Guardian of the Horizon (31 page)

strangely uneasy. "In our world women do not marry unless they choose to. She has not chosen to." Tarek's eyes fell. "She is as beautiful as ever, I am told," he said, as if to himself. "Many men must have wanted her. Perhaps she has set her heart on one she cannot have." Ramses had no intention of going down that road. "She hasn't opened her heart to me," he said curtly. "Tell me of yourself, Tarek. Your wife--uh--wives. Your sons." "I have no son. No true son. My queen--Mentarit--died giving birth to the last, stillborn like the others." Ramses expressed sympathy, though the news did not surprise him. For generations the rulers of the Holy City, like the Egyptian pharaohs, had married sisters and half sisters. What the royal house needed was an infusion of new blood. Tarek gave Ramses a quick, businesslike summary of his resources and their disposition, with occasional contributions from his staff. "Our plan is to come through the pass on the night of the ceremony, when all the people will be gathered together. The rekkit will rise and so will many others. They will attack from the rear and we will crush the usurper's troops like grain between two stones." "It might succeed," Ramses said slowly. "But at the cost of how many lives?" The hard-faced spymaster cleared his throat. "Men die in a war. Has the Brother of Demons a better plan?" "No, but the Father of Curses will," Ramses said. "Let me go back to him and the Sitt Hakim with what I have learned from you. You must delay the attack until after the ceremony. They have thought of a plan." Not just one--but he didn't want even to consider some of his mother's more imaginative ideas, much less explain them to his skeptical audience. The invocation of the dread Father of Curses kept them silent, but Ramses could see they were not convinced. After a long pause, Tarek nodded and reached for a piece of paper. "We will wait until tomorrow to learn the word of the Father of Curses. I will write the names of those who are loyal to me in the city and where to find them. Memorize them and destroy the paper." Ramses stared. It was paper, ordinary writing paper--and Tarek held a pencil--an ordinary pencil. "Where did you get this?" he demanded. "He brought it. He brought many useful things, medicines for fever and wounds, seeds of new kinds of grain, books and writing tools, swords harder than iron--" "Who?" Tarek's eyes widened in surprise. "Who else could it be? Your friend."

TWELVE

As soon as Zekare and his entourage left, Emerson charged out into the garden. He returned empty-handed. His failure to find a message from Ramses did not improve his temper, which was already explosive. He had been deeply distressed by our parting with Nefret. I too had found it difficult to let her go; she was acting very strangely, and the last look she gave me was one of pitiful appeal. What had they done to reduce a girl of her spirit to such a state? "I will take a little stroll in the garden with you," I offered. "It must be lovely in the moonlight." "Lovely, bah," said Emerson, sitting down with a thump. "The only thing about the garden that interests me is that which was not there. What's this?" It was, self-evidently, a tray of food. Daoud's admirer had taken to producing one every hour or so. This one included fruit, bread, and a platter of some variety of small bird, plump and nicely browned. They looked quite tasty, but I can never bring myself to eat little birds. Emerson also declined. Instead he fetched the bottle of whiskey. "We will have to start rationing ourselves," I said, for the bottle was half empty. "Perhaps our 'friend' will be able to supply us with whiskey as well as coffee," said Emerson. "He seems to like his little comforts." "It may have been Captain Moroney who brought the coffee,though I would not have supposed him to be such a sybarite. Never mind that now, Emerson, we must compose a message for Ramses. It is a pity we were unable to arrange a safer and more convenient method of communication. Bring the lamp, will you, please?" I took out paper and pencil and wrote a lucid summary of recent events. "We need to tell him more than that, though," I said, frowning. "Confound it, this really is inconvenient, there is so much to discuss and so much we need to know. Hand me another sheet of paper, if you please." "Don't tell me you are going to make one of your infernal little lists," Emerson said. Daoud wiped his fingers daintily on a piece of cloth and sat down next to me. He was a great believer in my little lists. "Not one of the usual sort," I replied with a forgiving smile at my spouse. "A plan of our campaign, rather. Let us first set down the difficulties we face, and suggestions for dealing with them." "Hmph," said Emerson. "It will be a lengthy list, my dear." "Not really," I said, writing busily, "the primary difficulty is of course Nefret. I don't like the way she is behaving. We must get her away from there, but the two most direct ways of reaching her, through the tunnels behind the temple or straight up the cliff to her window are, in my opinion, virtually impossible." "I would eliminate the word virtually," Emerson muttered. "In theory nothing is impossible," I explained. "But in this case, I am inclined to agree and I will inform Ramses of our opinion. Whether it will stop him from doing something foolhardy I do not know, but one can only hope for the best. I doubt the handmaidens will be of use. Even if I could corrupt one, there are too many of them." "Why don't you leave off telling us what we cannot do?" Emerson grumbled. "Say something positive!" "I put forth the alternatives in the hope that one of you might point out a possibility I had overlooked," I said patiently. "Since you cannot, I will proceed. Supposing I could persuade the king to bring her here again to interpret for him. Is there a chance we could substitute someone else for her?" "Who, Daoud?" Emerson demanded. He was losing his temper again. Selim chuckled and Daoud looked puzzled. "I do not think so, Sitt Hakim," he said, scratching his beard. "I was thinking of myself." "Oh, for God's sake, Peabody, control your rampageous imagination," Emerson shouted. "Aside from the fact that they wouldn't leave you two alone long enough to make the change of clothing, that would be trading one hostage for another. Is that the best you can do? And don't write it down! Ramses will think you have lost your mind." "We can fight the guards and kill them all or tie them up and run away with Nur Misur," Daoud suggested. "I thought of that too," I said. "There are four of us, all formidable fighters. But the odds would be heavily against us. In my opinion it should be our last, desperate recourse." Emerson rolled his eyes heavenward but refrained from comment, and I went on. "Our best opportunity will come on the night of the ceremony. Nefret will then be in the sanctuary of the temple and I expect we will be among those invited to see her bring the goddess back to her shrine. Can't we think of some way of disrupting the performance, so that people are running around and perhaps falling down a great deal? In the confusion we could cut Nefret out of the crowd, disguise her by--er--in some way, and make our break for it." "I could shoot the pistol," Daoud offered. Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin. "It might work," he said thoughtfully, "if we were all armed. I wonder where Merasen stowed the weapons he took from us? Curse it, I ought to have searched his house when I had the chance." "I didn't think of it either," I admitted. "Perhaps we should pay him another visit. One small problem with that scheme, however, is the order of the ceremony. If we are expected to make our public statement before Nefret summons the goddess, a great deal of damage will already have been done." "Perhaps we can persuade his infernal majesty to change the order of the performance," Emerson said. "Or--here's an idea--weuse the weapons when we stand beside the king at the Window of Appearance." "Shoot him, you mean? We can't do that, Emerson, not in cold blood." "I suppose not," Emerson admitted. "A pity. It would be a superb stroke. I denounce the bastard in ringing tones, and he drops dead at my feet, struck down by the god." "Control your rampageous imagination, my dear," I said with a sympathetic smile. "If we can't come up with anything better, we will have to act during the ceremony, though not by means of assassination. That is not worthy of us. There. I have put down several of our schemes, and we can only hope to receive a response." I gave Emerson the message. When he returned from the garden I inquired, "What time is it?" "I have no idea," said Emerson. "What does that have to do with anything?" "I am about to have another attack," I said, glancing at Daoud's lady friend, who was watching him shyly from behind a pillar. "A more severe attack." Dropping the pencil, I toppled over and began twitching. "The handmaidens?" Emerson inquired. "Demonstrate a trifle more agitation, Emerson, if you please." I let out a resounding shriek. "The handmaidens, the king, Merasen--I want the whole city to know, tonight, that I have been poisoned or possibly seized by divine frenzy." "Very well," said Emerson. "Here, Peabody, don't overdo it, you will dislocate something if you throw yourself around in that melodramatic fashion. Daoud, pretend to hold her down, eh?" The king did not make an appearance, but a good many other people did. Inspired by my growing audience, I screamed and spoke in tongues (French, German, and Latin) and put on a show of struggling against the big, gentle hands of Daoud. One of the handmaidens attempted to force a dose of medicine between my lips; I recognized it by the smell as some kind of opium derivative and knocked it out of her hand. It was rather fatiguing, and I was about to go into a restful coma when Merasen turned up. "What is wrong with her?" he demanded with a conspicuous absence of concern. "Poisoned," Emerson shouted. "Are you the one responsible, you young villain?" "Why would I do that?" Merasen demanded, backing away from Emerson. I resumed thrashing about and babbling while they discussed this admittedly reasonable question. Finally Emerson got out the whiskey, and I allowed him to administer a dose as my spasms began to subside. "I trust only our own medicine," Emerson said with a generalized glare round the room. "Get out, all of you. All of you, I said." As the handmaidens retreated, I bethought me of Nefret. Raising my head, I cried in Meroitic, "The goddess was with me! Divine Isis has blessed me!" I rolled my eyes back into my head and went limp. Emerson picked me up and carried me into our sleeping chamber. "What was the point of that?" he inquired sotto voce. "I didn't want Nefret worrying about me," I muttered. "I meant the whole bloody performance," said Emerson, dumping me somewhat unceremoniously onto the bed. "I am supposed to be unconscious, Emerson, I cannot continue conversing with you." "You are simply trying to avoid answering my question. No one can see or hear us." "What about another small sip of whiskey, Emerson?" Emerson was back sooner than I expected. He caught me investigating the contents of my medical bag. "I am going to put these bottles and vials on the chest by the bed," I explained, suiting the action to the words. "In order to add verisimilitude to the claim that I rely on my own medications." "How soon do you expect to be fully recovered?" Emerson asked, handing me a cup. "I haven't quite decided. But this episode sets a useful precedent, don't you agree? I can always fall down in a fit during the ceremony." "Oh," said Emerson, accepting--as I had hoped he would--this excuse for my performance. I put my cup on the chest. "I am a little tired from all that thrashing about. Would you help me off with my clothes, my dear, and hand me the night robe that is on the stool?" It wasn't on the stool. While Emerson was searching for it, I put a few drops of veronal into his whiskey. I hated to do it, but if events transpired as I hoped I did not want to risk his interfering. The dear fellow dropped off almost at once. Affectionately I contemplated his supine form. It wouldn't do him any harm to have a good night's sleep. I had no difficulty remaining awake, though it had been a busy day. I might be mistaken (though that was unlikely); my pretense of illness might not have deceived the individual for whom it was primarily intended. I didn't expect he would turn up before midnight, supposing he came at all, but I took up my position immediately, for I leave very little to chance, and he was, to say the least, unpredictable. I had been waiting for some time before I heard the sound of soft footsteps. They would have been inaudible to a sleeper, or even to one who reclined on the bed, a few feet away. He must be barefoot--as was I. I took a firmer grip on my parasol and moved closer to the doorway. I had left a single lamp burning. In its feeble light I saw a hand pull the curtain aside. It was at this point that I made a slight tactical error. In my excitement at having been proved right I forgot the little speech I had prepared and caught hold of the hand. This provoked him into immediate flight. I went in pursuit, naturally. He was wearing local garb, a long pale robe that flapped wildly as he ran--not toward the main entrance, but toward the doorway that led to the rock-cut chambers behind our rooms. It was at this point that I made my second error. Fearing he would elude me, for he was running quite rapidly, I hooked him round the leg with the handle of my parasol. He fell with a thud and a cry. Having overbalanced, I also fell, flat on my stomach. I had underestimated either the dosage of the veronal or the strength of my dear Emerson's attachment to me. A series of incoherent oaths announced his arousal and his discovery of the fact that I was no longer in the sleeping chamber. It was at this point that Emerson made his own tactical error. Plunging wildly at the doorway, he got himself tangled up in the curtains. While he was attempting to extricate himself I seized the opportunity to speak to my quarry. He had rolled over onto his back, but his attempts to rise were feeble. "Hush!" I hissed. "Remain silent and motionless." "My leg is broken," muttered a voice--in English. "No, it isn't." I stood up and nudged the member in question with my foot. A faint shriek was intended to suggest that my diagnosis might have been incorrect. It failed to convince me. By that time Selim and Daoud had rushed in, and Emerson had unwound himself. All three converged on the tableau, which was dramatically lighted by moonbeams streaming through the high windows--myself, alert and erect, parasol raised, and the recumbent form at my feet, sprawled (rather gracefully) amid the spreading folds of his robe. My captive had wisely decided to accept defeat. "What the devil!" exclaimed Emerson. "Who . . . By Gad, it's that bastard MacFerguson!" "The ears are certainly distinctive," I agreed. "What's wrong with him?" "He appears to have fainted," I said. As always, I was strictly accurate. "Appears" was the key word. "I beg you will leave this to me, Emerson," I went on. "Go away. You and Daoud too, Selim." "But--" said Emerson. "You may tie his feet if you like," I conceded. "But kindly leave the interrogation to me. He is, in my opinion, more likely to respond to kindness than to intimidation." "You and your opinions be--er--" said Emerson. "Oh, very well, Peabody, arguing with you is a waste of time. I will give you ten minutes of kindness before I begin intimidating." Daoud tied the fellow's feet while I put a cushion under his head. At my request Emerson fetched the whiskey before retreating into our sleeping chamber. I then lit one of the oil lamps and bentover the recumbent man. His eyes were open. I held the lamp closer and peered into them. "An excellent disguise," I said. "Especially the ears. But you were not the man we met at Gebel Barkal, were you? His eyes were dark brown and he was several inches shorter." "It is a classic technique," said Sethos. His breath came hard, but it would have taken more than discomfort to prevent Sethos from boasting. "You had determined I was not MacFerguson, so the next time MacFerguson turned up you would take him at face value." "Not I." "No, not you. That was a filthy trick, Amelia, luring me out of hiding because of my tender concern for you. Are you going to expose me to Emerson?" "Not if I can help it. He would be bent on killing you, which would be a distraction." "And not at all useful," Sethos muttered. "We are on the same side, Amelia. I am as anxious as you to restore Tarek to the throne." "Such altruism is unlike you," I said skeptically. "Altruism be damned. Tarek and I got on famously. We had quite a nice little arrangement, which worked to our mutual satisfaction. This new fellow is trying to cheat me." His indignation was so genuine it brought a smile to my lips. "So you are willing to restore the rightful king in order to promote your business affairs? I am prepared to believe that. How long have you been dealing with Tarek?" "It would take too long to explain. If you don't want Emerson to discover my identity, you had better let me go." He felt gingerly of his left ear. "It's coming loose." "First we must come to an agreement." "What do