Guardian of the Horizon (32 page)

you want from me?" "Nefret. Away from the shrine and safe with Tarek." "Hmmm." Sethos went on fiddling with his ear. "I presume it was Ramses who carried Daria off? He must have climbed the cliff, there's no other way. Just like him to try such a fool stunt." "You wouldn't?" "Good God, no. I have no head for heights. Anyhow, Nefret is more closely guarded. What did he do with . . . the girl?" "He said he intended to take her to Tarek. Why do you ask?" "Idle curiosity. Very well, supposing I can remove Nefret, which will be no small feat even for me--" "Oh, I feel certain your ingenuity will provide a way." "I haven't entirely wasted my time," said Sethos--the implication being that I had! "Then what?" "Then Emerson and I appear at the ceremony, denounce the usurper and take him prisoner, and Tarek marches triumphantly into a city won over to his cause by our eloquence and Emerson's prestige." Sethos emitted a series of sputtering noises. "The plan is subject to revision as circumstances demand," I added. "I should think so indeed," Sethos said in broken tones. Emerson's head appeared between the curtains. "Time's up, Amelia." "A few more minutes, Emerson, if you please. He is cracking." Emerson growled and withdrew. "How did you get in here?" I asked. "You haven't found the entrance to the underground passages? I thought surely your ingenious son--" "Don't do that," I said irritably but softly. "We have no time to waste. Just answer my questions. Er--Ramses did find the entrance, but was unable to open it." "Not surprising, since it was bolted from the other side." I thought of several bad names to call him, but stuck doggedly to the point. "How many of the tombs have you looted?" "One or two." "One or two hundred, you mean. So you know your way through the tunnels?" "Fairly well," Sethos said cautiously. "What did you have in mind?" Emerson thrust the curtains aside. "My patience is at an end," he announced. "Has the bastard confessed?" "The--er--gentleman has agreed to help us," I corrected. "Heis going to show me the entrance to the subterranean regions and assist us in delivering Nefret. Mr. MacFerguson, one of the tunnels leads to the rooms of the High Priestess. No doubt you are familiar with that route?" Sethos grunted. I took it for agreement. "I will ask to see Nefret again tomorrow," I went on. "And tell her that if she can elude her attendants long enough to enter the tunnel, you will be waiting for her." "Yes, ma'am," said Sethos meekly. "And then what shall I do with her?" "Bring her here." "What?" The word was a duet between Sethos and Emerson. "Not here, into this room," I said impatiently. "Just lead her to the part of the passageway that adjoins our rooms--first explaining to her, of course, where you are going and why. I will then take charge. Don't argue, Mr. MacFerguson. You know what will happen if you don't obey me." "What?" Emerson inquired. Since I couldn't think of an answer, I ignored the question. "Untie his feet, Emerson. Now, Mr. MacFerguson, lead the way." I made Sethos show me how the catch operated; it was the same arrangement as the one in the other house. As the heavy slab slowly rose, displaying a flight of narrow stone steps, I added, "You will of course leave the bolt on that side undone." "Of course." Sethos climbed nimbly over the edge and relit the candle he had left on the topmost step. I have seldom seen a more grotesque sight than his face, distorted by shadows. The bulbous nose was a trifle squashed. "I don't like this," Emerson announced loudly. "How do you know he--" "Hush, Emerson. Mr. MacFerguson, we will meet you here tomorrow night at the same time. I am sure I can trust you to keep your word." "Indeed, indeed," croaked Sethos, gazing soulfully up at me. "Mrs. Emerson, you are the kindest and most forgiving of women. You have convinced me of the evil of my ways. From now on I am a reformed character." I might have known he wouldn't be able to resist a final performance. I put an end to it by lowering the slab onto his head. Emerson refused to retire until I had explained quite a number of things. This forced me to several flights of invention, though I combined fact with fiction as much as possible. "There wasn't time for him to explain how he found out about the Lost Oasis," I said glibly. "But as you know, we realized a number of people might have done so in a number of different ways. On his first visit he won Tarek's confidence by representing himself as a friend of ours. This time he found the usurper in control and learned that his position was no longer secure. The usurper doesn't trust him, and with good reason. He is as anxious as we to return to civilization, and he knows that his best chance of that is through Tarek. That is why I know I can depend on him to assist us." "Well, I don't depend on him," Emerson declared. "Why don't we go after Nefret ourselves, if there is a way to her rooms from the tunnels?" "Do you remember the route we took before, when she came to meet us for the first time?" "It was ten years ago," Emerson protested. "I don't remember it either. Curse it, I wish we hadn't let Ramses go off like that. He spent several days exploring those passages and he has a memory like an elephant's." "Nur Misur cannot stay long in that dark place," Daoud said. "She will be afraid." "She'll never make it that far," Emerson said. "MacFerguson can't possibly pull this off."

Tarek's description of their "friend" wasn't particularly helpful, though Tarek frankly admitted that "all foreigners" except them looked alike to him. However, a nasty suspicion took root and grew when Tarek went into greater detail about their encounters. Thefellow was intimately acquainted with the appearance, activities, and history of the Emerson family. He had been fascinated by the culture of the Holy City, and when he returned after his first visit, bearing wonderful gifts, Tarek had not only allowed him access to every part of the city, including the old tunnels, but had bestowed gifts upon him. "You let him loot--I mean, take funerary equipment from the tombs?" Ramses asked incredulously. "Only the most ancient of the tombs, which had been forgotten and neglected," Tarek said. "Gold and jewels help the living, but they are of no value to the dead. It is a man's deeds that go with him into the next world, that ensure immortality." "No doubt," Ramses murmured. "But still--" "He said the objects were for the Father of Curses. I had seen that they were what the Father of Curses and his lady desired. And they bought food for my people." The modus operandi was only too familiar. Suspicion turned to certainty when Ramses asked the man's name. "Petrie," said Tarek. "He brought me one of his books." Daria was awake when Ramses returned, drawing a comb through the long strands of her hair. Her worried frown turned to a smile. "It needs to be washed--and so do I!--but I did not think I should do that here." "This is only a barracks for the guard," Ramses said. "Tarek will take you to his villa, where you will have all possible comforts. He means to leave almost at once." He sat down beside her and took her feet in his hands. "They look better. But you won't have to walk, they are arranging a litter for you." "For me?" Her eyes narrowed. "What about you?" "I must go back." He stilled her incipient protest with a finger to her lips, stroked her cheek and temples. "Tarek and I have worked out a plan, and--" "You are going back for her." "That's part of the plan, yes, if it can be done." She turned her head away from his caressing hand, and he said in surprise, "What's the matter?" "I don't want you to leave me. What if you don't ever come back?" She slid onto his lap and wound her arms round his neck, raising a pleading face to his. "I'll come back, I promise." He kissed her parted lips. "But I must go, darling, I need to explain the plan to my parents so that they will know when and how to act, and fill them in on the situation here. I've just learned something that worries me a great deal." "There is something I must tell you. About Newcomb, and why I--" "You don't have to tell me anything. It's all right." "You don't understand! Let me go with you. I can help." The pretty, pleading look moved him, but he felt a faint touch of irritation. "I can't, you must know that. Tarek will take care or you. A tactful shuffle of feet outside the door interrupted him. Tarek asked for his permission, and Daria's, before he entered. "You see?" Ramses said. "He is a courteous, honorable man. You are as safe with him as you would be with me." Her response convinced Ramses once again that he would never understand women. A faint smile curved the lips that only a moment before had been quivering pathetically, and the look she turned on Tarek was one of cool appraisal. He smiled back at her and inclined his head in salute. He was an impressive figure with his straight, muscular body and finely cut features and candid black eyes. "You will be safe with me, lady," he assured her. It had the solemnity of an oath. Ramses saw them off, along the well-traveled road that led to the villages and villas of the northern section. Perched regally on the litter carried by two of Tarek's men, Daria did not look back. Ramses wondered if he would ever see her again. If he had miscalculated, he would probably be dead before morning. Tarek had bade him an emotional farewell, as if he fully expected that unfortunate event would occur. Ramses refused Harsetef's offer to accompany him, but agreed to wait until Tarek's scouts could be notified that he was coming over the pass. As he made his way up the inner slope, the declining sun cast a mellow glow across the rugged landscape. He had had plenty of time to think about Tarek's news. It certainly hadn't been the distinguished and aging Flinders Petrie who had visited Tarek. Only one man would have had the imaginative effrontery to use that name. What name, Ramses wondered, was he using now? MacFerguson? Moroney? It had to be one of them, the idea that there were two other Englishman in addition to Sethos at large in the Holy City was ludicrous. He had remembered who MacFerguson was--or was not. The ears, Ramses thought, the goddamned ears! One of the basic rules of disguise, a feature so prominent that it drew the eyes away from the rest of the face. Sethos must be MacFerguson. That he was now comfortably in league with the usurper Ramses did not doubt. He would have dealt with Satan if it meant profit for him. If his parents didn't know about Sethos, they had to be warned before the bastard pulled some underhanded stunt. Urgency prompted him to begin the descent at once, instead of waiting until twilight. The sun's rays struck the eastern ramparts with the intensity of a searchlight, but, he assured himself, his tanned body and the soldier's brown linen kilt were almost the same color as the stone, and it was a lot easier to find hand- and footholds in daylight. He was making excellent time when he sensed movement on the hillside below and paused to look down. Like his own, the man's form was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding rock. Ramses didn't see him until he moved again, rising to his feet and raising the bow he held. Ramses acknowledged the salute with a wave before proceeding. The arrow grazed his forearm. It was only a slight injury, but itwas enough to make his left hand lose its grip and throw him off balance. His effort to break his fall only made the process more prolonged and unpleasant; it was a relief when his head hit the stone and the pain went away.

"We need to think of a way of ridding ourselves of the servants," I said, sipping my coffee--and mentally thanking Sethos for the treat. It must have been he who had brought it. He was certainly a man who liked his little comforts. "Why?" Daoud inquired. "They are friendly people." "Hmmm," said Emerson, who thought he understood the reason for my suggestion. "Do you think you could bring yourself to be very friendly to the kind woman who keeps bringing you food?" "I am friendly to her," said Daoud in surprise. "Hmmm," said Emerson again. "Er--you see, Daoud, there is a chance--a far-out chance--that MacFerguson may be able to carry out his promise. If the servants are not here, Nefret won't have to stay in that dark place alone, we can have her with us." "Ah," said Daoud. "So ... er ... If we can convince Merasen and his father that there are spies among the servants--people friendly to us--very friendly--people who would help us escape . . ." "I will ask her," Daoud said. Emerson was trying to think of a way of explaining the idea of seduction to a man who had never in his life practiced that art, and Selim was chortling behind his hand when Merasen and his lot burst into the room. One look at Merasen's face told me we were in trouble. It positively glowed with triumph. He didn't even wait for his troop to search the room, but came straight to me. "I have him," he exclaimed like a rooster crowing. "In my prison. Your brave, clever son."

Ramses woke up with a vague memory of a dream that had involved rough hands and futile, painful struggle, and darkness. And laughter. Hearty, triumphant laughter that was worst of all. It was still dark, but he knew he was awake because the pain was back. He must have hit every bloody rock on the way down to ... where? He had no idea where he was. The air was close and hot, the darkness broken by a single ray of feeble light. As his eyes adjusted, he realized he was lying against a stone wall, with stone under him and more of the same overhead. The light came from a small opening in the ceiling. It hadn't been a dream. Hands had pried him off the surface on which he landed, subdued his ineffectual attempts to fight them off, and brought him here. The location of the place was still a mystery, but there was no doubt about its nature, or about the identity of the man responsible. He'd heard that merry boyish laughter before. "Goddamn it," he said, not loudly but with feeling. "You speak English! Who are you?" The voice startled him so that he made the mistake of sitting up. Once he'd got that far, there didn't seem to be any point in lying down again. He got his back against the wall and peered into the gloom. Not far away he made out a human form. The room--cell, to give it its proper name--was only eight feet square. "More to the point, who are you?" he demanded. "MacFerguson?" "Who the devil is MacFerguson?" "Never mind. You must be Moroney, then. Unless you're Kevin O'Connell or the Reverend Mr. Campbell. Or Richard the Lionheart. I'm afraid there's no minstrel." "If that's supposed to be funny, I am not amused," said the voice coldly. "Sorry," Ramses said. "I guess I'm still a little light-headed. My name is Emerson--the younger. I met you on the boat from Haifa." "Good Lord, are you really? I got a glimpse of you when theydumped you in here, but I didn't recognize you. Thought you were one of the local laddies." He came closer and hunkered down next to Ramses. "I guess you're entitled to ramble a bit. You look as if you've taken a beating." "It wasn't a beating. At least," Ramses amended, "I don't think so. I fell off a cliff. With a little assistance from one of the local laddies." "Is there anything I can do for you?" "Water, if there is any." "Oh, yes, we have all the customary amenities. Water, dry bread once a day, the most elegant of sanitary facilities." He indicated a clay pot in the far corner. "So it was you who guided Merasen here," Ramses said, accepting a cup of water. "You don't sound surprised." "You were the most obvious suspect. I never believed Merasen's boasts of escaping the slavers. I suppose it was one of your patrols that freed him and the others." "You seem to have figured it all out." "Just as you figured out who Merasen was and where he came from. You'd heard about Willy Forth's lost civilization and you knew about our expedition ten years ago. Well done. In the best traditions of the service." He sensed rather than saw the other man wince. "I don't blame you for despising me. But I swear to God I meant no harm to you and your family, or to anyone else. I've been in this hole for two days, long enough to realize that I am a miserable sinner and that I am about to pay the price." "You've found religion, have you?" Ramses inquired skeptically. "Sneer if you like. I don't expect to get out of here alive, but I'll do anything I can to help you." Ramses stood up and moved around the perimeter of the cell, stiffly at first, then more easily. The room had been cut out of the mountainside. The only breaks in the solid stone were the square opening in the ceiling and a heavy wooden door. "It's barred and chained," MacFerguson said, watching him push against the door. "Naturally." Ramses looked up at the opening in the ceiling. It was less than four inches across. The beam of light was brighter now. "What time of day do they bring you food and water?" he asked. "Around midday, to judge by the light. There are always four of them. One replaces the water jar and the basket of bread while the others pen me in a corner with the points of their spears. Now that there are two of us--" "We'll both be penned in a corner and held at spearpoint. I don't think impalement is a sensible way out of here." "Only one of us need risk that. If you get behind me--" "Don't talk like a fool," Ramses said roughly "What other chance is there?" "That isn't a chance, it's double suicide, even supposing I'd allow you to do it." He went back to his original corner and lowered himself to a sitting position. "If all else fails, we'll try the old 'Help, help, he's dying,' trick. Merasen won't want to lose me, not when he can hold me like a club over my parents' heads. And I have a feeling he won't wait until midday to pay us a visit." It was not long until he was proved correct, but it seemed long to Ramses, since he had plenty of time for bitter reflections on his own ineptitude. He had only made matters worse. The plan he and Tarek had worked out would fail if his parents weren't able to play their part, and if Tarek didn't hear from him before the night of the ceremony, Tarek's advisers, who obviously had serious reservations about the idea, might be able to persuade him to go back to the original plan. Carrying Daria off had been a mistake too. He had acted on impulse, and he knew what that impulse was. "Love clouds the brain and the organs of moral responsibility." Nefret would be guarded even more closely now. And if Tarek lost, Daria would end up as a prize for one of the victors. Moroney sat with head bowed, wrapped in his own miserable thoughts. Another complication he didn't need--a repentant sinner wallowing in guilt and looking for martyrdom. Ramses had become convinced Moroney was sincere--people frequently repented when death stared them in the face--and his hair-raising offer to takemultiple spears into his own body fit the pattern. He prayed--no, make that "hoped"--that Moroney was still capable of following orders. He'd explained in detail what he wanted Moroney to do and made him swear he wouldn't do anything else. He thought a lot about Daria and felt even guiltier for finding delight in those memories. Chains rattled. Moroney started violently, and Ramses dropped flat onto the floor. "Don't forget," he whispered. They carried torches. The light sent crimson sparks flaring from the points of the spears. Ramses raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare and could have crowed with satisfaction when he saw Merasen, prudently in the rear. The spearman surrounded Moroney and lined up along the floor where Ramses lay. The spears were sharp and pointed directly at his body. Once his men were in position, Merasen edged into the room. He was decked out in the full regalia of a prince--tight-sleeved tunic and long skirt, diadem, gold-hiked sword and dagger--but instead of the triumphant grin Ramses had expected, his face wore a frown. Ramses groaned and let his arm fall limply to his side. "Stand up in the presence of your prince," Merasen ordered. "You were in the camp of Tarek. You will tell me what you did, what you said." Ramses muttered something unintelligible and held his breath until--finally!--Moroney spoke his piece. "He's hurt badly, Merasen. He's been unconscious most of the time." "Do something!" Merasen ordered. "Wake him!" One of the spear points pricked Ramses's side, and he decided he had better respond. Merasen appeared to be in a bad mood. "It was you," he said faintly. "You dirty little rat." The word was the worst insult in the language of the Holy City. Merasen's upper lip lifted in a snarl. Reassured by Ramses's apparent helplessness, he pushed one of the spearmen aside and bent over him. "Guard your tongue or you will suffer for it." "You won't kill me," Ramses said, hoping he was right. The spear dug deeper into his side; he flinched, and Merasensmiled. "Not quickly, no. The Father of Curses and his lady know you are my prisoner. They will now act as I order." "They won't take your word, Merasen," Ramses said, knowing that this time he was right. "You're such a goddamn liar they wouldn't believe you if you told them camels can't fly. They will insist on seeing me." Merasen's expression told him he had struck gold. He groaned again and said in a failing voice, "My mother has medicines . . ." Merasen swung on Moroney. "You. Watch over him. If he dies, you will die." He stalked out. The door slammed and the chains rattled appropriately. "They forgot to feed us," Moroney said. "Maybe they've decided to let us die of starvation." He seemed to have recovered from his attack of heroism. Ramses wondered how long this mood would last. He pulled himself to a sitting position and used the hem of his kilt to wipe away the blood that was running down his side. "You weren't listening. My life is as dear to Merasen as his own just now. I'll lay odds he's gone to get Mother. It should be an interesting encounter." He contemplated the stained edge of his garment and added, "Another kilt ruined."