Guardian of the Horizon (25 page)

In the turmoil following Ramses's departure we made our way to the terrace in front of the palace, where we stood for several hours watching the proceedings. No one tried to make us retire to our rooms, though two of the guards, belatedly aware of their orders, took up positions at the head of the staircase that led down to the road. Daoud and Selim had remained to look after our possessions, though goodness knows there was not much left to interest our hosts. I had, of course, brought my parasol with me. The search, I was pleased to observe, was somewhat disorganized. It took the guards quite a while to descend into the village. They remained there some time; when the torchlit march wended its way back up the stairs, I suggested to Emerson that we retire. "Quite a busy night," I remarked when we reached our sleeping chamber. "We certainly stirred things up," Emerson agreed, removing his garments and tossing them around the room in his usual fashion. "Do you suppose they believed us?" "They know theywere not responsible for Ramses's disappearance. That leaves only two possibilities: that he left of his own accord, or that Tarek somehow managed to get to him." "I expect his illegitimate majesty is in quite a state of confusion," Emerson agreed. "Serves the bastard right." He threw himself down on the bed. After assuming a night robe, I joined him. "If Ramses should be caught," I began, unable to refrain from voicing my greatest fear. "They have already searched the village." Emerson took me in his arms. "If they had discovered him, we would have heard, be sureof that. He must have finished his business there and got away before they came." "I hope to heaven he was right about the woman--that she was the one whose life you saved all those years ago and that she indicated she was willing to help us." "What other reason would she have for making that little speech?" Emerson demanded. "Carefully composed in order to avoid offense, but including the key word: friend. Try to rest, my love. The usurper will have a good deal to say to us in the morning, and if you cannot spread a bit more confusion and alarm you are not the woman I take you for." Needless to say, I did not sleep. It was a relief when morning came to allow action. As we sipped our coffee, Emerson said, "Hurry and finish your breakfast, Peabody. We are going out." "Where?" I asked. "Hither and yon. It is time we paid courtesy calls on the High Priests of Aminreh and Isis. They were rivals before, and probably still are. Curse it, we are in the dark about a number of things. This"--he raised his cup--"proves that they have had contacts with the outside world. So do the steel blades carried by the nobility and higher officers. With whom are they trading? What other commodities have they acquired? And why the devil would they bother importing coffee? It certainly was not a delicate attention on Tarek's part; he didn't expect us." I dismissed this last question as unimportant--an error on my part, as events were to prove. "We neither of us speak the language fluently, Emerson." "I believe I will be able to get my point across," said Emerson. The door was not barred. Emerson had got that point across by wrenching the heavy wooden bar out of its sockets and carrying it with him into our room. Looking neither right nor left, he pushed the guards aside and proceeded on his way, followed by me and Selim and Daoud. No one attempted to stop us until we reached the open salon that gave onto the terrace, where we encountered the captain of our guard. He informed us that the king wished to see us at once. Emerson's eyes brightened. "Tell him, wait," he said. "Come, lady." "Three imperatives in a row," I remarked, taking the hand he offered. "Can you explain to this agitated person, without imperatives, that we mean to call on the high priests?" "I don't intend to explain anything, my dear. We will go to the Great Temple. One of the bastards is bound to be hanging about there." When we reached the level of the road my eyes turned, not toward the temple but toward the rugged cliffs on the north. The newly risen sun illumined the western side, a pattern of dark shadows like the stitching of a crazy quilt. Was Ramses up there, making his slow and perilous way toward the mist-shielded northern part of the oasis? If his hopes of assistance from the villagers had failed, he might have sought refuge in the subterranean passages beneath our former habitation. I didn't know which to hope for. I didn't know which to fear more. "Don't stare," said Emerson, steadying me as I stumbled. Selim broke into a fit of the giggles when we passed between the great pylons that bore our images, but the sight of the courtyard beyond sobered him. Colonnades, supported by large pillars, lined all four sides, and huge bronze braziers flanked the doorway. The flames flickering in them were pale in the sunlight. The altar in the center reeked with the remains of the morning sacrifice. Priests were busy cutting up the carcass of the ox; the meat would be distributed to the temple servants after it had been presented to the god. It was a very practical arrangement, satisfying both the spiritual needs of the god and the alimentary needs of his priests. Our appearance brought all activity to a standstill; everybody stared, but we got as far as the inner colonnade before a priest summoned up nerve enough to stop us and ask what we wanted. After a number of inappropriate imperatives we managed to recall a few appropriate nouns and were informed that the gentlemen we wanted were not at the temple, but at home. Apparently they left the daily rituals to subordinates except on special occasions. Relieved at seeing us go away, the priest took us back to the pylon and pointed out the high priests' dwellings. "They don't shut the men up in stone cells," said Emerson, studying the columned facades and green gardens. "That is Murtek's former abode; it has passed on to his successor as High Priest of Isis." Instead of mounting the steps toward the dwelling, he set off down the road at a brisk trot. We were all caught off guard, including our escort; I had to run to catch him up. "What are you up to now?" I panted. "I am making use of the element of surprise," said Emerson. He caught me round the waist and swept me along with him, back the way we had come, past the palace, and then, without pausing, up a ramp toward a stately villa high on the hill. "Tarek's house." I managed to get the words out, though Emerson's arm was squeezing my ribs. "He's certainly not there now," replied my spouse, not even winded. "But someone else is, and I think I know who. I want my guns back." I made out several forms standing on the terrace, looking down at us. As Emerson pounded onward, one of them turned and vanished within. The others were quick to follow, and indeed, the sight of Emerson charging forward, with me under one arm like a cumbersome parcel, would have been enough to strike terror into the heart of the boldest. "Barge straight ahead," shouted Emerson, doing so. "Are you with me, Daoud? Selim?" I had never been in the house Tarek had occupied while crown prince, but the plan was similar to that of other noble dwellings: beyond the terrace was a series of anterooms and then a corridor that turned first to the right and then to the left. Emerson was moving at a dead run, and I could hear Daoud's ponderous footsteps behind us. The servants fled before us; Emerson herded them, as a dog herds sheep, into a handsome reception room, pillared and painted. Some huddled at the far end, crying out in alarm; others escaped through one or another of the curtained doorways along the walls of the room. Emerson set me on my feet. "Try that one," he said, indicating one of the doorways and plunging through another. The room I entered was a bedchamber, luxuriously appointed but unoccupied except for two servants who were trying to push through the far wall. A quick glance round told me there was nothing unusual about the furnishings; garments folded carefully over the footboard of the bed resembled those Merasen had worn the day before. Emerson had been right; this was his house. I was about to investigate further when a shout of triumph made me hasten back to the reception room. Emerson entered at the same moment, dragging a man who was struggling in a vain attempt to free himself from the hands that gripped him. He wore a linen robe and woven sandals, but I recognized him immediately, despite the distortion of his features. It was Captain Moroney, the former veterinary surgeon's assistant. Of course I had suspected him all along.

TEN

"You did not know!" Emerson bellowed. "Don't tell me you knew!" "I had strong suspicions--" "Of everybody!" Emerson transferred his inimical gaze from me to Moroney and dropped him unceremoniously onto the floor. "You are a disgrace to your uniform, a vile deceiver and a murderer. What have you to say for yourself?" Moroney sat up, rubbing his shoulder. Having discovered that he was not in imminent danger of strangulation, he had regained his nerve, and his countenance was that of the pleasant young officer I had known. "But not as a veterinarian's assistant," I exclaimed. "I remember now where I saw you--at the general's luncheon party, when Walk's Budge talked of the Lost Oasis." "Aha," said Emerson. "Was that what set you on the track? You had better tell me everything. You murdered one of my men and tried to kill another. Only a full confession will save you." Moroney sprang to his feet. "Sir, you must believe me! I am guilty of greed and deceit, but not of murder. It was Newbold who pitched your man into the jaws of the crocodile, and Merasen who cut the other young fellow's throat. He was dead before I arrived on the scene, or I assure you I would have prevented it." "He lies," growled Daoud. "Innocent until proven guilty," said Emerson regretfully. "Go on, Moroney, let's hear the rest of it. Be convincing," he added, putting out a hand to hold Daoud back. Moroney made a clean breast of it. Budge's reference to the Lost Oasis at that long-ago luncheon party had been one of his ill-mannered jokes, but when Reggie Forthright told a similar story and announced his intention of going out into the desert to look for his missing uncle, it had stirred Moroney's imagination--which was, unfortunately for us, unusually well developed for that of a military person. Our subsequent disappearance into the wild and our eventual return with a mysterious young English girl were also, as he put it, suspicious. However, there was no way he could confirm his suspicions or pursue the matter. He had almost forgotten about it when, by one of those nasty coincidences Fate enjoys, the patrol he commanded had intercepted a caravan of slavers and found among the captives a young man whose appearance and manner were strikingly different from those of the cringing slaves. "Arrogant," said Moroney, summing it up. "I wasn't accustomed to such behavior from natives. He demanded I return his property. I discovered the property consisted of rings of pure gold and several unusual weapons, and then I realized, with an astonishment which I can hardly find words to convey, that Forthright's story was true; that the boy had come from the Lost Oasis, where gold was as common as dirt." "An honest man," I said, "would have reported this immediately to his superiors." "I might point out," said Moroney, with some bitterness, "that I had served my country for twenty years with nothing to show for it except the prospect of a paltry pension, and that the lure of gold has seduced wealthier men than I. But I will not make excuses. I fell; and I found young Merasen a willing collaborator. He had been sent to bring you back to the Lost Oasis, and he candidly admitted that he had little hope of getting back there himself without you. I pointed out that he had no hope of getting anywhere without my help, so we entered into an agreement. I kept the gold; the young fool hadn't realized it was of no use to him, since an attempt to exchange it for currency would have got him scragged by a dishonest dealer or reported by an honest one. I was able to keep track of him through you; as soon as I learned you were on your way to the Sudan, I knew the first part of the scheme had succeeded. I resigned my commission and went to Aswan, where I found Merasen enjoying the dubious amenities of that place. He blandly informed me he hadn't yet succeeded in getting hold of a copy of Forth's map, but that he was sure he could after he met you in Wadi Haifa. So I shoved him onto the next steamer and waited for you. I had already instructed an old acquaintance in Kareima to begin getting a caravan together; I know the area well, having been stationed there for so many years." "That is how you were able to get away two days before us," said Emerson, fingering the cleft in his chin. Moroney nodded. "I didn't believe you meant to go on to Meroe, so I was ready when the train stopped at Abu Hamed. A robe and headcloth was sufficient disguise, so long as I was careful to keep my back turned." He had enjoyed boasting of his cleverness, but a sound from without wiped the smile from his face. It took on a hunted look. "I don't know how you got past Merasen's guards, but it won't be long before he learns of your presence," he said in mounting agitation. "They don't intend to let us leave, you know. I haven't been allowed out of this house since I arrived, and I don't know what has become of my drivers. Merasen won't tell me. He lied to me. We are not the only--" "Control yourself," I said sharply. "And do not attempt to deceive us. You have left this house at least once. You lost a button outside my chamber door." I took it from my pocket and displayed it. Moroney gaped. "That isn't one of mine. I never--" "It does not belong to my husband or my son," I interrupted. "You are the only other person here whose clothing is equipped with buttons." "But--but that's what I started to tell you!" Moroney sputtered. "There is another white man here!" Our skeptical expressions provoked him into frantic exposition. "It's true, you must believe me; he and Merasen are thick as thieves, he comes and goes undeterred. Merasen sends me away when he is here, but I have managed to catch glimpses of him--tallish, stoop-shouldered, long chin and large nose, ears that stick out like a bat's wings ..." He ,ran out of breath, since the entire speech had been unpunctuated. Emerson and I turned to stare at each other. "It cannot be," I exclaimed. "It must be." Emerson slammed his fist into his palm. "The description is too accurate. Curse it, I told you there was something suspicious about MacFerguson. But how the devil did he get here from Gebel Barkal? Good Gad! This isolated oasis is beginning to resemble Victoria Station!" Moroney's premonitions had been correct. Running footsteps heralded the arrival of Merasen, accompanied by several soldiers. He was flushed with fury and haste. "Why did you come here?" he demanded. "The king has sent for you. You insult the king." "No, no," Emerson said soothingly. "There was no insult intended. We came to consult you, Merasen, before we spoke with your father, so that we would know what to say if he asked us about you." It was a fairly direct threat and Merasen recognized it as such. He bit his lip. "He will not ask. You will not tell him. I am the only one who will help you leave the Holy Mountain!" "Well, well," said Emerson. "That is still open to negotiation, eh? You were not honest with us. You did not tell us our--er-- friend was here." Merasen glowered at Moroney who was edging toward the door of his room. "He is no friend of yours. He forced me to steal from you. He killed your servant." Moroney started to protest. Emerson waved him to silence. "Your word against his, Merasen. What about the other Englishman?" Merasen's youthful countenance took on a look of innocent astonishment. "What other Englishman?" "Never mind, Emerson," I said. "He never admits to anything unless he is caught red-handed. We may as well go and see the king." "May as well," Emerson agreed. "Come along, Merasen." "You will not tell the king what I said about the guns. It is to be a surprise for him. He would not believe you." Merasen was nothing if not resilient. He smiled. "Your word against mine." "Hmph," said Emerson. "We shall see." Emerson refused to be hurried. He strolled along, deep in thought, chewing on the stem of his pipe. After a time he said to me, "Merasen non parle francais?" I understood what he meant, even though his command of that language is exiguous. When his limited vocabulary fails him, he picks a word at random, and he has never bothered to learn the gender of nouns. "I don't suppose so," I replied. "Tres bien." Having got one phrase right, Emerson smirked complacently and went on, "We have placed him over a container--" "A what? Oh." "--and play him like a cat (m.) with a mouse (m.)." "Yes, my dear, I see what you mean. But please don't speak French anymore, it makes my head ache." Our audience that morning was private. The king was alone, and obviously put out, but the only signs of anger he allowed to escape him were a hard stare and a brusque order. "Sit." "Thank you," said Emerson, helping me to a chair. "Send them away" was the next order, indicating Selim and Daoud. "Send him away," said Emerson, indicating Merasen. The boy's jaw dropped. "No. The king does not understand--" "Oh, I think we can make do without you," said Emerson. He went on in Meroitic, "Send him away, I send them away." A spark of humor lit the king's eyes. He gestured at his son. Merasen dared not disobey; he left with dragging steps, looking over his shoulder. After Selim and Daoud had left the room, Emerson settled himself comfortably onto a chair. "Good," he said. "We talk--you, I--a man to a man." The king glanced at me. I smiled pleasantly. "My son," said Emerson. "Where?" "I do not know." He spoke slowly and in a very loud voice, as people do when they are trying to communicate with someone who does not understand their language. "Do you know?" "If I did, I wouldn't tell you, you bastard," said Emerson in English. "Just ignore the question," I advised. "Hmmm, yes," said Emerson. "My daughter," he went on in Meroitic. "See, talk. Now." The discussion continued for quite some time, slowed, as the Reader no doubt realizes, by the difficulty of communication. Emerson had to resort to sign language, and on two occasions, to drawings penciled on the stone dais. Somewhat to my surprise, the king patiently persevered. From time to time, when they hit an impassable language barrier, he looked at me, and I was able to supply the essential word. There was definitely a twinkle in the royal eyes when I did that. What a pity he was a traitor and usurper! A sense of humor is an attractive trait. But, I reminded myself, it is not always a sign of a virtuous nature. It ended with our agreeing to appear at a formal ceremony in five days' time. It was longer than I had dared hope for. We ought to be able to think of a way out in five days! In exchange, I was to be taken to see and speak with Nefret. "Today," I said firmly. The king nodded. "Go to your house. One will come for you. Today," he added, and actually smiled. "He is rather a pleasant chap," I remarked, as we joined Daoud and Selim and started back to our quarters. "Pleasant villain," grunted Emerson. "I want to go with you, Peabody." "Impossible, my dear. Let us settle for what we can get. The language barrier proved quite useful, didn't it? You were unable to agree to specific demands since you couldn't understand them, and he was unable to pursue his questions about a number of matters we might have found embarrassing." "But I was unable to pursue my questions about a number of matters," Emerson said grumpily. "Does he know Merasen is harboring an outsider? Does he know about the other white man? Who is on whose side? Whom can we believe?" "One thing at a time, Emerson. The first thing is to talk with Nefret and tell her ... What?" By the time "one" came to fetch me, we had settled that question. "One" turned out to be Count Amenislo. I rejected the litter he had brought and made him walk with me instead of getting into his. "A little exercise will do you good," I informed him, setting a pace that made the count's jowls and lower back area wobble. "We aren't going far, are we?" "The shrine of Isis," Amenislo panted. "But this is not . . . proper. People . . . are looking." They were, and no wonder. I returned the stares of passersby with a wave of my parasol, while Amenislo covered his face with his sleeve in an attempt to avoid recognition. I trotted him all the way up to the courtyard of the temple, where he stopped and leaned against a column. "I wait," he gasped. "Go on. There." "You are not ritually pure?" I inquired. "Neither am I, you know." "Uh," said Amenislo. I felt rather ashamed of myself when I saw the perspiration streaming down his face. It was not worthy of me to torment such a hapless victim. I patted him on the arm. "If it doesn't bother the priests, it doesn't bother me," I said cheerfully. One of them was waiting for me in the shade of the arcade across the courtyard. Shaven head and spotless white robes proclaimed his status; bowing, he ushered me into the chamber where the goddess gleamed from her pedestal. He picked up one of the lamps that rested on shoulder-high stands and beckoned me to follow him through one of the curtained doorways. The lamp was primitive, if gracefully shaped, of some translucent stone like alabaster. It gave little light; the end of the stone-cut corridor we had entered was shrouded in darkness until we were almost upon it. Here the passage turned, first to the right, and after a short distance, right again. We were heading back in the same direction. Then came another abrupt turn, to the left, and I saw light ahead--a faint glow shining through a linen curtain. My guide swept this aside and motioned me to enter. Several lamps burned here, illumining a small chamber whose walls were covered with hangings. How many doorways behind them? I wondered. How many intersecting passages had we passed? The place was a confounded maze, deliberately designed to confuse an intruder. I could only pray that Ramses had abandoned his idea of reaching Nefret through the temple. If he attempted this route he would be caught or hopelessly lost. This room was obviously not part of the High Priestess's living quarters; it contained only a few stools and a small folding table. The priest had gone. I was alone. All to the good, I thought, squaring my shoulders. It will give me a chance to explore. Moving along the walls, I lifted one hanging after another, finding, as I had expected, other openings--black as pitch, all of them. I was about to pick up one of the lamps and pass through the nearest when one of the hangings on the far side of the room was pulled aside. Two of the handmaidens, swathed from head to foot in their white veiling, entered and took up positions on either side of the doorway. Behind them was Nefret. It is unnecessary to describe the emotion that reduced my normally measured speech to broken exclamations. I had not realized until she ran into my arms and I was able to hold her close how worried I had been. At first she was just as incoherent, clinging tightly to me and repeating the same words of affection and relief over and over. Naturally I soon conquered my momentary weakness and encouraged her