Guardian of the Horizon (22 page)

the roadway if it isn't too long a walk. We've none of us ever been past the temple. I'll go back the other way." "For a sentimental look at our former home?" his father inquired. "Excellent idea, my boy. We can cover more ground that way. Don't do anything impetuous." "Ha," said Ramses's mother pointedly. "Selim, you go with Ramses. We will meet back at our house in ... shall we say an hour?" The little people were gone when Ramses and Selim passed the place where they had been working. Followed by half the original escort--the other four had accompanied his parents and Daoud-- they walked on around the southern curve of the cliffs. A good deal of new construction was underway: temples and shrines, by the look of them. Workmen swarmed over the face of a half-built pylon and others dragged cut blocks of stone from a quarry below the road. The whips of the overseers rose and fell. A spacious villa high above them was the one Tarek had occupied as crown prince. Someone else was living there now; a pair of guards lounged by the steps. Their former dwelling, a little farther on, had obviously been abandoned. Ramses recognized it by the statues along the terrace, though Bastet had lost her head and Sobek had fallen over. The potted plants were dead. He climbed the broken stairs, with Selim beside him and the guards close on his heels. The entrance gaped open. Blown sand and withered palm leaves littered the floor of the antechamber and a curtain hung in tatters from the doorway beyond. He turned and addressed the nearest guard. "No one lives here now?" "No, Great One. As you see." "It is not guarded." "What need to guard an empty house?" Ramses gave him a closer look. The insolent tone reminded him of Merasen. There was a physical resemblance too. That didn't necessarily mean they were close kin; the upper classes were so interbred, it was a wonder they could still reproduce, and to judge by the capful of feathers and the width of his gold armband, this fellow was a high-ranking officer. Nothing but the best for us, Ramses thought. Aloud he said harshly, "When I ask a question you will answer only yes or no." The man's faint smile faded. "I ... Yes, Great One." "Will we go in?" Selim asked. "There is no light, and I did not bring a torch." "Neither did I. It isn't necessary." They continued along the road for another mile or so. Therewere fewer houses on this stretch, all unoccupied, and the road surface began to deteriorate. They were heading almost due west now as the road curved and descended. The men preceding them slowed and then came to a stop--and so did the road. It ended abruptly in a ragged break. They had reached the pass. Straight ahead, across a gap of forty feet, was the other end of the road. Selim let out an exclamation. "Once the road stretched straight across, Ramses, do you see? Below are the ruins of buttresses that supported a great arch of stone. What engineers they were! But no longer. The break is not fresh and they have not repaired it." "I doubt they have the manpower or the initiative." Ramses got out the binoculars. "You're right, Selim, as usual. Most of the pass is filled with enormous cut stones, the ruins of the bridge and the buttresses." He scanned the rubble, awed by the size of the blocks of stone. At one time the workmen of the Lost Oasis had almost equaled the pyramid builders. "There's a break--barely ten feet wide-- which has been filled in with rougher, smaller boulders. If Tarek is there, it's no wonder the usurper hasn't been able to get at him." "But he cannot get out," said Selim shrewdly. "There are soldiers below. Many soldiers." And a guardhouse, solidly built, that stretched a secondary wall across the inner part of the pass. Selim was right. Neither side could roll the blocking boulders away without coming under fire from their opponents. The natural rocky walls on either side were sheer, and the men of the Holy Mountain were skilled bowmen. They started back. The sun was sinking and there were more people abroad, some on foot, several in curtained litters carried by the muscular rekkit. "The friend" was what the rekkit had called Tarek when he worked in secret as their deliverer before he claimed the throne. He had intended to better their lot, improve their living conditions, grant them a certain degree of liberty. Ramses didn't doubt that he had tried. Tarek was a man of his word, and--God help him--an idealist. A taste of freedom gives a man an appetite for more. That incipient riot had been an encouraging sign. The rekkit had never hadthe courage to rebel before, and they were not the only ones who resented the new regime; the crowd had included people from other walks of life, craftsmen and scribes. But without weapons and leadership they were powerless. Was it possible . . . Don't be an idiot, he told himself. You're no rabble-rouser, you haven't the skill. His father, on the other hand . . . NINE

That afternoon's explorations brought home to me how limited our knowledge of the topography of the Holy Mountain had been. We had not been allowed to explore on our earlier visit, and our departure had been hasty and unexpected. What an astonishing place it was, and what mighty works the men of old had created! The natural grandeur of the rugged heights framed the remnants of a rich and sophisticated civilization--handsome villas and lush gardens, towering temples, and the great road itself, an engineering feat of no small magnitude, for it had been carved out of the vertical face of the cliff and swept grandly across the smaller ravines on bridges whose supports rested on massive blocks of cut stone. It was, I reminded myself, a civilization built on slavery. How many lives had been expended to make the great road safe and smooth for the sandaled feet of the ruling class? The signs of decay were visible, however. Many of the handsome houses were unoccupied. As we tramped on, graciously acknowledging the respectful greetings of those we met, the road curved, following the curve of the cliffs, and began to descend until it was only thirty or forty feet above the valley floor. Emerson's steps slowed. "Well, well," he remarked. "I thought we would encounter something like this." "This" was a troop of soldiers drawn up in military order acrossthe road. With Emerson in the lead, we marched straight up to them, halting only when we were nose to nose with the front rank. Emerson hailed them jovially. "Greetings. Move aside"--he gestured. "The Great Ones go on." A certain amount of agitation ensued. Some of the men bowed, some exchanged worried glances, a few uncertainly lifted their spears. Finally one of them stepped forward. "The Great Ones cannot go on," he said slowly. "The road does not go on." No one objected when Emerson indicated we would see for ourselves. A rough barricade had been built at the end of the roadway, and a good thing too, since the drop was sheer. Emerson leaned perilously over the barricade and looked down. "Tarek?" he asked, pointing to the narrow pass, which was filled ten feet high with stones. The soldier looked askance and did not reply. To judge by the width of his gold armlet, he was a lower-ranking officer, the equivalent of a junior lieutenant. We had put him in a difficult position, and he was taking no chances on saying the wrong thing. "Must be," said Emerson to me. He took out the binoculars and made a long, leisurely survey of the pass and its surroundings. A murmur of curiosity and alarm arose from the watching soldiers, and the officer dared to address Emerson. "What is that? What are you doing?" With an ingratiating smile Emerson offered the binoculars to the officer. The fellow shied back. "It is magic," said Emerson. "Our magic. You are--you have . . . Curse this cursed language. Peabody, tell him the magic will be safe for him since I can turn it on and off at will." The young man was no coward. It was clear that he believed he was taking his life as well as the binoculars in his hands, but once he had got them in place, fascination overcame fear. "It is for seeing far away," he exclaimed. "How far can it see?" "Many miles," I replied. "To the heavens and the world beyond. But only for those who know all the magic. It would not be safe for you to see so far." We lingered for a while, chatting and answering the questions of the bolder souls. They had abandoned discipline to crowd around Emerson, who basked in their respectful admiration. Somehow I was not surprised when one of them raised the story of the mighty throw that had pierced a strong man's body. Emerson grinned and held out his hand. The fellows jostled one another in their eagerness to give him a spear. "Emerson," I said in alarm. "You wouldn't--" "What do you take me for, my dear? I doubt I could repeat the feat anyhow," Emerson admitted. "I was extremely angry at the time." He drew his arm back, braced his feet and shoulders, took a breath so deep two buttons popped off his shirt, and hurled the spear. It flew straight across the gap and clattered onto the other end of the road. For several seconds there was not a sound, not even that of a drawn breath. Then everybody yelled. "Oof," said Emerson. "I hope you haven't put your shoulder out again," I remarked. "Emerson, I know you are having a splendid time, but we must go back. I don't want to give Zekare an excuse to keep me from seeing Nefret." "I did not do that to show off, Peabody," said Emerson reproachfully, after we had bid our new friends a fond farewell. "I know, my dear," I said, and patted his shoulder. We found the others waiting for us at the house, and we immediately began comparing notes. "The only way down to the valley floor and the barracks on this side of the pass is a stairway on the west side," said Emerson. "Very narrow, very steep. Easy to defend." "There are other stairways up to the palace and the Great Road," Ramses pointed out. "Near the village." "Same problem," said Emerson, frowning at the sheet of paper on which he had sketched a plan. "An attack in force at any one point is impossible." "Tarek must know that." Ramses pushed the paper away. "Sorry, I can't concentrate on strategy. You are supposed to see Nefret tonight, Mother. Why the devil haven't they come foryou?" "They didn't specify a time. Now, dear boy, don't worry. We have no reason to suppose the king will not keep his promise. There--I think I hear the escort coming now."

"Yes, I saw her." His mother had been gone less than an hour. She put her parasol down with exaggerated care. "Emerson, perhaps just a drop of whiskey ..." Emerson stood frozen. "For the love of heaven, Amelia, she isn't--she can't be--" "No, Emerson, no. I didn't mean to frighten you. Thank you, Ramses." She took a restorative sip of whiskey. "It could be worse. A great deal worse. Let me tell a connected narrative, if you please. I need to get my own thoughts in order; I am still struggling to assimilate what I saw." "Stop struggling and get on with it," Emerson demanded, relieved and reassured. So far as he was concerned, the only foe he could not defeat was death itself, and if Emerson wasn't ready to go, the Grim Reaper would have a fight on his hands. Ramses wished he could be so confident. He had seldom seen his imperturbable mother so perturbed. "Take your time, Mother," he said. She leaned back against the cushions. "As you know, I expected I would be escorted to the dwelling of the High Priestess. Instead they took me to a smallish temple above and south of the palace. Not the Great Temple. The goddess has a shrine there, as you remember; this was another shrine, dedicated solely to her. The ritual we saw before was the same, however; the handmaidens whirling in their dance and the High Priestess, her robes glittering with gold thread, joining in the dance and performing the invocation. She made offerings of fruit and flowers before the statue--a very beautiful statue it is too--and then fluttered out, escorted by the handmaidens. I tried to go after her, but the two females who took me there held me back, politely but quite firmly. They were both rather stoutly built and I realized the futility of resistance. They led me away and made me get back in the litter and brought me here." She took another sip of whiskey and Ramses said quietly, "Go back a little. The shrine is near the palace? What was it like? Where were you? Sitting, standing, at what distance from the statue?" She gave him a rueful smile. "Dear me, I was not as coherent as I had hoped, was I? Well. The statue was at one end of the room, which was relatively small: fifteen feet by twenty, at a guess. I was at the other end, behind a row of columns--lotus columns. They had placed a chair for me. There were lamps near the statue, but none where I was sitting. It was a pretty little place, almost homey compared with the Great Temple; the statue shone in the lamplight. It was pale gold--a good deal of silver mixed in, from the look of it. The goddess was standing, hands at her sides." "Well done," Ramses said. "How kind of you to say so" was the response, in her normal brisk voice. His mother did not appreciate kindly condescension, especially from him. "Go on," Emerson urged. "Certainly. There were curtained doorways, one on either side of the statue; I was somewhat puzzled by the ambience, but I still expected Nefret would emerge from one of the doorways and come to me. Instead, the handmaidens popped out, clacking their rattles and sistra, whirling and chanting. Nefret was the last to appear. It seemed rude to interrupt the ceremony, but when she left, without so much as a glance at me, I am ashamed to admit that I--er--I rather lost my head." "How do you know it was Nefret?" Ramses asked. "I assume the girls were all veiled, including the Priestess." "You are correct. But my dear, I couldn't mistake her. I know the way she moves, and those little hands, so much paler than thoseof the other girls, and the glimpses of golden hair . . ." Her voice faltered. "Yes, all right," Ramses said quickly. "It must have been distressing to see her and not be able to speak to her, or receive even a glance of acknowledgment; but she may not have known you were there." "That isn't what concerns me. She . . . Oh, dear. It is difficult to explain. She didn't falter once during that complex invocation. Every step was confident, every word correct. It was as if something or someone else were controlling her." "Good Gad," Emerson exclaimed. "Peabody, what are you suggesting?" "An afrit, perhaps," said Daoud helpfully. He was the only one who hadn't displayed signs of shock at that horribly evocative description. "You will cast it out, Father of Curses, when we have her back." "Yes, yes, certainly," Emerson muttered. "Stop it!" Ramses said angrily. "All of you. Mother, think. How do you know she performed the ceremony correctly? It's been years since you saw her do it. For all you know, she may have been improvising." "It is difficult to improvise in such a complex dance," his mother retorted, practical as always. "Nobody ran into anybody. However--you are right to remind me that we must not yield to superstition." "What about Daria?" Ramses asked. "Was she present?" "Why, no, now that you mention it. Unless she was one of the dancers." "Most unlikely. The handmaidens are selected from the highest-born girls in the land, and they go through a rigorous training period," Ramses said. "I expect they took Daria only because she was with Nefret, and they didn't want to leave a witness. We can't simply dismiss the girl, Mother. We brought her here, we are responsible for her." His father was pacing up and down the room. "No one has anyintention of abandoning her, Ramses. We must see the king again and demand to speak with Nefret." "We can try," Ramses said. "But he's a wily devil; he said Mother could see Nefret, and see her she did. He'll stall and equivocate and delay. With all respect to you, Daoud, I don't believe in afrits, but I don't like the sound of this. We must talk to Nefret as soon as is possible." Emerson stopped pacing and gave him a piercing stare. "How?" "I have an idea."