The Key. Peter Lerangis
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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—”
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