Headmaster’s no fool; his staff is one of the most professionally capable in the wizarding world. Your Potions Master, in particular, is unsurpassed …"

But Hermione wasn’t listening. Still clutching her wand box, she pushed past him and sprinted, rather ungracefully, for the library door.

It was him – oh, yes, it was, lank black hair and intent, studied frown as he bent over his book. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his travelling cloak. Hermione steadied herself on the doorjamb and waited for the nausea to hit her; at her flicker of movement, he looked up startled from his page.

"You," he said, looking surprised and not particularly pleased. "What are you doing here?"

"That," Hermione said, feeling not at all sick but unsteady as hell, "is what I want to know."

Albus Dumbledore, wherever he was, had some serious explaining to do.

**