Rick Riordan - The Red Pyramid

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

A blue starry sky glittered on the ceiling, but it wasn’t a solid field of blue. Rather, the sky was painted in a strange swirling pattern. I realized it was shaped like a woman. She lay curled on her side-her body, arms, and legs dark blue and dotted with stars. Below, the library floor was done in a similar way, the green-and-brown earth shaped into a man’s body, dotted with forests and hills and cities. A river snaked across his chest.

The library had no books. Not even bookshelves. Instead, the walls were honeycombed with round cubbyholes, each one holding a sort of plastic cylinder.

At each of the four compass points, a ceramic statue stood on a pedestal. The statues were half-size humans wearing kilts and sandals, with glossy black wedge-shaped haircuts and black eyeliner around their eyes.

[Carter says the eyeliner stuff is called kohl, as if it matters.]

At any rate, one statue held a stylus and scroll. Another held a box. Another held a short, hooked staff. The last was empty-handed.

“Sadie.” Carter pointed to the center of the room. Sitting on a long stone table was Dad’s workbag.

Carter started down the stairs, but I grabbed his arm. “Hang on. What about traps?”

He frowned. “Traps?”

“Didn’t Egyptian tombs have traps?”

“Well…sometimes. But this isn’t a tomb. Besides, more often they had curses, like the burning curse, the donkey curse-”

“Oh, lovely. That sounds so much better.”

He trotted down the steps, which made me feel quite ridiculous, as I’m usually the one to forge ahead. But I supposed if someone had to get cursed with a burning skin rash or attacked by a magical donkey, it was better Carter than me.

We made it to the middle of the room with no excitement. Carter opened the bag. Still no traps or curses. He brought out the strange box Dad had used in the British Museum.

It was made of wood, and about the right size to hold a loaf of French bread. The lid was decorated much like the library, with gods and monsters and sideways-walking people.

“How did the Egyptians move like that?” I wondered. “All sideways with their arms and legs out. It seems quite silly.”

Carter gave me one of his God, you’re stupid looks. “They didn’t walk like that in real life, Sadie.”

“Well, why are they painted like that, then?”

“They thought paintings were like magic. If you painted yourself, you had to show all your arms and legs. Otherwise, in the afterlife you might be reborn without all your pieces.”

“Then why the sideways faces? They never look straight at you. Doesn’t that mean they’ll lose the other side of their face?”

Carter hesitated. “I think they were afraid the picture would be too human if it was looking right at you. It might try to become you.”

“So is there anything they weren’t afraid of?”

“Little sisters,” Carter said. “If they talked too much, the Egyptians threw them to the crocodiles.”

He had me for a second. I wasn’t used to him displaying a sense of humor. Then I punched him. “Just open the bloody box.”

The first thing he pulled out was a lump of white gunk.

“Wax,” Carter pronounced.

“Fascinating.” I picked up a wooden stylus and a palette with small indentations in its surface for ink, then a few glass jars of the ink itself-black, red, and gold. “And a prehistoric painting set.”

Carter pulled out several lengths of brown twine, a small ebony cat statue, and a thick roll of paper. No, not paper. Papyrus. I remembered Dad explaining how the Egyptians made it from a river plant because they never invented paper. The stuff was so thick and rough, it made me wonder if the poor Egyptians had had to use toilet papyrus. If so, no wonder they walked sideways.

Finally I pulled out a wax figurine.

“Ew,” I said.

He was a tiny man, crudely fashioned, as if the maker had been in a hurry. His arms were crossed over his chest, his mouth was open, and his legs were cut off at the knees. A lock of human hair was wrapped round his waist.

Muffin jumped on the table and sniffed the little man. She seemed to think him quite interesting.

“There’s nothing here,” Carter said.

“What do you want?” I asked. “We’ve got wax, some toilet papyrus, an ugly statue-”

“Something to explain what happened to Dad. How do we get him back? Who was that fiery man he summoned?”

I held up the wax man. “You heard him, warty little troll. Tell us what you know.”

I was just messing about. But the wax man became soft and warm like flesh. He said, “I answer the call.”

I screamed and dropped him on his tiny head. Well, can you blame me?

“Ow!” he said.

Muffin came over to have a sniff, and the little man started cursing in another language, possibly Ancient Egyptian. When that didn’t work, he screeched in English: “Go away! I’m not a mouse!”

I scooped up Muffin and put her on the floor.

Carter’s face had gone as soft and waxy as the little man’s. “What are you?” he asked.

“I’m a shabti, of course!” The figurine rubbed his dented head. He still looked quite lumpish, only now he was a living lump. “Master calls me Doughboy, though I find the name insulting. You may call me Supreme-Force-Who-Crushes-His-Enemies!”

“All right, Doughboy,” I said.

He scowled at me, I think, though it was hard to tell with his mashed-up face.

“You weren’t supposed to trigger me! Only the master does that.”

“The master, meaning Dad,” I guessed. “Er, Julius Kane?”

“That’s him,” Doughboy grumbled. “Are we done yet? Have I fulfilled my service?”

Carter stared at me blankly, but I thought I was beginning to understand.

“So, Doughboy,” I told the lump. “You were triggered when I picked you up and gave you a direct order: Tell us what you know. Is that correct?”

Doughboy crossed his stubby arms. “You’re just toying with me now. Of course that’s correct. Only the master is supposed to be able to trigger me, by the way. I don’t know how you did it, but he’ll blast you to pieces when he finds out.”

Carter cleared his throat. “Doughboy, the master is our dad, and he’s missing. He’s been magically sent away somehow and we need your help-”

“Master is gone?” Doughboy smiled so widely, I thought his wax face would split open. “Free at last! See you, suckers!”

He lunged for the end of the table but forgot he had no feet. He landed on his face, then began crawling toward the edge, dragging himself with his hands. “Free! Free!”

He fell off the table and onto the floor with a thud, but that didn’t seem to discourage him. “Free! Free!”

He made it another centimeter or two before I picked him up and threw him in Dad’s magic box. Doughboy tried to get out, but the box was just tall enough that he couldn’t reach the rim. I wondered if it had been designed that way.

“Trapped!” he wailed. “Trapped!”

“Oh, shut up,” I told him. “I’m the mistress now. And you’ll answer my questions.”

Carter raised his eyebrow. “How come you get to be in charge?”

“Because I was smart enough to activate him.”

“You were just joking around!”

I ignored my brother, which is one of my many talents. “Now, Doughboy, first off, what’s a shabti?”

“Will you let me out of the box if I tell you?”

“You have to tell me,” I pointed out. “And no, I won’t.”

He sighed. “Shabti means answerer, as even the stupidest slave could tell you.”

Carter snapped his fingers. “I remember now! The Egyptians made models out of wax or clay-servants to do every kind of job they could imagine in the afterlife. They were supposed to come to life when their master called, so the deceased person could, like, kick back and relax and let the shabti do all his work for eternity.”