Night’s shadow fell on the Valley of Moses. Dim light from stone dwellings provided Akmal and his steed a quiet course to the broken arch at the entrance of al-Sīq.

Beyond a fallen abutment, a voice whispered. “Sand makes so little sound.”

The stallion’s ears pricked, it neighed worriedly. Akmal’s brow furrowed, his eyes spied the darkness. “Yet the whistling of an unsheathed saber is piercing.”

“Ah, Umar!” the voice consented. Its silhouette beckoned the horseman forward. “Come, my friend. I, Saleh, will fetch what you require.”

Traversing the narrow canyon, the guide repeatedly glanced back to the rider. “The cave? Did you find it…”

“Empty?”

Stifling the fear, he walked the rest of the way without saying a word. Al Khazneh appeared as they rounded the bend. Saleh placed his hand in a crevice and pulled out the hewn baetylus. “The Englishman may have the prize,” he said timidly, “but we hold the key.”

“No, Saleh.” A blade sang out briskly; a body slumped silently to the sand. “I hold the key.”