Guardian of the Horizon (27 page)

gods of the Holy Mountain." And her High Priest, Amase, would take precedence over his rival, the Priest of Aminreh. As Emerson would have been quick to point out, religion was often a guise for power. Merasen went from table to table trying to overhear everyone'sconversations. It was he who finally put an end to the proceedings; since he was of the highest rank among those present, everyone took their cue from him. Some were clearly reluctant to go, including the stalwart captain of the guard. Frustrated in his attempt to converse with Emerson, he had gone to sit with Selim and Daoud, and I did not doubt he had been regaled with a number of tall stories about Emerson. It is amazing how much one can convey with gestures and a few words. The only person who had not entered into the merriment was one of the officials, who seemed to be suffering from a severe cold. As the chill of the evening air increased, he wrapped himself more closely in his fine linen mantel, and he was the first to leave the room. "You weren't of much help," I said to Emerson, as the servants began clearing away the remains of the food and mopping up puddles of spilled wine. "You were supposed to interrogate the High Priest, not argue religion with him." "I realized early on," said Emerson loftily, "that there was no hope of corrupting the fellow or persuading him to turn against Zekare." "How clever of you to accomplish that so quickly." "Spare me the sarcasm, Peabody. Did you know Tarek had levied heavy taxes on the temples, especially that of Amon, and turned many of the priests out to earn an honest living? This chap felt his agitated prayers had been answered when Zekare took over the throne and restored Amon to even greater power." "That is all very interesting, Emerson, but I cannot see that it helps us." "Hmph," said Emerson. "What about you? No doubt you won the Priest of Isis over to our cause." "I made considerable headway, in fact. He is an innocent old soul; he told me that as soon as the goddess has returned and Nefret has selected a successor, she can be with us." "He lied," grunted Emerson. "I don't think so. Someone else has lied to him. I learned something of much greater importance. I am only surprised I didn't think of it before." Emerson was not going to give me the satisfaction of asking what it was. He turned to Selim. "Anything of interest to report, Selim?" "The captain has much admiration for you, Emerson." "Especially after the lies you and Daoud told him," said Emerson, who had apparently kept an eye on the proceedings. Selim grinned. "Not lies, Emerson, and not told. Daoud is as good a teller of stories without words as he is with them." Daoud smiled modestly. "I think," Selim went on, "that the captain would be your man if you asked him." "It would take more than asking, Selim, I would have to do something that . . . Hmmm. I say, Peabody--" "No, Emerson. I strictly forbid it." Emerson's eyes narrowed. "How did you know what I was going to say?" "I know you. You were thinking of fighting the king--and, of course, winning. This isn't the Middle Ages, Emerson, and even at that time notions of chivalry were honored in theory more than in practice. Furthermore, he is probably a better sword fighter than you." Fatigue had loosened my tongue, or I would have been more tactful. Emerson squared his mighty shoulders and glared at me. "It may come to that, Peabody, and if it does I will act as I see fit. Now come to bed, you have had more wine than is good for you." "It isn't the wine," I murmured, passing my hand over my brow. "I have felt it coming on all evening. Dizziness, fever . . ." I swayed slowly forward, giving Emerson plenty of time to catch hold of me. I felt a touch of shame when I saw his alarmed expression, but only a touch. It was his own fault for not listening to me.

Ramses didn't believe in supernatural signs. Luckily, Harsetef did. "If the goddess has spoken to you, you must obey," Harsetefagreed, after Ramses had explained what he meant to do. "It is a plan worthy of her, a clever plan." "I thought so," Ramses said modestly. "It will be dangerous. But with Her help you will succeed." Inshallah, Ramses thought. God willing. And a tip of the hat to Saint Jude, patron of hopeless causes. He would need all the divine help he could get to pull this one off. Ramses could not have explained, even to himself, why his tumbling thoughts had suddenly come into focus. Now that he had made the decision, he was able to justify it. The situation hadn't changed, but his understanding of it had. Their original plans had not taken all the facts into account. The facts of faith. If the High Priestess were to vanish without a trace from her rooms, and reappear in Tarek's camp, proclaiming her support for him, it would be a crushing blow to the usurper--and it might be enough to win without war. It might also put his parents in greater danger. He told himself he couldn't worry about that. The girls were vulnerable, the intrepid foursome was not; his parents had always been able to talk or fight their way out of most situations, and they had Daoud and Selim with them. "I may not be able to bring her away with me tonight," Ramses said. "You must scout first," Harsetef agreed with an approving nod. "I will watch for you tonight and tomorrow and the next night, and I will warn the other scouts. You can find your way back to this place?" "Yes," Ramses said with more confidence than he felt. "You will send word to Tarek? Tell him we are working for his cause and will join him soon. Tell him to do nothing until we come." Harsetef went with him part of the way and left him wedged uncomfortably but safely in a crevice twenty feet or so above the Great Road. After he had gone, Ramses took careful note of his location. He could understand why the rekkit paths came this way-- not many of the houses on the eastern side were inhabited--but it was confounded inconvenient for him, since the temple and palacearea was on the other side of the valley. He would have to risk the road or lose valuable time--and chance broken bones--trying to find a path along the cliffs. He had to wait, though; there were a good many lights showing across the way: the braziers burning before the temple, the torches carried by pedestrians, candle- and lamp-lit windows in various buildings. He passed the time by inspecting the scene through the binoculars and was intrigued to see that, to judge by the number of torchbearers and litters leaving the area, his parents had been entertaining that evening. The departing visitors were too muffled in mantles and cloaks to be recognizable, but for some not-so-obscure reason his spirits lifted. He ought to have known his mother and father wouldn't sit with folded hands waiting to hear from him. What on earth were they up to now? The lights went out one by one. The leaping flames before the temple died into a red glow. Mist curdled in the valley floor, but the sky above was clear and the stars were bright. With a final glance at the horned moon, he descended to the road. Resisting the temptation to skulk in the shadows, Ramses set out at a brisk walk, with the assurance of a man on an important errand. The few others he encountered were dressed as he was, with robes or mantles to protect them from the cooling night air. The only positive aspect was that he didn't have to pass the entrance to the palace. It was heavily guarded and brightly lit. Until that moment he hadn't dared think about what he intended to do or decided how to go about it. Concealed behind one of the pylons, he edged slowly forward until the little shrine of Isis came into view; and some internal organ (his mother would have said it was his heart) contracted when he saw a single square of light high above the temple roof. They had managed to see her, then, and pass on his request. That settled the question of how to go about it. He had never supposed he had a prayer of getting to her rooms through the temple. He had plotted a possible route the day they visited the shrine. The first part wasn't difficult. There were other, smaller shrines and a few dwellings, probably belonging to temple personnel, all on different levels, and he got onto the flat temple roof without difficulty. From there the climb was up a sheer rock face; but as he had told hisfather, the surface that looked smooth from a distance offered a number of hand- and footholds. He took off the robe and the clumsy sandals, put them in his pack, removed the rope, and paid it out between his hands. It was thin and strong and a good forty feet in length, longer than he had realized. Daoud had chosen well. He slung the newly coiled strands over one shoulder and under the other arm, knowing he might have to retreat in a hurry and clinging to the wild and improbable hope that he would find Nefret awake and alone. I must be out of my mind, he thought, gazing up at the lighted window. She won't be alone, the bloody damned handmaidens never leave the High Priestess unattended, and I'm not sure I could bring myself to knock out a bunch of defenseless girls, even supposing one of them didn't start screeching for help before I got round to her. He started to climb. The ascent wasn't much more difficult than many he had made in Egypt--except that this one was made in darkness and with the need for silence. Cautiously though he moved, he wasn't able to prevent an occasional bit of rock from snapping off and falling. The clatter of them on the temple roof sounded like a blast of dynamite to him, but there was no reaction from the guards in front of the temple. By the time he reached the level of the window he was sweating with nerves and his hands were bleeding. He grabbed hold of the flat sill, his toes wedged into a crack. One look at the window told him the defenseless maidens were safe from him. The aperture was barred by two columns, part of the rock itself, carved into the shape of papyrus stems. He had seen this from below, but hadn't realized how narrow the spaces between the columns were. A child or a very slender woman might squeeze through. Not he. He pulled himself up until he could get an arm round one of the columns. If he hadn't done so he might have lost his hold out of sheer astonishment when he saw, positioned between the pillars, bolt upright and motionless, a large brindled cat. Ramses stared. The cat stared back at him, its large eyes lambent with reflected light. Of course, Ramses thought, I ought to have expected something of the sort; my family attracts farcical situations the way sugar draws flies. This was one of the temple cats sacred to Isis, who had acquired the attributes of other goddesses, including Bastet. It wore a woven collar and an expression of polite disinterest. Or possibly, since reading a feline countenance is problematic, utter disinterest. He knew better than to take hold of it. The sacred cats were large, strong animals, equipped with sharp claws and sharper teeth. "Are you standing guard, or just curious?" he whispered. The cat's mouth opened. It was yawning, probably to indicate how completely he bored it, but for an incredulous moment he thought the answering whisper had come from its throat. "You are mad to do this! Go quickly, before someone comes." It wasn't Nefret--or the cat. "Daria?" Her face appeared in the opening next to the one the cat filled. The lamp was on a low chest under the window; the flickering flame cast moving shadows across her features so that they seemed to grimace and twist. The effect should have been grotesque, witch-like, but it wasn't. "Help me with this," he said softly. He handed her one end of the rope and swore under his breath as the cat turned and clawed at the dangling end. "Loop it around the column and pass it back to me," he ordered. "Ignore the cat." Deeply offended at the removal of its toy, the cat gave Ramses a reproachful look and jumped down from the sill into the room. It stalked off, its tail twitching. Ramses adjusted the rope. As he had hoped, it was long enough to form a double strand that reached almost to the roof. "Can you bring her to me?" he asked. "Impossible. She lies in an inner room and the women sleep all around her, like kittens in a basket." "But not you?" "They don't care what I do so long as I am out of their sight. So I was able to light the lamp. I told them I was afraid to sleep alone in the dark. They laughed. What are you doing?" "Sssh. I'm going to take you with me. You are small enough to slip through one of these openings." "Me?" she gasped. "Quiet! Do as I say, and quickly. Feet first. I'll catch you." The cat had decided to investigate a basket on the opposite side of the room. Its scratching brought another of the animals into the room; both of them attacked the basket. Ramses sent out a silent apology; the cats were good luck, after all; the sleepers were accustomed to noises in the night. Ramses guided the girl as best he could with one hand and with low-voiced instructions. She had to turn sideways to get her hips and shoulders through the opening. When she was sitting on the outer part of the ledge, with her feet dangling, she looked down and let out a soft cry. "You can't go back now," Ramses whispered. "Put your arms round my neck and hold tight. I won't let you fall." A shudder ran through her body. He had never been afraid of heights, but he could imagine the terror that gripped her and the courage it required to obey him. She had to lean forward, off balance, to get her arms over his shoulders. He caught her round the waist and lifted her off the ledge into a hard, one-armed embrace. She gripped him tightly, her nails digging into the back of his neck, and hid her face against his chest. "It's all right, I've got you," he murmured. "Hang on, we'll be down straightaway." The descent was a little faster than he would have liked, since he hadn't thought to tie knots in the rope. He hadn't really thought at all. He didn't dare think about what he was going to do next. But he was acutely conscious of the warm, pliant body pressed against his. She hadn't uttered a sound since that involuntary cry of fear. The rope slid out from between his ankles and thighs before they reached the roof and he had to lower them the remaining distance using only one hand. The rough fibers burned his palm, but he managed to land on his feet. She raised her head. "Is it over?" He answered the childish question as he would have answered a frightened child. "Yes. You were very brave. You can let go now." He set her down, pulled the rope free, and coiled it. She said softly, "Why?" She stood motionless, her arms at her sides, and his heart failed him as the enormity of what he had done finally sank in. She wore a simple white robe; her head was uncovered and her slim brown feet were bare. They would be cut and bleeding before she had gone a mile, and as for scrambling up the cliffs . . . There was no help for it, they had to go on; and there was only one place that might offer refuge long enough for him to think of a way out of the spot he had got her into. He shouldered his pack. "Come." There was no one abroad at this late hour. After they had left the lighted areas around the palace and temple behind them they moved through the shadows, as quickly as they dared. She followed without a murmur of complaint or question until they reached the doorway of the abandoned villa. He didn't blame her for holding back; there was not a ray of light to be seen within, and the dry, rustling sound might have been that of rats or bats or something worse, and the tattered curtain blew in the wind like a bodiless spirit. "It's all right," he said softly. "Take my hand." He led her, feeling his way, around the turns of the corridor until they emerged into the desolate reception room he remembered so well. Starlight entered through the high windows and the opening that led to the garden. The room had been stripped of its furnishings except for a few cushions, full of holes and leaking feathers. He looked out on to the garden. The pool was dry and the plants withered. "I'm sorry it's not very comfortable," he said. "But it should be safe, at least for the time being. Please sit down, you must be tired. It will have to be the floor, I'm afraid; I think the cushions are already occupied by mice." She sank into a sitting position. Ramses rummaged in his pack. She accepted a sip of water but shook her head when he offered a handful of dates. "I am not hungry." "You're shivering. Here, put this around you." He wrapped her in the cloak and sat down beside her. Look on the bright side, his mother would have said. There was a bright side; he knew how to find Tarek, and he had got Daria out of the place without leaving any sign of how she had disappeared. That wouldn't do any good, though, unless he could get her clean away. Even if he succeeded, she was in for a hard time. He glanced guiltily at the small huddled figure next to him. She had pulled the hood up over her head and looked like a miniature monk. "Why?" she said again. "I don't understand what you mean," Ramses said, sparring for time. He knew perfectly well what she meant. She pushed the hood back. "Why did you do it? Why me? She is the one you hoped to rescue." "I didn't suppose there was much hope of that, but I had to try. There was always a chance. You didn't suppose we would have left you there, did you? In fact," Ramses said slowly, "if I had had to make a choice, if I could have got only one of you away, it would have been you. Nefret would have been the first to realize that. She's in no more danger than she was before, but if she had disappeared into thin air, they might have . . ." "Tortured me to make me tell where she had gone?" She finished the sentence he had left incomplete. She sounded quite matter-of-fact. "Or threatened to harm you if she didn't give herself up. She would have done it too." "Yes. I understand." She shivered and drew the cloak more closely around her. "What will happen now? We cannot stay here for long without food and water." "That's right." Relieved at how coolly she was taking the situation, he gave her the bare facts: Tarek's loss of the crown, the usurper's demands for their support, and the steps they were taking to avoid that necessity. "So I must get you to Tarek," he finished. "It is a long, hard road, and we will need suitable clothing for you. I think I can manage that." "How? You are a fugitive too." He had thought of two possibilities: the woman in the rekkit village, and the arrangement he had made with his parents to leave a message in the ravine. His mother wasn't the woman he knew her to be if she couldn't figure out a way of lowering the necessary supplies down to him. He didn't relish
either prospect; but one or the other had to be tried, and the sooner he got it over, the better. He pulled himself to his feet, wincing as bruises reminded him he hadn't got away scot-free either. "Where are you going?" she asked. "To get the things we need. I'll not be long." He opened the bundle he had carried. "There's some food and water left." There were also a candle, matches, folded sheets of paper, and pencils--and a small flask of brandy. He scribbled a message on one of the papers and tucked it into his belt. The huddled shape looked as if it had shrunk. "Please. Leave the candle." So small a light couldn't be seen from without. "All right. Just be careful it doesn't fall over and set the dried leaves ablaze." "If you don't come back, I will die here." "That should give me sufficient incentive," Ramses said caustically. "I'm sorry, Daria, I didn't mean to sound ... If I don't come back, you may as well give yourself up." He left everything with her except the rope, the matches, and his knife, which he had every intention of using if anyone got in his way. He wasn't sure why he was so angry. Uncertainty, for one thing, he supposed; he was making it up as he went along, and he was tired, tired of skulking in shadows, tired of his own indecisiveness. The second of the two alternatives seemed safer, and he was anxious to communicate with his parents. They were so damned unpredictable, they might go looking for him if he didn't report. Guided by a significant lighted window, the only one in that block of apartments, he made his way to the far side of the ravine, and blessed Daoud again for thinking of the rope as he lowered himself down. The uneven floor of the narrow canyon was littered with broken pottery and rotting food; the servants must be in thehabit of pitching refuse over the wall. He was about to fumble among the trailing vines when he saw it--a pale, dangling shape like that of a hanged man. It turned out to be one of his own shirts, tucked neatly into a pair of trousers and pinned in place, with boots tied by their laces to the legs of the trousers. After he had recovered from the sight, he realized there was writing on the back of the shirt. It was too dark for him to read the words. After replacing it with his own message, he stood for a moment, looking up at the lighted window and wishing he dared take the risk of calling to them. His self-confidence was as low as it had ever been; all he could think of were the innumerable mistakes he had made over the course of a misspent life. Was this another one? Had he done the right thing, or made matters even worse? He ran into a slight snag on the way back; one of the men who guarded the entrance to the cemetery was awake, yawning and stretching. Ramses gripped his knife, but forced himself to wait, motionless in the shadow of the pylon. There was at least one other guard, his snores reverberated. A scuffle might waken him. Finally the insomniac stretched out and after a while his regular breathing told Ramses he could go on. Once inside the deserted villa he lit a match and read the message. The firm handwriting was his mother's and he smiled a little when he saw she had used pencil instead of pen. No sense in ruining a perfectly good shirt. "We have four more days. Must all escape and join Tarek. No war!" Then came an obvious afterthought: "Captain Moroney here. Says it is not his button. Suspect MacFerguson also here." Ramses remembered Moroney, but who the hell was MacFerguson? Four more days. No war. She was thinking along the same lines as he, which was all very well. But we "must all escape"? She might have been more specific. The only light in the reception hall was the pale pearly non-darkness of predawn. At first he didn't see her, and his heart skipped several beats. Then she moved away from the column that had concealed her. "The candle went out," she said in a faint voice. "It was so dark, and there were noises ... I was afraid they had caught you." Then she was in his arms, clinging to him, her breathing hard and fast. She raised her head from his shoulder, and he saw the sparkle of tears on her lashes. "Why did you take me away? Was it only for the reasons you said?" The words forced their way through the barriers he had raised in his mind. "I love you." "You don't have to invent pretty words," she whispered, as her arms went round his neck. Her fingers slid through his hair, pulling his face down to hers. "You love her, I saw it. You want me. What is wrong with that? Take me." He knew if he kissed her he wouldn't be able to stop. He held her away. "No, Daria, no. Not here, on this filthy floor, like an animal. Not now." "When? How much time do we have? An hour, a day? I love you. I have loved you since the night I came to your room and you sent me away because of kindness and pity. Don't send me away now. We may both die tomorrow." He kissed her.