Guardian of the Horizon (20 page)

It was something of an anticlimax to observe, on the right-hand side of the pylon, a smaller male figure presenting an ankh--the symbol of life--to the nose of a seated king. The smaller person had the braided side lock that indicated youth, and its nose was considerably larger than that of the king. Zekare appeared quite pleased at the effect of his little surprise. When he indicated that the audience was over, we went unresisting. Emerson kept muttering, "Good Gad! Good Gad!" After we had gone a little way down the entrance corridor I said thoughtfully, "I wonder that the new king would leave that relief. Surely it must be the one Tarek promised he would commission in order to honor us, and therefore the royal image must be his." Ramses had been somewhat disconcerted by his own image-- the nose was really a bit much--but he had the answer to my question. He usually does. "The cartouche has been changed, Mother. That was standard procedure in Egypt, if you recall, whenever a monarch usurped the representation of a predecessor. The name in itself conferred identity; it wasn't even necessary to remodel the features." "Hmmm, yes," said Emerson. "I am beginning to get an idea--" "Let's not discuss it now, Father," Ramses cut in. He gestured at Amenislo, who was trotting along ahead of us. Emerson glared. "Quite right, my boy, we don't want to be overheard. He has obviously turned his coat. Against his own brother!" "All the members of the upper classes are closely related," I said. "I expect the new king is a first or second or third cousin of Tarek's. He must have had some connection with the royal family in order to claim a right to the throne." None of us spoke again until we had reached our own quarters. "Ramses, fetch Daoud and Selim," Emerson said. "You"--he pointed at Amenislo, who was bowing and smiling--"get out. Go. Leave us." "Well!" I exclaimed. "We are in a pretty fix." "Get rid of them too," grunted Emerson, indicating the servants. "They don't understand English," I replied. "Unlike Amenislo. I will tell them to serve luncheon. I expect Daoud is hungry, and I am a bit peckish myself." "How can you think of food at a time like this?" Emerson demanded. "It is necessary to keep up one's strength," I replied. "At least we know the girls are in no danger." Daoud settled down to eat with his usual placidity, but Selim was in a considerable state of agitation. "Ramses says they have taken Nur Misur to be a priestess of their false god," he exclaimed. "What are we to do?" "The Sitt Hakim will make a plan," Daoud said. "Yes, of course," I said with a little cough. "But we must think very carefully about how to proceed. These people take their religion quite seriously, and--" "Don't be a credulous fool, Peabody," growled Emerson, who never takes religion seriously. "In this society, as in all the others with which I am familiar, religion among the ruling classes is only a cloak for politics. If the new king were powerful enough, he could install his own High Priestess, and be damned to tradition." "As he has apparently done with the position of God's Wife, who is known here as the Heneshem," Ramses said. "You recall how it was done in Egypt--when a new king took the throne, he had his daughter adopted by the reigning God's Wife as her successor. Nefret's mother was an aberration and, unlike Nefret, she died in office. She may have already had an adopted 'daughter,' who took her place, but has not her power, and if the usurper forced his daughter on the new Heneshem--" "Yes, yes," Emerson said impatiently. "All very interesting, my boy, but off the point." Selim let out an exclamation. "Nur Misur's mother? Do you mean she was the God's Wife here? I thought she died when Nur Misur was born." "That is what Nefret believes," I said. "And you must never, ever, tell her differently, Selim. Her mother went mad, denied her husband and her child, and forgot her true identity. She is dead, and there is no need for Nefret to know the truth, which would make her very unhappy." "Yes," Selim murmured, stroking his beard. "For a mother to deny her child . . ." "God had taken her mind away," said Daoud. "She was not to blame. Would it make Nur Misur unhappy to know that?" "Yes," I said with an affectionate smile. "Very unhappy." "Then I will be silent," said Daoud. "Forever." "Yes," Selim agreed. "Forever." "Now that we've settled that," said Emerson, "can we return to the point? Zekare may be powerful enough to control the position of God's Wife, but he obviously needs us and Nefret to prop up his throne." "I cannot imagine that our influence is that great, or his position so weak," I protested. Emerson had been hoarding his store of tobacco. Now he took out his pipe and pouch. He claims the nasty weed aids in ratiocination. I sincerely hoped so, for never had we been in direr need of clear thinking. "Such must be the case," said Emerson, "or we wouldn't be here. Never mind pointing out that I have just committed some horrible flaw in logic, Peabody, only consider the probabilities. We are obviously persons of some importance, or that pylon would not still display our images. Tarek was a popular ruler, especially among the lower classes, but a military coup could have overthrown him, especially if it were supported by the more reactionary of the nobles and by the priesthood. Those sanctimonious bastards are always poking their noses into affairs of state." This was grossly unfair, and an example of Emerson's prejudice against religious persons, but I let it pass, for in this case his accusation might have a basis in fact. The priesthood of Aminreh, chief god of the Holy Mountain, had supported Tarek's brother for the kingship, and the High Priest had been one of his bitterest enemies. Daoud swallowed a mouthful of bread and looked at me. "Have you made a plan yet, Sitt?" "By God, Daoud is right," Ramses burst out. "We should be planning what we mean to do, not engaging in idle speculation on the basis of insufficient information." "What do you propose?" I inquired, resisting the temptation to point out that he was as prone to that error as I. "The most important thing is to find a way of communicating with Tarek. There must be people who are still loyal to him--an opposition party. No doubt it has gone underground, but we've got to find some of its members and offer our support, in return for theirs. We have firearms, but not enough of them. We can't get the girls away without outside help." "That makes sense," said Emerson, puffing away. "It may be significant that our servants this time do not include any of the common people--the rekkit. The majority of them probably support Tarek, but they are powerless and it won't be easy to reach them. You remember how much trouble we had last time getting permission to visit their village." "That's the next step," Ramses said. "Or the first, really. We must be free to move about. That means convincing the new regime that we are on their side. Father, can you bring yourself to be ingratiating to the king and Merasen?" "More easily than you, I fancy," said Emerson, giving him a sharp look. "That shouldn't be too difficult," I mused. "People who love power are extremely susceptible to flattery." "I will leave the flattery to you," said Emerson. "What I'll propose is a practical quid pro quo: our loyalty, publicly demonstrated, if necessary, in exchange for permission to record the reliefs in the temples and explore the tombs." "No man who knows the Father of Curses will believe he would be disloyal to a friend, or let his daughter be taken from him," said Selim, who had followed the discussion with furrowed brow. "He doesn't know me," said Emerson, trying to look sly. "He knows you well enough, by reputation, at least, to know you would never consent to remain here indefinitely," I retorted. "You must ask when we will be allowed to leave. He will lie, of course. He can't afford to let us go, with or without Nefret." A united outcry from the others arose. "Of course we won't leave without her," I said impatiently. "But since we cannot enforce our will, we must, for the moment, pretend to believe any lies the usurper chooses to tell--especially about Nefret. The High Priestess does not serve for life. Once she has chosen a successor--" "Do you know what happens to the High Priestess after she gives up her position?" Ramses asked quietly. "I can guess. That isn't the point, Ramses. I will ask the king if we may take her with us after she has appointed another in her place, and he will say yes, we may, and he will be lying, and we will pretend--do you hear me?--we will pretend to believe it. I am only trying to gain time--time enough to locate Tarek and figure out how to overthrow the usurper." "Where is this friend, this Tarek?" Selim asked. "That's a good question," Ramses said. "He must be holed up in a place which is defensible and/or well hidden, or the king would have crushed him and his followers already. One doesn't leave a pocket of rebellion to fester if one can easily clean it out. The difficulty is that we learned very little about the city and the surrounding area; we were closely guarded prisoners most of the time." "Do you suppose Tarek knows we are here?" I asked. "If he doesn't, he soon will. The usurper can't make use of our prestige without announcing our presence. I wouldn't count on Tarek's being able to reach us, though. He'd be a fool to venture into the city when there's a price on his head." "We need more information," I declared. "Let us send word to the king requesting another audience. We will present him with a list of our demands. First and foremost, we will insist on seeing Nefret." "I share your anxiety, Peabody," said Emerson. "But I think we ought not make the first move. It is poor diplomacy, especially in a society like this one." He sauntered toward the right-hand wall and began examining the painted reliefs. "Emerson," I said, "if you begin copying inscriptions or taking notes I will--I will--" "You had better do the same," said Emerson, without turning. "We must convince old Zekare that our fascination with the culture of the Holy Mountain is great enough to win us over to his side, at least for the time being." "You are right," I acknowledged. "Very good, Emerson." "So what is the plan?" Daoud inquired. "Is there time for me to finish eating? Is there more food?" "Take all the time you like," I said, indicating to the servants that they should replenish the bowls. "We can do nothing until . . . Tomorrow, Emerson? I cannot contain myself much longer than that." "Dear me, Peabody, I had not expected to find you so lacking in patience. Why don't you make one of your famous lists? Selim, would you be good enough to find our notebooks and writing implements? I don't know where they stowed the rest of our luggage, but I expect one of these pleasant young women will show you if you ask nicely." He winked in a vulgar fashion, and Selim's lips relaxed into a knowing smile. "Yes, Emerson. I will ask very nicely--with gestures, since I do not know the words." "I expect gestures will work quite well," said Emerson. "Now then, Peabody, feel free to speculate to your heart's content, since that is all we can do at present. Perhaps a brief incisive summary of the situation to begin with?" "Don't patronize me, Emerson!" "I wouldn't dream of it, my dear." "Well ..." I said. "To sum up, then: Merasen was sent not by Tarek but by the new king, whose position is less secure than he wants us to believe. Merasen was promised higher rank, possibly even the position of Royal Heir, if he succeeded. It does seem a trifle callous of the king, though, to risk his son on such a trip." "Unless he has so many of them he can spare a few," said Ramses cynically. "It may not have been as great a risk as Merasen implied. I don't doubt his escort was greater than he admitted. And it may be that the king doesn't entirely trust him. I sure as hell wouldn't. Don't you realize he must have been brought up in Tarek's household, where he was taught English--and other things?" "You may be right," I said. "The boy seems to have no moral sensibilities whatever. He has now allied himself with someone from the outside world--someone who could use a compass and get a caravan together. Does the king know about this, or is Merasen playing a double game with him too?" Selim came running back into the room. "The guns," he exclaimed. "The guns are gone!"

EIGHT

"It's my fault," Ramses said, eyes downcast and jaw set. "I advised against carrying weapons into the presence of the king." "No, it is mine," Selim cried. "I should have stood guard over them." "I should have put a curse on them," Emerson bellowed, waving his fists. They were all pacing up and down the room, wringing their hands and beating their breasts (figuratively speaking), except for Daoud, who sat waiting patiently for someone to say something sensible. Daoud was a great comfort to me. "There is no use crying over spilled milk," I announced. "Are they all gone?" "Yes," said Emerson, so overwrought that he did not even complain about my voicing an aphorism. "We left our rifles and pistols in our rooms with the rest of our personal belongings. They must have been taken last night. The remaining weapons and most of the ammunition were in a single packing case. I made certain it was loaded onto one of the camels when we left the oasis. It isn't here now, though all our other luggage is--cameras, notebooks, surveying equipment." "Are you speaking of the guns?" Daoud inquired. It was the first chance he had had to get a word in. "Yes," Selim groaned. "All of them. Rifles, pistols, ammunition--" "Not all," said Daoud. Reaching into the breast of his robe, he took out a pistol. "The rifle is in my bed." I have seldom seen three men look more foolish--especially those three. Ramses was the first to get his voice back. "Daoud, you are--you are a wonder. Er--in your bed?" "Yes," said Daoud in surprise. "It is what they tell the soldiers. I heard an officer say so. 'This is your gun. Eat with it, sleep with it.' The rifle got in my way when I was eating, but I ate with the pistol and slept with both." Emerson's mouth was hanging open. "Good Gad! Well done, Daoud. Though a single pistol and rifle--" "May come in useful," I interrupted. "In circumstances which are as yet unknown. Very well done, Daoud! The loss of the other weapons is unfortunate, but as Ramses pointed out earlier, we couldn't have relied on them to get us out of here. We must endeavor to demonstrate the stiff upper lip for which we are famous. I include you and Daoud, of course, Selim. Get out the cameras and notebooks, please. We will continue on the course Emerson so wisely suggested." Emerson perked up a bit. "Where shall we start?" he asked. "With a general plan of this palace," I replied, giving him a wink and a nod. "Including, of course, the storage and servants' areas." We spent the rest of the afternoon at this pursuit, making copious notes and taking occasional photographs of nothing in particular. The servants, who had incontinently fled when Emerson began raging about the missing weapons, ventured cautiously out, and curious eyes watched our every move. I made it a point to smile and speak pleasantly at them, and urged my companions to do the same. One of the young women became so emboldened that she followed us from room to room, though of course at a respectful distance. Our survey was superficial in the extreme, since none of the servants was in a position to judge its effectiveness and our primary purpose was not scholarly. The rock-cut chambers were, some ofthem, mere cubicles, less than six feet square and six feet high-- empty of everything except dust, and extremely hot. Others served as kitchens and temporary sleeping quarters for servants. Though ventilated by an ingenious system of air shafts, and decorated, rather pathetically, with a few woven mats and baskets containing cosmetics and extra clothing, they were scarcely more comfortable than the storage chambers. We returned to the sitting room dusty and crumpled and dripping with perspiration. "Well, well," said Emerson, rubbing his hands together. "Several points of interest, weren't there? Ramses, will you begin on that plan?" "I will ask for something to drink," Selim announced. And he did so, directing his gestures at the young woman who had been our most assiduous follower. She appeared to have no difficulty in understanding. I said, "If you will all excuse me, I am going to sponge off some of this dust." "Don't be long," said Emerson. "I have a little surprise for you, Peabody." I accepted the assistance of one of the serving girls, humming a cheerful tune as she helped me into a clean robe and tied a bright red-and-blue scarf round my waist. (I added several safety pins along the opening.) When I returned to the sitting room, Emerson had his hands behind his back. "You look very charming, Peabody. Guess what I have for you." I wished I could say the same about him. He had at least washed his hands, which was all to the good if my guess about his "surprise" was correct. I had not the heart to spoil it by guessing correctly, however. The smile he had forced himself to keep in place all afternoon was beginning to show altogether too many teeth. "Why, Emerson, what can it be?" I asked. I let out a cry of girlish delight and clapped my hands as Emerson produced ... a bottle of whiskey. "I have been hoarding it," he explained. "And I think we deserve it tonight. Ramses?" "Yes, sir, thank you." Selim and Daoud were drinking tea. Selim must have shown the servants how to prepare it and how to set out something that bore a rather amusing resemblance to a tea tray. The cups were without handles and the pot was just that--a brown, elegantly shaped earthenware jug with a pierced clay strainer atop. We settled ourselves comfortably and Emerson raised his cup. "To a successful end to our quest," he announced. "May I stop smiling now, Peabody? I feel as if my face is paralyzed." "Just try to look affable, my dear. You have done very well. We have all done well, in my opinion. Our performance this afternoon must convince the king that we have accepted the situation." "Grrrr," said Emerson, forgetting himself for a moment. "Ramses, have you anything to report? You were quite a long time in one of those back rooms." "This one," said Ramses, producing a rough sketch. "There is a raised stone bench along one wall, reminiscent of a similar structure in one of the rooms of the palace we formerly inhabited." "Aha!" exclaimed Emerson. "The bench whose top lifted to give access to the subterranean passages?" "Yes, sir. Unfortunately, although there was a corresponding depression under the lip of this slab, my attempts to release the catch were in vain." I recognized, with some regret, a return to the youthful pedantic speech patterns which Ramses had almost overcome. He must be even more worried than I had realized. My own spirits had lifted a trifle. We were acting--making plans--taking steps! Or it might have been the whiskey. "Drink your whiskey," I said to him. "Yes, Mother," he said absently. He ate very little at dinner. I had had an idea that I thought might cheer him up, so I proposed it. "When we see the king I am going to ask if I may pay Nefret a visit. The priestesses are secluded, but I might be allowed when a man would not be. If the king agrees--and I will be very insistent--I can report back to you, not only on her health and state of mind, but where she is." "That is a good idea, Mother," Ramses said, looking, if not cheerful, a trifle less gloomy. "It is important that we be able to communicate directly with her. If I know Nefret, she won't take this lying down. Persuade her to appear submissive and tell her we are putting on a show of acquiescence in order to--" "Yes, my dear, that was precisely what I had in mind." Ramses went back to his plan and Emerson and I took a little stroll in the garden. It was a pleasant place in the twilight, with vines covering the walls and a pool lined with blue tiles. The lotus blooms had closed into tight buds, but the velvety green leaves waved in a gentle breeze, spilling crystalline drops as perfectly formed as beads of mercury. Emerson is not unmoved by natural beauty, but on that occasion he spent most of his time inspecting the walls. He had to climb on a low stone bench to look over them, for they were eight feet tall. "Well?" I asked. "Are there guards?" "No need for guards. There's a sheer drop, into a ravine thirty feet down. We could probably descend safely if we had ropes or some substitute for them." "Not much point in that unless we had some idea of how to get up the other side, and where to go once we were up." "Quite," said Emerson. "Let us get rid of these damned servants, eh?" He did so, with peremptory gestures, and then suggested somewhat pointedly that the others retire as well. "Emerson," I said, as he advanced toward me. "I hope you won't take this in the wrong way, but I really am not in a proper frame of mind for--er--that. Not this evening. And not with that beard." "My dear Peabody." He gave me a reproachful look. "That was not what I had in mind. Well--to be honest, I always have it in mind, but for once it was not my primary reason for wanting to be alone with you. We have lost Nefret; I will not let the bastards carry you off too." I took his outstretched hands. "My dear Emerson. I beg your pardon." "Granted. Er--did you mean it about the beard?" I made it clear that I did. Emerson's presence was a great comfort in every way, but sleep did not come easily to me, perhaps because I was trying too hard. I wanted to dream of Abdullah, not only in the hope that he might have a useful suggestion, but because I was beginning to fear that that wonderful vision would never be repeated--that the comfort it had given was the sole reason why it had been vouchsafed to me. I was in that state of drowsy discontent that can be more tiring than full wakefulness when a faint sound broke the stillness. There was always at least one lamp left burning, to save the laborious business of making a new fire, which was done in the old way. The lamp on a stand near the bed illumined only a small part of the chamber and bred shadows that huddled in distant corners. The sound had come from the doorway. I lay on my side, facing in that direction, but the large bulk of Emerson--lying flat on his back, arms folded across his breast like a pharaoh of old--blocked my view of the lower part of the curtain. The sound came again . . . No, I thought, not the same sound--the first might have been a soft footfall, the second was that of expelled breath. It might be Ramses, on the lookout for intruders. Or--it might be the intruder himself! My heart beat faster with excitement. I lay motionless, waiting for him to creep into the chamber. If they expected to find me alone, they might not have sent more than one abductor. I would have to climb over Emerson and locate my parasol, but I felt confident I could deal with one man. If there were more than one, I would have to fight them off until Emerson came fully awake, which always takes a while. The fighting blood of the Peabodys was up, but I reminded myself that I must not be hasty. It was possible--not likely, but possible--that Tarek had heard of our being there and was attempting to communicate with us as he had done once before, secretly and by night. Whoever he was--or they were--they--or he--was in no hurry. The seconds ticked by. The curtain moved slowly and cautiously away from the right-hand wall and a pale oval appeared in the gap, visible only because it was not so dark as the darkness behind it. A face! Surely it was a face, though I could not make out the features. I felt eyes upon me--eyes that burned with the intensity of their regard--heard another exhalation of breath, louder than the first . . . Emerson let out a shout. "Peabody!" His hand groped wildly, trying to find me. It was the wrong hand. I was on his other side. The face vanished, the curtain fell into place. I cried, "Curse it! Emerson, wake up!" Eluding his flailing arms, I got out of bed and ran for the doorway. I was too late. Nothing moved in the moonlit room. "Burning eyes, indeed," growled Emerson. "You admitted you could not make out the fellow's features." "I felt the eyes, Emerson. Ramses, may I have a drop more of that whiskey?" Aroused by Emerson's cries and mine, the others had rushed out of their rooms to find us embracing in the sitting room. The embrace was not friendly. Convinced I was suffering from nightmare, Emerson was attempting to keep me from pounding on the door. It was, as he proceeded to demonstrate, immovable. Ramses fetched the whiskey and we sat down to discuss this latest development. "You were dreaming," Emerson insisted. "The door is still bolted. How could anyone get out that way?" "By bolting it again after he had gone out the way he came in," I snapped. "I resent the implication, Emerson. If you think I cannot tell the difference between a dream and reality . . . Hmmm." No one took notice of my momentary confusion. Ramses ran his fingers through his tangled curls and said tactfully, "Go over it again, Mother. Every detail." So I did. I thought it better to omit the adjective to which Emerson had objected, but stuck to the eyes. "We all know the feeling--that of being the object of a prolonged, intense stare. What Isaw was a real face, and a real hand drew the curtain aside. If Emerson had not frightened him off and interfered with my pursuit of the fellow, I might have caught him!" "Just as well I did, then," said Emerson. "Do you suppose you could have stopped him if he were intent on getting away? You didn't even have your parasol!" "There wasn't time to find it." "Oh, bah," said Emerson. "They wouldn't have sent a single man." "They would have done if 'they' was not the current regime but Tarek." My generally excellent syntax was suffering from annoyance at Emerson's skepticism. They all knew what I meant, though. "Tarek and his supporters are in hiding, Peabody. This purported visitor purportedly left by the front door, which is guarded by Zekare's men." "Purportedly guarded, do you mean?" We glared at each other. "It was not a dream," Selim said. He had been crawling on hands and knees, inspecting the floor outside my chamber. Now he rose and held out his hand. White against his brown palm was a small circular object. A button. When we gathered round the breakfast tables, Emerson drank his coffee with less pleasure than he had the day before. "This proves they have some contacts with the outside world," he declared. "Not only through places farther west, but with traders who deal in imports from the east." "We have better evidence than that," I said. "Evidence of direct contact. They do not use buttons here, and that one came from a man's shirt. I have sewn enough of yours back on to know." "Are you absolutely sure it isn't one of mine?" Emerson asked. "You know perfectly well that none are missing from your shirts, or those of Ramses's. You watched me inspect them. Anyhow, the one Selim found is slightly larger than the normal sort. I believe it to be of French or German manufacture." Emerson and Ramses exchanged doubtful looks. "I don't know why you are so reluctant to accept the
truth," I said in exasperation. "We agreed, did we not, that Merasen must have had a confederate who was responsible for the attacks on our men and who guided him here. He is still here. The logic is inescapable." "Logic, bah," said Emerson, glowering. "It need not be the same man. Whoever the devil he is." "The most likely suspect," I began, but was interrupted by Ramses. "Excuse me, Mother, but I can't see the point in speculating about that. Shouldn't we be ready in case the king sends for us?" "Yes, quite," said Emerson. "But we must appear surprised, even reluctant, when that occurs. Let's get back to work." As the morning wore on without a summons, I began to wonder if we had exaggerated our importance to the new regime. "Unlikely," said Emerson, when I expressed my sentiments. "He's playing the same game we are, and the first to approach the other will lose prestige. Hand me that piece of drafting paper, will you, please?" We had divided forces, sending Ramses off by himself to continue his exploration of the back rooms and hoping that our busy activities in the sitting room would keep the servants interested. By midday we had collected quite an audience, and I was about to suggest we stop for luncheon when there was a disturbance at what we had decided to call the front door. It was flung open, and in dashed Count Amenislo, in such a rush he pushed past two guards. His wig was askew. He ran to Emerson and began plucking at his sleeve. "Hurry! Hurry! Come, come!" Emerson turned, with awful dignity. Amenislo's fat hands fell as if they had been burned. "We do not go or come at the orders of underlings," said Emerson. "We are busy with our work." Amenislo dropped to his knees and raised his hands. "The king sends for you. Come, hurry!" His brow furrowed, as if he were trying to remember a word he seldom used. "Pliss?" "I believe he is attempting to say 'please,' " said Emerson to me. "That is much better. But shall we linger awhile? I do enjoy seeing him get so worked up." Amenislo groaned. "I will be punished . . ." "I would enjoy seeing that even more," remarked Emerson. "Oh, very well." He let out a shout that made the count jump. "Ramses!" Ramses came running. "It's all right, my boy," said Emerson. "I didn't mean to alarm you. We have been invited to call on His Majesty." Ramses looked in wonder at Amenislo, who was bouncing round the room trying to push at us without actually touching us. "What's wrong with him?" Ramses asked. "He keeps telling us to hurry," said Emerson, motionless as a column. "Yes, yes, hurry, come!" His eyes moved from the impassive face of Emerson to the equally inexpressive countenance of Emerson's son, and in desperation he tried the magic word again. "Pliss? Pliss!" Emerson condescended to take one step toward the open door. "Don't forget your parasol, Peabody," he said. I took the parasol, and the arm Ramses offered, and we followed Emerson and the count. Emerson moved like a mourner at a funeral, with slow, dragging steps. The count twittered and gabbled. "Something is up," said Ramses. "So it seems," I said uneasily. Badgering Amenislo had been entertaining, but I had begun to think of all the things that might have gone wrong--wrong for us, that is. The capture of Tarek? Something to do with Nefret? "Could you please pick up the pace a bit, Emerson?" I said. The small throne room was deserted--not even guards. Amenislo hurried across the room, waving us on. As we proceeded through a series of antechambers and short corridors, I began to hear a strange sound--a murmur like the magnified buzzing of a nest of wasps. It grew louder as we went on, rising to its highest pitch when we entered the chamber where the king awaited us. He was not alone. Merasen was there, and others who wore the regalia of high rank, including several dressed in the snowy pleated mantles of priests. Zekare was standing at a wide aperture, like an open window with a waist-high sill. Instead of formal robes, he was garbed in a long-sleeved shirt and short kilt, both of them bright with colored embroidery. A sword was slung in a scabbard across his back. Amenislo flopped down on his face. The king ignored him as if he had been a beetle. With a peremptory gesture he beckoned us to come forward. The aperture reminded me of the Window of Appearance found in Egyptian palaces, where the king appeared to his adoring subjects and rewarded the worthy with collars of gold. Zekare stepped aside as we approached. Below the window was a stone-paved court or plaza, opening off the main highway. Plaza and highway, as far as the eye could see, were teeming with people--people of all sorts, men, women and children, including a group of the small, dark-skinned rekkit. Hands brandished stones and sharpened sticks, voices were raised. The words were indistinguishable, but the tone was indubitably hostile. The crowd swayed back and forth, but did not advance, for a very good reason: the spears and arrows of a troop of soldiers drawn up in solid ranks below the window. At the sight of us the wordless clamor died. A sea of faces stared up at us. (A trite metaphor, I admit, but descriptive.) In the silence the king's deep baritone rolled out. "They have come, the Great Ones, as I promised. Now go to your homes." No one moved. The king bit his lip in vexation. "Speak to them," he ordered. "Tell them you are with me in friendship. Tell them to . . ." "Disperse," said Ramses, before I could ask what the word meant. "Damned if I will," exclaimed Emerson. "By Gad, the news of our presence has already spread." "Father, we must do as he says," Ramses said urgently. "Or be responsible for a bloody massacre. There are women and children in that crowd." "Oh, curse it," said Emerson, somewhat abashed. "You are correct, of course, my boy. You talk to them. I would choke on the words--even if I knew what words to use." Ramses leaned over the wide rim of the window and raised his hands. There was no need to ask for attention; every eye was fixed on him. It was as if no one in that vast assemblage breathed. I did not understand everything he said, but the gist of it was clear. He was the Brother of Demons--he gestured at the extraordinary figure on the pylon, and the heads swiveled as one, toward the pylon, and back to him. He had returned with the other Great Ones to bring peace and prosperity. "Go quietly to your homes now, and no one will be hurt," he concluded. "We will speak to you again." "Nicely done," I remarked to Emerson. "He carefully avoided expressing loyalty to the king." "Indeed? I didn't understand much of it." "You really must apply yourself to the language," I said severely. "Ramses, they are not dispersing. What seems to be the difficulty?" "I detect a certain level of skepticism," said Ramses dryly. "One can hardly blame them; I don't much resemble that caricature on the pylon. Let them have a closer look at you. You needn't speak, just give them the royal wave and gracious smile." His point was well taken. Even those who were old enough to remember the ten-year-old "hero" might have found some difficulty in recognizing the grown man. For all they knew, he could be one of their own people, an impostor presented by the king. But when Emerson moved forward into the glare of sunlight, all doubts were dispelled. It would have been impossible to imitate that stalwart form and those sapphirine eyes (accurately rendered on the pylon) . The collectively pent breath was released in a great shout, and when I leaned over the sill and waved my parasol, another cheer arose. "Go home," I shouted. "Go with our--er--what is the word for 'blessing,' Ramses?" Slowly, reluctantly, the crowd dispersed. Most of them continued to look up at the window. Some of them were weeping. "Now," said Emerson, with a broad, evil grin, "we are in an excellent position for negotiations."