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.”
“First,” Doughboy snipped, “that is typical of humans! Lazing around while we do all the work. Second, afterlife work is only one function of shabti. We are also used by magicians for a great number of things in this life, because magicians would be total incompetents without us. Third, if you know so much, why are you asking me?”
“Why did Dad cut off your legs,” I wondered, “and leave you with a mouth?”
“I—” Doughboy clapped his little hands over his mouth. “Oh, very funny. Threaten the wax statue. Big bully! He cut my
legs off so I wouldn’t run away or come to life in perfect form and try to kill him, naturally. Magicians are very mean. They maim statues to control them. They are afraid of us!”
“Would you come to life and try to kill him, had he made you perfectly?”
“Probably,” Doughboy admitted. “Are we done?”
“Not by half,” I said. “What happened to our dad?”
Doughboy shrugged. “How should I know? But I see his wand and staff aren’t in the box.”