Guardian of the Horizon (26 page)

to do the same. "We may not have much time," I said. "Let us not waste it. They haven't hurt you?" "No." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and gave me a tremulous smile. She wore the High Priestess's robes, but shehad thrown the veils back from her face. "The Professor--Ramses and Selim and Daoud--are they all right?" "Yes, yes, don't worry about us. Do you know why they brought us here? Tarek has been overthrown by a usurper--" "I know. They want me to bring the goddess back to her shrine." "To prop up the throne of the usurper," I said, as cynically as Emerson would have done. "It seems to be somewhat shaky. Tarek is holding his own, in the northern section of the Holy Mountain, but neither he nor his successor can overcome the other. The new king is demanding that we support him, publicly and unequivocally, and that just might turn the tide in his favor." One of the handmaidens turned her veiled face toward the doorway through which I had come. Someone outside coughed. I said quickly, "Naturally we will do no such thing, but it would be advisable for us to flee the city and make our way to Tarek. No, don't interrupt, just listen. The situation is not as desperate as it appears--" "It never is, with you," said Nefret, trying to smile. I gave her a reassuring smile in return and went on, "We have several schemes in mind. Daria is with you, I presume? How is she holding up?" "Not as well as she was at first," Nefret said slowly. "They treat her like a servant, and some of the handmaidens delight in telling her dreadful stories of torture and human sacrifice. When I order them to leave her alone they obey for the moment, but I can't be with her all the time, they are preparing me for the ceremony, and . . . Oh, Aunt Amelia, I am beginning to forget! There are gaps in my memory, longer and more frequent." My spine prickled, as I remembered the uncanny accuracy of her performance as High Priestess. I grasped her hands and held them tightly. "You must hang on," I said urgently. "It won't be for long. Ramses has a plan . . . Oh curse it, here is that confounded priest come for me." He stood in the doorway, the lamp in his hand. The handmaidens closed in on Nefret. I brandished my parasol and they backed away, squeaking in agitation. Nefret laughed aloud. "You are a breath of fresh air, Aunt Amelia--a strong northern wind, in fact. What is Ramses's plan, and how can I help?" "I presume the openings in the cliff above the temple roof lead to your rooms? Just nod. Yes. Can you leave a light burning in one of them tonight and hereafter? In a room that is, by preference, not occupied at night." "I can try." Her eyes widened as the import of the question dawned on her. "Oh, no. He can't possibly--" "It may not be necessary. I have a few ideas of my own. I had better go now, my dear, but you will hear from us soon again--tomorrow, if I can manage it. Pretend to be docile and compliant and leave the rest to me." The priest was at my side, the handmaidens at hers. She nodded and smiled, but her hands clung to mine until I gently freed them. I followed the priest out of the chamber and I did not look back. I was afraid my resolution would fail if I did.

"Harsetef!" Ramses exclaimed. "It is you?" Harsetef reverently tucked the meerschaum pipe into his pouch and touched his fingers to Ramses's lips. "Softly. Lie flat on the ground." "They are coming," Ramses whispered. "They will find this place." "No. Look." High on the cliffside to the south, a small figure had appeared. It stood upright, waving its arms and shouting--insults and challenges, Ramses deduced, for the pursuers turned to look in that direction. One of the soldiers nocked an arrow and loosed it. His quarry ducked, with insulting ease. A few seconds later a boulder rumbled down the cliffside, carrying a number of smaller stones, a rain of pebbles, and one soldier with it. The small figure screamed defiance and vanished into a cleft in the rock. "So that is how you fight them," Ramses murmured, watching the decimated troop trying to find a way up the shattered cliff. "One way." Flat on his belly, his chin resting on his folded arms, Harsetef added, "They will have to give up soon, the god's bark sails to the west. Then we will go on, you and I." "You are still loyal to Tarek, then." Harsetef turned his head and stared in surprise. "I belong to the Father of Curses, I am his man. The last words he said to me I have never forgotten. 'Serve King Tarek as faithfully as you would serve me.' He has returned, as we knew he would when he heard our prayers." So now Father is a demigod, Ramses thought. The role would daunt most men, but Emerson would undoubtedly take it in stride. No wonder the usurper wanted his support. Their pursuers were retreating, slowly and with difficulty, taking with them the body of their fallen comrade. Harsetef seemed to be in no hurry. Presumably he was waiting for darkness. Ramses tried not to think about the hair-raising climb ahead of him. "Tell me about Tarek," he said. "How did he lose his throne?" "It is quickly told," Harsetef replied. "When you left the Holy Mountain, there were still a few who resisted the king. He was merciful. He offered forgiveness to those who would lay down their weapons and swear loyalty." "Perhaps he was too forgiving." "No." Harsetef shook his black head. "His brother was dead, there was no other king to fight for. The old High Priest of Aminreh died too--not by violence, for one does not raise one's hand against the chosen of the god, but after a year of imprisonment. He was an old man." "And the white man--the redheaded Englishman who also supported Tarek's brother?" "He was most certainly a follower of Set," Harsetef explained seriously. "The color of his hair was a sign of that evil god, and did he not fight against his sister, the Priestess of the divine Isis?" Such, as Ramses's father might have said, are the uses of religion. The ancient myth telling of the murder of the good god Osiris by his envious brother Set had been neatly twisted to fit a specific political need. Isis, sister of both Set and Osiris, had also been the latter's wife, who had brought him back to life long enough to impregnate her with a son. Nefret had been Reggie's cousin, not his sister, but that was a minor point. Ramses thought he detected the fine Meroitic hand of old Murtek, the High Priest of Osiris, one of the cleverest politicians he had ever met. "So the man of Set--er--died?" he asked. "Struck down by the hand of Osiris." Murtek's hand, rather. Ramses wondered how he had carried out the execution. Murtek was dead too, of natural causes. The canny old man had kept the various power cliques in balance, playing off the priests of Amon against those of Osiris, and controlling Tarek's overly ambitious plans for reform. After he died, the trouble began. His successor was an elderly weakling who could not resist the ambitions of the priesthood of Amon. Tarek had made the fatal mistake of levying a toll on the wealthiest citizens, and on the temples, in order to carry out his reforms. It was depressingly familiar. There was no standing army; like medieval knights, each nobleman had his own guard, and when open warfare broke out, these men followed their lord. The temple guardsmen rallied to the priests. The only soldiers who had remained loyal to Tarek were members of his own guard and a few others. Rather than see them slaughtered in a useless struggle, Tarek had retreated with them to the northern area. Since then, others had joined them, but their numbers were still small. "So are those of the usurper," Harsetef said with a tight-lipped smile. "He has lost many men trying to force the pass. We hold the heights and defend them." He rose. "On your way, young one," he said to Khat. Ramses thanked the boy again and told him to be careful. After he had gone, Harsetef said hesitantly, "There is a thing that troubles me. I did not want to speak before the boy." "What is it?" Ramses shouldered his pack. "We were told," said Harsetef, "that the Father of Curses showed himself with the usurper at the Window of Appearance. That you and the Sitt Hakim were with him. That you spoke to the people, telling them to obey the usurper." "It is true," Ramses said. Harsetef sucked in his breath, and Ramses went on, "We told the people to go home. They would have been slaughtered, men, women, and children alike. Surely you do not think we would betray Tarek? We are waiting and planning for the right time to act." "I knew it was so," Harsetef said with a sigh of relief. Politics be damned, Ramses thought. These people believe, in their gods and in us. We knew that, of course; we knew it intellectually, but we are too trapped in our rationality to comprehend fully how powerful that belief can be. Faith can move mountains? Maybe not mountains, but it has toppled kings and transformed societies. Matters were more serious than he had realized, and his disappearance might have made them even worse. Zekare might try to push the ceremony forward, demanding public acknowledgment of his legitimacy. Emerson would never give it. It would be just like him to burst into a speech of fiery denunciation, which would inspire a bloody war and, very likely, get him and his wife killed. It would be a small war, only a few hundred men on either side; the population of the Holy Mountain had never been great, and if Ramses was any judge, it was slowly but inexorably decreasing. But people died in war, and one futile death was one too many. Could they get his parents--and Daoud and Selim--out of the city right away? It would be hellishly difficult, if not impossible, and then what? The mental image of his mother trying to scramble over these cliffs in the dark was pure nightmare. Oh, she'd try it, all right. She would try anything. Or die in the attempt, which was the most likely scenario. Then there was Nefret. They couldn't leave her behind. If the rest of them escaped she would be guarded even more closely, and her value to the usurper was as at least as great as theirs--even greater, if the priests were able to control her by means of drugs or threats. Threats to Daria, perhaps? Nefret would neverlet fear for herself guide her actions, but she'd buckle if an innocent person were at risk. And why in God's name was he thinking about Daria? She was only a pawn in the game. Nefret was the White Queen. But a pawn can become a queen if it moves all the way across the board . . . Ramses's brain felt as if it were infested with mice, running frantically back and forth, trying to find a way out of the cage of his thoughts. He looked up. A sickle moon swung low above the cliffs, silvery pure and curved like the horns of the goddess's crown--Isis, divine wife and mother. He turned to Harsetef. "I'm going back."

Emerson was waiting for me at the foot of the ramp when I left the shrine. "Well?" he demanded. I told him what had transpired. His brow furrowed. "I don't like the sound of it, Peabody. Do you think they are using drugs?" "I fear it may be so, Emerson. She seemed brighter and more confident when I left her, but a reassessment of the situation is definitely called for. Where are Daoud and Selim?" "Taking photographs of the temple pylons. And," Emerson added, "keeping their eyes open." "For an Englishman with very large ears?" We started back toward the Great Temple, accompanied by our escort. It was larger than before. Stamping along with his hands in his pockets, Emerson said irritably, "For anyone who isn't a native of the Holy Mountain. I expect the cursed missionaries and the German tourists will turn up at any moment. Everybody else is here. How many buttons do you suppose they possess among them? That famous clue isn't worth twopence." I let him grumble on; his premise was absurd, but complaint relieved his feelings. In fact, I had had second thoughts about the button--not the object itself but the circumstances surrounding its loss. They did not fit the theory of attempted abduction. One man, not several, had stood outside my door and remained there long after Emerson's deep respirations had betrayed his presence beside me-- long after his actual presence must have been seen by the burning eyes of the watcher. The deep sighs, the silent contemplation brought to mind . . . But I feel certain my intelligent Readers have anticipated me. I had not determined what steps to take, but there was no doubt in my mind that it would be a serious error to mention the idea to Emerson. Selim was surrounded by a staring crowd. He always enjoys being the center of attention, and he made the most of it, taking exposure after exposure with the camera and barking orders at Daoud, who was assisting. Among the audience were several shaven-headed priests, half a dozen soldiers, and a miscellaneous collection of ordinary citizens, including a few children and a lady in a litter, whose black-wigged head protruded through the curtains. "They told me to stop," Selim said, indicating the priests. "I did as you said, Sitt Hakim, and paid no attention. Did you see her?" "Yes, and spoke with her. I will tell you about it later. Have you finished here?" "One more," said Selim. With his most charming smile, he pointed the camera at the lady in the litter. "I explained to them what it was for," Selim went on as the lady simpered and raised a ringed hand to adjust her wig. "How?" I demanded, amused and bemused. "With signs and pictures drawn in the dust. I have learned a few words . . ." He proceeded to use one of them, calling out, "Beautiful!" and smiling even more broadly at his subject. "Astonishing, isn't it, how people respond to a camera?" Emerson remarked. The lady bared her teeth and tilted her head, her eyes fixed on Selim. Several spectators tried to crowd closer. "They are hypnotized by the confounded thing. No one is even looking at us. I wonder what other words Selim has learned?" "Never mind," I said severely. "Come along now, we have a great many things to discuss." "And to do," said Emerson. "What do you say we give a little soiree this evening, Peabody?" "It is rather short notice, Emerson. Whom do you plan to invite?" "Everybody, Peabody. The high priests, the captain of the guard, Merasen and his--er--guest, and His Majesty. He won't come, but it would be rude not to include him in the invitation. We will also invite the High Priestess of Isis and her attendants." "She won't be allowed, Emerson." "It can't do any harm to ask, Peabody. From now on we will proceed as if we had every right to do anything we choose. We have come to a friendly agreement with Zekare, haven't we? We are allies, aren't we?" It took a while to convey our wishes to the servants, but once they got the idea they scattered to make the necessary preparations and to send messages to our intended guests. While I was giving my orders, Emerson wandered out into the garden. He returned to report that there was no message attached to the vine we had lowered from the wall and no sign that anyone had been near it. "It is too soon to hear from him, I suppose," I said, attempting to conceal my disappointment. "But I do wish we could find a more reliable way of communicating with him. The situation is changing, almost hour by hour. We must . . . What is this?" One of the women servants had entered carrying a large tray. Daoud politely took it from her and put it down on the floor. "She asked if we wanted food"--he rubbed his stomach and pointed to his mouth--"and I said yes. It has been many hours since the morning meal, Sitt Hakim." "Of course. It was a good thought, Daoud." The young woman lingered, watching Daoud as he seated himself cross-legged before the tray. She was the same one who had followed us the day before, and I began to suspect it had not been Selim's charming smiles that had interested her. Attraction of that sort is absolutely unaccountable! Daoud was a fine figure of a man, but he was completely impervious to sidelong glances and fluttering lashes. After the woman had reluctantly withdrawn, I told Selim and Daoud about Nefret. "Then she is well," Daoud said between bites. "It is good." "Not good," Selim growled. "She is afraid and alone. Sitt Hakim, we must get her away from there." "I agree," I said. "And we have no time to lose. In less than five days' time we must commit ourselves publicly to the usurper or denounce him publicly. Nefret is in an even more invidious position. I see only one way out of this. We must, all of us, escape and join Tarek." "Oh, quite," said Emerson, with excessive sarcasm. "As simple as that." "It won't be at all simple, but it must be accomplished. The trouble with you, Emerson, is that you are spoiling for a fight. That is the last thing we want. Many innocent lives would be lost, including, perhaps, our own. If we come out in support of Tarek, it might be enough to tip the scales in his favor." Emerson flung down the chunk of meat on which he had been gnawing, a la Henry the Eighth, and fixed me with a fishy stare. "I suppose you have a plan?" "Several. The greatest difficulty, as I see it, is getting Nefret-- and of course Daria--away. Once that is accomplished, we six can make a break for it." "Make a break," Emerson repeated slowly. "Overpower the guards, bind and gag them, and head straight along the Great Road to the northern pass. Audacity, speed, and those weapons Daoud so wisely retained should carry us through." Emerson's eyes bulged. He let out a strange gurgling sound. His face turned red. His shoulders began to shake. I was about to administer a restorative slap when I realized he was not having a fit of spleen. He was laughing. "I see nothing to laugh at," I said indignantly. "No, you wouldn't." Emerson wiped tears of mirth away with the back of his hand. Selim's eyes were bulging too, but not, I thought, with amusement. "Oh, Sitt," he began. "It is a good plan," said Daoud. "A very good plan," Emerson agreed. "Don't ask questions, Selim, they will only inspire her to wilder flights of fancy. She is at her best with a broad canvas. We will fill in the details as we go along." We would have to do that, since it was impossible to anticipate every contingency that might arise. The fact is that I had not thought the matter through. (I had no intention of admitting this to Emerson, who had not thought it through either.) What was, after all, our primary aim (aside from saving our own skins)? To overthrow the usurper and place Tarek back on his throne. Ramses had spoken glibly of starting and winning a revolution, but the memory of the trusting faces of the villagers had been haunting me. They would take up arms for us and for Tarek; and they would be slaughtered. There had to be a better way. My most serious error had been my failure to anticipate the deadly peril that threatened Nefret. It was not peril of death, but of something worse--the annihilation of her personality and her will. Watching her flawlessly perform the Invocation to Isis should have prepared me, but not until I saw her haunted eyes and heard her faltering speech did I realize the seriousness of the matter. For once Ramses had had a clearer vision than I. He had argued vehemently in favor of his plan of trying to reach Nefret's apartments by scaling the cliff or finding a way through the temple, and had only yielded to my counterarguments after I agreed to ask Nefret to put a lamp in an appropriate window. He had promised he would not take that route unless he found a safe way of doing it, but I knew perfectly well that once he was out of my sight he would do precisely as he liked--and I had begun to wonder whether he hadn't had the right idea after all. Nefret had to be rescued before we made our attempt at escape--before the strong will of the girl I knew was completely overshadowed. The preparations for our soiree were soon completed, and after we had freshened up, we sat down and waited to see who would come. There had been no answers to our invitations; I had been unable to explain the concept of "RSVP" to the messengers. I had deemed it advisable for us to adopt the local dress, and the result, I must say, was very fine. Naturally I wore a linen shift under my delicately pleated garment. At my request the servants had produced additional jewelry: beaded collars, gold bracelets, and in my case heavy earrings. Emerson looked splendid, if somewhat self-conscious, and Selim swanked about like a peacock, flexing his muscles. Daoud had declined to appear in a kilt and collar, but he had assumed an elegant silken robe and imposing turban. "We must have photographs," Selim declared. "You can try, if you like," said Emerson, who obviously had no intention of allowing himself to be photographed. "But the light is fading, and we have no flash powder." I suggested we wait until morning. Selim readily agreed, since what he really wanted was a photograph of himself to show to his wives. The soft blue-gray light of evening had stolen into the room before the first guests arrived. Perhaps they felt there was safety in numbers, because there were half a dozen of them, all priests. Among them, I was pleased to note, were the High Priests of Isis and Aminreh. On their heels, almost literally, was Merasen. He greeted me in English. I replied in Meroitic. "Where is your guest? And the other stranger?" My hope of catching him off guard failed. "Ask my father the king," he replied, smirking. I was beginning to hate that boyish smile. "Is he joining us?" "He is busy pleasing his women." The arrival of additional guests saved me from the necessity of replying. They included Alarez, the captain of the guard, Count Amenislo, and several officials. Emerson advanced to meet them, an affable smile wreathing his features. "Come, sit," he invited, taking the count by the arm. We had worked out the seating arrangements with some care. The small tables had room for only two or three persons each. Amase, the High Priest of Isis, was my quarry; I cut him out neatly from among the hovering priests and led him to a table. Emersonhad Bakamani, the High Priest of Aminreh, with Amenislo to translate for him. The rest of them sorted themselves out, leaving Selim and Daoud alone at a separate table. Conversation was a trifle stilted--virtually nonexistent, in fact--until the wine began to take effect. It was a pity we could not take photographs, for the scene was like the images of ancient Egypt produced by romantic painters: the flowing robes and curled wigs, the glitter of gold and glow of gemstones. The flames of the lamps swayed in a gentle breeze, bringing out the curve of a strong nose here and the sparkle of dark eyes there. The Priest of Isis reminded me of my old friend Murtek, who had held the same position; he was a wizened, shriveled little person, but without Murtek's force of personality. It took me quite a while to get him to talk freely. "The High Priestess did not come," I said. "I understand. Why not the handmaidens? They came to us when we were here before this time." "They come to the sick, lady." "Hmmm," I said. My attempts to induce further subjects of interest were interrupted by rising voices from the table where Emerson sat with the High Priest of Aminreh. How my spouse had managed to get into an argument about religion with his limited vocabulary I could not imagine; it seemed unlikely that the timid count would have translated his more provocative statements. He had managed it, though. "Your god, their god"--he indicated Selim and Daoud and then pointed at me--"her god, many gods, all lies. No gods. Only men. Men use the gods." He had found an adversary who was as fanatical as he and who had taken quite a bit to drink. Bakamani rose to his feet, swaying a little, but impressive, for he was a tall man with a face like a rectangular stone stela, with a long chin and jaw. "All gods are false save Aminreh. He is all gods in one, he is Re, he is Khepri the beetle who gave birth to himself, he is the one who judges the dead and places the crown on the head of the king." "What did he say?" Emerson asked, poking Amenislo. The count started nervously and translated the speech. "Ha!" said Emerson happily. He turned to me. "Peabody, did you catch the allusions? Bits and pieces of various hymns? I did this chap an injustice; he is not solely motivated by a desire for power, he actually believes this nonsense." The High Priest poked Amenislo. "What did he say?" he barked. There is no stopping Emerson when he receives encouragement of that sort, so I left them to it. As the evening wore on, everyone became quite animated; Emerson and the High Priest kept demanding translations from an increasingly flurried Count Amenislo, and as their voices got louder, the old Priest of Isis stopped looking nervously over his shoulder and became more forthcoming. He too was a believer; there were genuine tears in his eyes when he spoke of restoring the goddess to her shrine. "We too will be happy to have the goddess come back," I said politely. "Do you know her, in your country?" "Some of us in our country honor the divine mother and her son." "Is it so? She is kind and good," the old man murmured with a pointed glance at the debaters. "Not like other gods." "It is true," I exclaimed, realizing I was in danger of getting into a theological debate of my own. "Can the High Priestess bring her back? She has been long away." I gestured to one of the servants to refill the old gentleman's cup. We were now allies, if not coreligionists, and he saw no reason to guard his tongue. "The High Priestess remembers. More and more, day by day, she remembers. Every day we talk, she and I, alone together. And when the divine Isis returns, she will take her rightful place as queen of the