The Red Pyramidby Riordan, RickText

The Red Pyramid
by Riordan, Rick
Text copyright © 2010 by Rick Riordan
First Edition
1 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
V567-9638-5-10046
Printed in the United States of America
Hieroglyph art by Michelle Gengaro-Kokmen
ISBN 978-1-4231-1338-6
Reinforced binding
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.
Visit www.hyperionbooksforchildren.com
The Red Pyramid
To all my librarian friends, champions of books, true magicians in the House of Life. Without you,
this writer would be lost in the Duat.
The Red Pyramid
WARNING
The following is a transcript of a digital recording. In certain places, the audio quality was poor, so
some words and phrases represent the author’s best guesses. Where possible, illustrations of important
symbols mentioned in the recording have been added. Background noises such as scuffling, hitting,
and cursing by the two speakers have not been transcribed. The author makes no claims for the
authenticity of the recording. It seems impossible that the two young narrators are telling the truth,
but you, the reader, must decide for yourself.
The Red Pyramid
C A R T E R
The Red Pyramid
1. A Death at the Needle
WE ONLY HAVE A FEW HOURS, so listen carefully.
If you’re hearing this story, you’re already in danger. Sadie and I might be your only chance.
Go to the school. Find the locker. I won’t tell you which school or which locker, because if you’re
the right person, you’ll find it. The combination is 13/32/33. By the time you finish listening, you’ll
know what those numbers mean. Just remember the story we’re about to tell you isn’t complete yet.
How it ends will depend on you.
The most important thing: when you open the package and find what’s inside, don’t keep it longer
than a week. Sure, it’ll be tempting. I mean, it will grant you almost unlimited power. But if you
possess it too long, it will consume you. Learn its secrets quickly and pass it on. Hide it for the next
person, the way Sadie and I did for you. Then be prepared for your life to get very interesting.
Okay, Sadie is telling me to stop stalling and get on with the story. Fine. I guess it started in London,
the night our dad blew up the British Museum.
My name is Carter Kane. I’m fourteen and my home is a suitcase.
You think I’m kidding? Since I was eight years old, my dad and I have traveled the world. I was
born in L.A. but my dad’s an archaeologist, so his work takes him all over. Mostly we go to Egypt,
since that’s his specialty. Go into a bookstore, find a book about Egypt, there’s a pretty good chance
it was written by Dr. Julius Kane. You want to know how Egyptians pulled the brains out of mummies,
or built the pyramids, or cursed King Tut’s tomb? My dad is your man. Of course, there are
other reasons my dad moved around so much, but I didn’t know his secret back then.
I didn’t go to school. My dad homeschooled me, if you can call it “home” schooling when you
don’t have a home. He sort of taught me whatever he thought was important, so I learned a lot about
Egypt and basketball stats and my dad’s favorite musicians. I read a lot, too—pretty much anything
I could get my hands on, from dad’s history books to fantasy novels—because I spent a lot of time
sitting around in hotels and airports and dig sites in foreign countries where I didn’t know anybody.
My dad was always telling me to put the book down and play some ball. You ever try to start a
game of pick-up basketball in Aswan, Egypt? It’s not easy.
Anyway, my dad trained me early to keep all my possessions in a single suitcase that fits in an airplane’s
overhead compartment. My dad packed the same way, except he was allowed an extra
workbag for his archaeology tools. Rule number one: I was not allowed to look in his workbag.
That’s a rule I never broke until the day of the explosion.
It happened on Christmas Eve. We were in London for visitation day with my sister, Sadie.
See, Dad’s only allowed two days a year with her—one in the winter, one in the summer—because
our grandparents hate him. After our mom died, her parents (our grandparents) had this big court
battle with Dad. After six lawyers, two fistfights, and a near fatal attack with a spatula (don’t ask),
they won the right to keep Sadie with them in England. She was only six, two years younger than
me, and they couldn’t keep us both—at least that was their excuse for not taking me. So Sadie was
raised as a British schoolkid, and I traveled around with my dad. We only saw Sadie twice a year,
which was fine with me.
[Shut up, Sadie. Yes—I’m getting to that part.]
So anyway, my dad and I had just flown into Heathrow after a couple of delays. It was a drizzly,
cold afternoon. The whole taxi ride into the city, my dad seemed kind of nervous.
Now, my dad is a big guy. You wouldn’t think anything could make him nervous. He has dark
brown skin like mine, piercing brown eyes, a bald head, and a goatee, so he looks like a buff evil
scientist. That afternoon he wore his cashmere winter coat and his best brown suit, the one he used
for public lectures. Usually he exudes so much confidence that he dominates any room he walks into,
but sometimes—like that afternoon—I saw another side to him that I didn’t really understand.
He kept looking over his shoulder like we were being hunted.
“Dad?” I said as we were getting off the A-40. “What’s wrong?”
“No sign of them,” he muttered. Then he must’ve realized he’d spoken aloud, because he looked at
me kind of startled. “Nothing, Carter. Everything’s fine.”
Which bothered me because my dad’s a terrible liar. I always knew when he was hiding something,
but I also knew no amount of pestering would get the truth out of him. He was probably trying to
protect me, though from what I didn’t know. Sometimes I wondered if he had some dark secret in
his past, some old enemy following him, maybe; but the idea seemed ridiculous. Dad was just an archaeologist.
The other thing that troubled me: Dad was clutching his workbag. Usually when he does that, it
means we’re in danger. Like the time gunmen stormed our hotel in Cairo. I heard shots coming
from the lobby and ran downstairs to check on my dad. By the time I got there, he was just calmly
zipping up his workbag while three unconscious gunmen hung by their feet from the chandelier,
their robes falling over their heads so you could see their boxer shorts. Dad claimed not to have witnessed
anything, and in the end the police blamed a freak chandelier malfunction.
Another time, we got caught in a riot in Paris. My dad found the nearest parked car, pushed me into
the backseat, and told me to stay down. I pressed myself against the floorboards and kept my eyes
shut tight. I could hear Dad in the driver’s seat, rummaging in his bag, mumbling something to himself
while the mob yelled and destroyed things outside. A few minutes later he told me it was safe to
get up. Every other car on the block had been overturned and set on fire. Our car had been freshly
washed and polished, and several twenty-euro notes had been tucked under the windshield wipers.
Anyway, I’d come to respect the bag. It was our good luck charm. But when my dad kept it close, it
meant we were going to need good luck.
We drove through the city center, heading east toward my grandparents’ flat. We passed the golden
gates of Buckingham Palace, the big stone column in Trafalgar Square. London is a pretty cool
place, but after you’ve traveled for so long, all cities start to blend together. Other kids I meet sometimes
say, “Wow, you’re so lucky you get to travel so much.” But it’s not like we spend our time
sightseeing or have a lot of money to travel in style. We’ve stayed in some pretty rough places, and
we hardly ever stay anywhere longer than a few days. Most of the time it feels like we’re fugitives
rather than tourists.
I mean, you wouldn’t think my dad’s work was dangerous. He does lectures on topics like “Can
Egyptian Magic Really Kill You?” and “Favorite Punishments in the Egyptian Underworld” and
other stuff most people wouldn’t care about. But like I said, there’s that other side to him. He’s always
very cautious, checking every hotel room before he lets me walk into it. He’ll dart into a museum
to see some artifacts, take a few notes, and rush out again like he’s afraid to be caught on the
security cameras.
One time when I was younger, we raced across the Charles de Gaulle airport to catch a last-minute
flight, and Dad didn’t relax until the plane was off the ground, I asked him point blank what he was
running from, and he looked at me like I’d just pulled the pin out of a grenade. For a second I was
scared he might actually tell me the truth. Then he said, “Carter, it’s nothing.” As if “nothing” were
the most terrible thing in the world.
After that, I decided maybe it was better not to ask questions.
My grandparents, the Fausts, live in a housing development near Canary Wharf, right on the banks
of the River Thames. The taxi let us off at the curb, and my dad asked the driver to wait.
We were halfway up the walk when Dad froze. He turned and looked behind us.
“What?” I asked.
Then I saw the man in the trench coat. He was across the street, leaning against a big dead tree. He
was barrel shaped, with skin the color of roasted coffee. His coat and black pinstriped suit looked
expensive. He had long braided hair and wore a black fedora pulled down low over his dark round
glasses. He reminded me of a jazz musician, the kind my dad would always drag me to see in concert.
Even though I couldn’t see his eyes, I got the impression he was watching us. He might’ve
been an old friend or colleague of Dad’s. No matter where we went, Dad was always running into
people he knew. But it did seem strange that the guy was waiting here, outside my grandparents’.
And he didn’t look happy.
“Carter,” my dad said, “go on ahead.”
“But—”
“Get your sister. I’ll meet you back at the taxi.”
He crossed the s