Guardian of the Horizon (34 page)

After the door had closed behind his mother, whose face was working and whose hair was coming undone, Ramses sprang to his feet. The blade of the object she had shoved under him had cut a gouge across his back. He picked it up and stared at it. "A pair of scissors?" Moroney exclaimed in bemusement. "The blades are pretty sharp," Ramses said, from personal experience. "And a good six inches long. Even if Merasen had sense enough to search her medical bag he wouldn't have recognized this as a weapon. It's a woman's tool." He stooped and collected several other items from where they had fallen. Hairpins. Another woman's weapon. They also served to loosen the screw that held the scissor blades together. That left each of them with a daggerlike weapon and a hairpin apiece. Ramses had to explain about the hairpins. His mother's were specially made, stiffer and sharper than the usual kind. They could be concealed in one's hand, and they hurt like hell if they were jabbed into a man's body. "Useful," Moroney admitted, gripping the scissors blade. "When they feed us tomorrow--" "Tomorrow be damned. I've got to get out of here today or all hell will break loose. Led by my father," he added. "I know what Merasen's got in mind, and Father won't stand for it. He has a frightful temper." "We can't cut through that door with a pair of scissors," Moroney exclaimed. "So we'll have to get the guards to open it." "How?" "There are several possibilities--as my mother would say."

Ramses stretched out on the floor, his hands under his head. "I expect she's started working on some of them. We'll give her an hour or two, and if nothing develops you can bang on the door and demand food. They haven't fed us yet." "Then what?" Moroney demanded. "You mean what do we do when they open the door? That depends on the circumstances, and I will make that determination. If you don't give me your word to wait for my orders before you act, I'll knock you over the head." "You have my word. It's the least I can do to atone." "Fine," Ramses said heartily. "Excellent. Keep that thought in mind." He might have known it wouldn't take his mother as long as an hour. Not when she had help from other quarters. All the same, his breath went out in a long expiration of relief when he heard the voice he had hoped to hear--high-pitched, unnecessarily loud, and authoritative. "Don't move," Ramses said urgently. "Cringe." "What?" "Cringe, dammit!" The first man to enter the room was the answer to his prayers. He bent over Ramses, who groaned obligingly. "Lift him," said Amenislo. "You two. Take him to a sleeping chamber. Put down your spears, fools, you cannot carry him one-handed. No, do not put them down, give them to one of the others." Moroney sat hunched in the center of the small room, his head bowed. One of the guards made a token gesture, waving a spear at him, but the others were preoccupied with carrying out Amenislo's orders, which were, to say the least, confusing. "No, not like that! Put your weapons on the floor. Pick them up. Not you! You! Put the torches in the bracket." He backed out into the corridor. Two of the men followed, carrying Ramses, who waited until he was outside the cell, with the remaining guards filling the doorway, before he moved, twisting free of the hands that held him and calling Moroney's name. He landed on his feet, stumbled forward as a stab of pain shot up his ankle,lowered his head, and slammed it into the face of the man who had held his legs. Five left. He turned on the man behind him, and then there were four. No--three. A body lay at his feet in a spreading pool of blood. Amenislo's face was a mask of terror, but his sword was red to the hilt. Ramses ran to the door of the cell. Moroney was grappling with one soldier; before Ramses could go to his aid the soldier fell, clutching at the scissor handle protruding from his side. Another of the soldiers was sprawled on the floor with a spear in his chest. The man who held the spear backed away from Ramses. "Do not strike me, Great One, I am Tarek's man!" "So I see. All right, Moroney?" "Yes." The Englishman surveyed the fallen bodies and puddles of blood. His unshaven face was blank with disbelief. "How the hell did you do that?" "Amenislo. His name was on the list of supporters Tarek made me memorize. I told Mother . . ." "No time for talk," the count exclaimed. He was shaking violently and streaming with sweat, from his forehead to his round belly. "Hurry, hurry!" They shoved the bodies, dead and alive, into the cell and replaced the bar. Ramses's inconvenient conscience protested at leaving the wounded, but urgency prevailed. His parents needed him. "That went well," said Moroney. He looked like a new man, alert and confident. "We aren't out of this yet. Have a spear and pray you won't need to use it. I'd feel better if we had something more effective, though. Amenislo, do you know where Merasen hid the weapons he stole from us?" "No," Amenislo bleated, wringing his hands. "We cannot look for them. We must go, but I do not know where. The Sitt Hakim did not tell me what to do next!" Ramses couldn't fault the man, though at that moment he was a perfect image of a dithering coward. He had risked himself every day spying for Tarek in the enemy's camp, and those fat perfumed hands had struck hard when they had to. Ramses gave him a slap on the back. "You've done brilliantly so far, Amenislo. What about theentrance to the underground passages? All the great houses have them. Do you know where this one is located?" "Yes." Amenislo looked less despondent. "I was often a guest of my brother Tarek when he lived here. It is a good plan. If we can get to it. There are other guards." They ran into two of these unfortunates at the top of the stairs that led up from the cells. Ramses wasn't able to prevent Amenislo from running one of them through while he stared in surprise at the count's raised sword. Moroney took care of the other one with a blow that would have done Emerson credit. It seemed to cheer him up quite a lot. "This way," Amenislo panted. "Hurry, hurry." Ramses rather hoped they would run into Merasen. In his present mood he would have been tempted to emulate the bloodthirsty count and run the little swine through. However, the private part of the house was deserted. "He is at the palace, preparing for the ceremony," Amenislo replied to Ramses's question. "Come, hurry!" Ramses made him wait while he made a quick search of Merasen's rooms. There was no sign of the weapons. Either they were well hidden or Merasen had taken them with him to the palace. He wondered uneasily what Merasen planned to do with them. The boy couldn't hit the traditional barn door, and his men had had no chance to practice with the weapons. But if one fired straight into a mob of people, one was bound to hit something. Amenislo snatched up a lamp and led the way into the back part of the villa. The chamber into which he took them was like the others, and the catch worked the same way. "All right, Amenislo, so far so good, as we say. Is there a way from here to my parents' rooms?"

'Give Ramses a little more time, Emerson," I urged. "We haven't any more time." Emerson adjusted his wig andslipped his arms through the pleated sleeves of a robe. "In less than four hours Tarek will try to force the pass and the rekkit will rise to support him. With all due respect, my dear, your scheme of denouncing Zekare at the ceremony has one fatal flaw. It might win the day for Tarek, but at the cost of many lives." "But Emerson, Ramses is--" He came to me and took me by the shoulders. "I know, my dear. I know. But Ramses would be the first to urge this course of action. I only hesitated to propose it before because of Nefret. Now that we have our girl with us again, we must act, whatever the consequences." "I am going with you," I said, reaching for my parasol. "No, Peabody. If ever there was a one-man job, this is it. You will have to keep Nefret out of the way of the servants and conceal my absence as long as is possible." We were all gathered in my sleeping chamber. Nefret, dressed in trousers and a coat, a black wig covering her hair, sat on the side of the bed. It wasn't much of a disguise, but it had served to deceive our attendants thus far. Only one of them had expressed surprise at encountering me in the garden when she had just seen me entering the servants' area. My only reply was a mysterious smile. We wouldn't be able to put them off much longer, though. They had brought a variety of elegant garments--and several black wigs in various styles--and only their fear of our wrath had prevented them from entering the room and trying to get us into our costumes. "I don't see how we can conceal your absence after you have marched out the front door," I said irritably. "You don't look like a priest or an official, Emerson. You won't deceive anyone." "It would be a help if you could get rid of a few of the servants," Emerson admitted. Nefret spoke for the first time in quite a while. "Tell them you don't like any of the clothes they brought. Send them to get others." "Excellent idea," I said. "Are you all right, my dear?" "Yes, Aunt Amelia. I am worried about Ramses." "No need to worry, dear girl. I am sure my plan will succeed. Amenislo understood my hints perfectly." I spoke with more confidence than I felt. Ramses had told me Amenislo was a secret supporter of Tarek's, but I hadn't much faith in the count's physical courage. "Hang on a minute, Emerson. Nefret, go into the bath chamber." I gathered up an armful of garments more or less at random, thrust the curtain aside, and shoved the clothing into the arms of one of the women who stood outside. "Take them away, they are not good enough. Bring better." "You must be ready," one of them began. "We will be ready, if you hurry. Go at once." That got rid of two of them. I stood with my back against the curtain, effectively barring the door to my room, wondering if there was anything else I could do to minimize the risk. Emerson was right, curse him, he was the only one who might be able to avert a bloody battle--but at what cost to him? All the while my ears were pricked (figuratively speaking), hoping for some sign that my scheme with Amenislo had succeeded. Ramses's escape would certainly raise the alarm. The sign was not the one I had expected. It was the sight of Ramses himself, emerging from the door that led to the back rooms. "Thank God!" I cried. "Good afternoon, Mother," said Ramses. "Excuse me for a moment . . . Do not cry out," he went on in Meroitic, addressing the gaping servants. "Through that door, all of you. Go." Ramses shoved a few of the ladies as politely as possible. The man who had followed Ramses, carrying a long spear in one hand and a scissor blade in the other, helped herd the bewildered attendants into their quarters. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Emerson," said Captain Moroney. He looked dreadful, unshaven, dirty, and rumpled. Ramses was not in much better case. His linen kilt was ripped and bloodstained, and the bits of bandages I had applied did not improve his appearance. Emerson plunged through the curtain and ran into me. With his usual quickness he caught me round the waist before I fell. "Good afternoon, Father," said Ramses. "I hope I have not kept you waiting." "No," Emerson mumbled. "No. Er--all right, are you, my boy? Good Gad!" Ramses's reunion with the others was warm, but necessarily brief. The sight of Nefret stopped him in his tracks for a moment. "How--" he began. "We will explain later," said Emerson. "Now that you are here-- and we will have to wait for an account of that too--we must act at once." He proceeded to explain his scheme to Ramses. "It is our best hope of averting bloodshed," Ramses said. "But the risk to you, Father--" "It's no more of a risk than they will face here," said Emerson, with a betraying look at me and Nefret. "I beg you will not underestimate me, my boy. I am confident I can carry it off." "Very well, sir," Ramses said. "I will accompany you." "Yes, you had better. I was wondering whether I could get my point across without a translator," Emerson added. "The rest of you will stay here. No, confound it, Selim, no argument, I don't like this any better than you do, but the Sitt Hakim and I have talked it over, and she agrees that this is our only chance." "Emerson's plan depends on speed and secrecy," I said, for Selim's expression was still mutinous. "We would only slow him down. He is the one who will be in greatest danger. It is a great relief to know you will be with him, Ramses." "Yes, Mother. Don't glower at me, Selim, you and Daoud may have to fight after all. Some of the royal guards will remain loyal to Zekare. Merasen's private guard too. I hope to God you still have our weapons." Daoud produced them. In silence we surveyed our pitiful arsenal: one pistol, one rifle, and a single box of shells for the latter. Mutely Daoud offered the weapons to Emerson, who shook his head. Emerson does not object to using firearms, but he is under the impression that he gets on just as well without them. "I'll take the rifle," Ramses said in a voice that allowed no argument. Emerson rubbed his chin. "I suppose it might come in useful. But I hate to leave them without some means of defense." "A single rifle won't help much, and it may cause trouble," I remarked, frowning at Selim. "We'll keep the pistol--or rather, Daoud will, hidden as before." "Don't let her have it," Emerson said, pointing at me. "And don't shoot anyone unless you must. We are trying to avoid bloodshed, not cause it. Peabody, you know what to do. If they come for you, don't resist unless they offer you bodily harm or try to separate you. Stall as long as you can. When they learn I have gone--" "There is no need to repeat yourself, Emerson. You can depend on me, I believe, to come up with an appropriate strategy, whatever circumstances may arise. And may I add that your wholehearted confidence in me--" "No, I beg you will not," said Emerson. His manly tones faltered, and he cleared his throat. "I ... er ..." "Chin up, Emerson," I said. "In my opinion it is most unlikely that Zekare will allow us to be killed, and if he throws us in a dank, dark cell you will free us in due course." "Quite," said Emerson. "Hmph. All right, Ramses, let us be off. There's no need for secrecy now. Straight ahead at full speed, that's our method. Er--a bientot, Peabody. I know you still have that pistol of yours. Try not to shoot yourself in the foot." "A bientot, Emerson. Try not to get yourself shot." "Be careful, Professor," Nefret whispered. "Ramses--" "I'll look after him," Ramses said with a smile at his father. Tears filled her eyes and overflowed. Ramses took a step toward her. "Oh, curse it," said Emerson. "Come along, Ramses, I can't stand this sort of thing."

"The tricky part will be getting past the guards and across the Great Road to the stairs," said Emerson, as they hurried along the turns in the corridor. "Are we adequately disguised, do you think?" Ramses glanced at his father. He had never seen a less convincing disguise. The robe was too short by at least a foot, and Emerson didn't know how to walk wearing skirts. The wig had been made for a man with a smaller head and less hair; it sat precariously on top of Emerson's head. "The rifle doesn't help," he said tactfully. "True. Give it me." Mine not to reason why, Ramses thought. He handed the weapon to his father, who clasped it to his breast and wrapped his voluminous sleeves around it. "All right," Ramses said. "Wait a minute." He began unwinding the bandages from hands and head and arms. His mother always overdid the bandages. "They're more conspicuous than a few cuts and bruises," he explained, meeting his father's eye. "Hmmm, yes. Er--you sure you're fit, my boy?" "Yes, sir." "March straight ahead, at a good clip, and don't stop," Emerson advised, as they neared the portico. "Yes, sir," said Ramses, who had intended to do so anyhow. It was probably the sheer preposterousness of their appearance that got them through the guard--that, and the fact that people were slow to react to the unexpected. They made it all the way to the steps that descended into the village before somebody got his wits back and shouted for them to stop. Ramses headed straight down the stairs at breakneck speed, with his father close behind him. When they reached the bottom Emerson turned and got off a few warning shots. Stone splintered and sprayed, and someone screamed. "That should hold them for a while," Emerson said. "What's the matter?" "Goddammit, the rekkit have already taken out the sentries." Ramses had almost fallen over one of the limp bodies. "Get out of that wig and robe, Father, or they'll be after us next." He raised his voice in a shout. "Friends! The friends!" It was the sight of Emerson, now unmistakably himself, that brought several little men out of hiding. Ramses bit back an oath when he saw what they carried. "Looks as if they have beaten their plowshares into swords," said Emerson. "Apparently there weren't many iron plowshares," Ramses muttered. "The rest of them have only clubs. Make it fast and forceful, Father; I'll translate when necessary." Emerson was still being forceful when they reached the village square with their proud escort. The entire population poured out of their houses, the men and some of the women armed with those pitiful clubs or with stones. Emerson, who was in a hurry, quelled the uproar of welcome with one of his loudest bellows. "Talk to the women," Ramses urged. "Or to--Khat! Good, you made it home safely. Where is your mother?" The boy was holding a stone he couldn't possibly have thrown farther than a foot. Inarticulate with excitement and with pride at being on such familiar terms with the Great Ones, he gaped at Emerson, whose stern face dissolved into a mask of sentimental tenderness. "Got to stop this," he said to Ramses, patting the boy's head. "Where . . . Good Gad, what's that?" "The village wisewoman," said Ramses, as the untidy bundle tottered toward them. "Tell her." Emerson only got out a few sentences before her clawlike hands drew the wrappings away from her face. "Yes, Father of Curses, I read your thoughts. They are good. Tell the people. They will obey." Emerson was twitching with impatience, so he made it short, barking out sentence after sentence, which Ramses translated. If the soldiers came, the villagers were not to resist. The shedding of their blood would not be necessary. The battle was already as good as won. His magic, the magic of the Father of Curses, would conquer for Tarek. "Have I got my point across?" Emerson inquired. "Some of the little chaps still look bellicose." "They won't dare disobey you, sir. And if one of them is tempted to do so, his wife or his mother will stop him. The women agree with you wholeheartedly. Look at them." "Your mother always says women have better sense than men. All right, let's go. Er--where?" The fields beyond the village were lush and green with some variety of grain, high enough to provide cover when they encountered troops of soldiers heading toward the pass. Zekare must know what Tarek planned; he was mustering his men to resist an attack. Emerson kept mumbling to himself. He was rehearsing his speech; he kept asking Ramses to supply words he didn't know. Remembering the steep climb ahead of them, Ramses ventured a suggestion. "Father, it will take quite some time to climb up and over the cliffs. Couldn't we reach the wall from this side?" "No, no." Emerson spat out a mouthful of greenery. "That would be poor psychology--er--you know what I mean. We'll do it my way. I have it all worked out." "At least let me go ahead. I've been this way before." When Ramses raised a cautious head over the edge of the road he was pleasantly surprised to find no one in sight. The absence of hostile presences there and on the upper slope puzzled him until they reached the ledge and found a man waiting to help them up. He dropped to his knees before Emerson. "Does the Father of Curses remember his servant?" "Good to see you, Harsetef, old chap," said Emerson, too out of breath to remember his scanty Meroitic. "On we go, on we go. There's no time to waste." With the help of two other scouts they got Emerson up the cliff at record speed. As they climbed, Harsetef explained why they had encountered no opposition. "We made sure the way was clear. I knew you would come today." "Didn't you hear that Merasen's men had taken me prisoner?" "Yes, but we knew you would escape. We did not expect the Father of Curses himself!" Harsetef's eyes shone with the fearful glow of belief. "With him to lead the assault we cannot lose!" The sun hung low over the western cliffs when they reached the top of the cliff. Emerson looked up, looked down, said, "Hell and damnation!" and plunged down the slope, his arms waving like windmills to keep his balance. Before he reached the bottom he was engulfed by a mob of shouting, cheering men, who hoisted him onto their shoulders and carried him the rest of the way. "Curse it," said Emerson. "Where is--ah, hullo, Tarek. What's going on?" Tarek was dressed like a common soldier, with only the royal diadem to proclaim his rank. He had never looked more kingly or more handsome, a smile of welcome warming his features. "As you see, O Father of Curses. Now that you are here, we cannot be defeated. We will lead the charge side by side, you and I, as soon as the bark of the god sinks below the cliffs." Ramses was only too accustomed to being overshadowed by his father, although it would have been nice to have Tarek acknowledge his presence. Tarek's troops were drawn up behind the wall, and one quick glance was enough to explain his strategy, if it could be dignified by that name. The ladders were ready, several dozen of them. "Father," he said urgently. "Yes, yes," said Emerson. "Get one of those ladders in place. No, just one." "Make it two," Ramses said. "I'll cover you." His father gave him a quick look and nodded reluctantly. "Two. You will await my orders, Tarek. The orders of the Father of Curses!" Tarek and his entourage froze. "Ha," said Emerson in a pleased voice, and began to climb the ladder. Ramses went up the second ladder. Standing on the top rung, he unslung the rifle and looked down at the opposing force. It was a mirror image of Tarek's, the same weapons, the same intent faces, even the ladders--a poignant reminder of the futile, fratricidal nature of this little war. All the faces were upturned, staring at the same spot. The last rays of the setting sun framed Emerson in a halo of gold as he stood atop the wall, feet braced and arms raised. He looked larger than life-size, and the hero worship he would always feel for his father held Ramses as breathless and motionless as the soldiers below. Not all were motionless, though. One man, in the last rank, had drawn his bow. Cursing his momentary lapse, Ramses got the fellow in his sights and fired, but not before the arrow was on its way. It struck Emerson square in the breast. Emerson looked down. With a gesture of magnificent nonchalance he plucked the arrow out and tossed it away. A united gasp, like a strong wind, drowned out a quiet voice that said, "Er--what's that word again? 'Rightful'?" Ramses managed to get it out, though he was painfully short of breath. Emerson's voice made the echoes roll. "Friends! The Father of Curses speaks. Pull down the wall, embrace your brothers, and greet Tarek, the rightful king of the Holy Mountain!"