Guardian of the Horizon: An Amelia Peabody Novel of Suspense, page 23
“You may be right,” I said. “The boy seems to have no moral sensibilities whatever. He has now allied himself with someone from the outside world — someone who could use a compass and get a caravan together. Does the king know about this, or is Merasen playing a double game with him too?”
Selim came running back into the room. “The guns,” he exclaimed. “The guns are gone!”
* * *
* * *
Eight
“It’s my fault,” Ramses said, eyes downcast and jaw set. “I advised against carrying weapons into the presence of the king.”
“No, it is mine,” Selim cried. “I should have stood guard over them.”
“I should have put a curse on them,” Emerson bellowed, waving his fists.
They were all pacing up and down the room, wringing their hands and beating their breasts (figuratively speaking), except for Daoud, who sat waiting patiently for someone to say something sensible. Daoud was a great comfort to me.
“There is no use crying over spilled milk,” I announced. “Are they all gone?”
“Yes,” said Emerson, so overwrought that he did not even complain about my voicing an aphorism. “We left our rifles and pistols in our rooms with the rest of our personal belongings. They must have been taken last night. The remaining weapons and most of the ammunition were in a single packing case. I made certain it was loaded onto one of the camels when we left the oasis. It isn’t here now, though all our other luggage is — cameras, notebooks, surveying equipment.”
“Are you speaking of the guns?” Daoud inquired. It was the first chance he had had to get a word in.
“Yes,” Selim groaned. “All of them. Rifles, pistols, ammunition —”
“Not all,” said Daoud. Reaching into the breast of his robe, he took out a pistol. “The rifle is in my bed.”
I have seldom seen three men look more foolish — especially those three. Ramses was the first to get his voice back. “Daoud, you are — you are a wonder. Er — in your bed?”
“Yes,” said Daoud in surprise. “It is what they tell the soldiers. I heard an officer say so. ‘This is your gun. Eat with it, sleep with it.’ The rifle got in my way when I was eating, but I ate with the pistol and slept with both.”
Emerson’s mouth was hanging open. “Good Gad! Well done, Daoud. Though a single pistol and rifle —”
“May come in useful,” I interrupted. “In circumstances which are as yet unknown. Very well done, Daoud! The loss of the other weapons is unfortunate, but as Ramses pointed out earlier, we couldn’t have relied on them to get us out of here. We must endeavor to demonstrate the stiff upper lip for which we are famous. I include you and Daoud, of course, Selim. Get out the cameras and notebooks, please. We will continue on the course Emerson so wisely suggested.”
Emerson perked up a bit. “Where shall we start?” he asked.
“With a general plan of this palace,” I replied, giving him a wink and a nod. “Including, of course, the storage and servants’ areas.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon at this pursuit, making copious notes and taking occasional photographs of nothing in particular. The servants, who had incontinently fled when Emerson began raging about the missing weapons, ventured cautiously out, and curious eyes watched our every move. I made it a point to smile and speak pleasantly at them, and urged my companions to do the same. One of the young women became so emboldened that she followed us from room to room, though of course at a respectful distance.
Our survey was superficial in the extreme, since none of the servants was in a position to judge its effectiveness and our primary purpose was not scholarly. The rock-cut chambers were, some of them, mere cubicles, less than six feet square and six feet high — empty of everything except dust, and extremely hot. Others served as kitchens and temporary sleeping quarters for servants. Though ventilated by an ingenious system of air shafts, and decorated, rather pathetically, with a few woven mats and baskets containing cosmetics and extra clothing, they were scarcely more comfortable than the storage chambers.
We returned to the sitting room dusty and crumpled and dripping with perspiration.
“Well, well,” said Emerson, rubbing his hands together. “Several points of interest, weren’t there? Ramses, will you begin on that plan?”
“I will ask for something to drink,” Selim announced. And he did so, directing his gestures at the young woman who had been our most assiduous follower. She appeared to have no difficulty in understanding.
I said, “If you will all excuse me, I am going to sponge off some of this dust.”
“Don’t be long,” said Emerson. “I have a little surprise for you, Peabody.”
I accepted the assistance of one of the serving girls, humming a cheerful tune as she helped me into a clean robe and tied a bright red-and-blue scarf round my waist. (I added several safety pins along the opening.) When I returned to the sitting room, Emerson had his hands behind his back. “You look very charming, Peabody. Guess what I have for you.”
I wished I could say the same about him. He had at least washed his hands, which was all to the good if my guess about his “surprise” was correct. I had not the heart to spoil it by guessing correctly, however. The smile he had forced himself to keep in place all afternoon was beginning to show altogether too many teeth.
“Why, Emerson, what can it be?” I asked. I let out a cry of girlish delight and clapped my hands as Emerson produced…a bottle of whiskey.
“I have been hoarding it,” he explained. “And I think we deserve it tonight. Ramses?”
“Yes, sir, thank you.”
Selim and Daoud were drinking tea. Selim must have shown the servants how to prepare it and how to set out something that bore a rather amusing resemblance to a tea tray. The cups were without handles and the pot was just that — a brown, elegantly shaped earthenware jug with a pierced clay strainer atop. We settled ourselves comfortably and Emerson raised his cup. “To a successful end to our quest,” he announced. “May I stop smiling now, Peabody? I feel as if my face is paralyzed.”
“Just try to look affable, my dear. You have done very well. We have all done well, in my opinion. Our performance this afternoon must convince the king that we have accepted the situation.”
“Grrrr,” said Emerson, forgetting himself for a moment. “Ramses, have you anything to report? You were quite a long time in one of those back rooms.”
“This one,” said Ramses, producing a rough sketch. “There is a raised stone bench along one wall, reminiscent of a similar structure in one of the rooms of the palace we formerly inhabited.”
“Aha!” exclaimed Emerson. “The bench whose top lifted to give access to the subterranean passages?”
“Yes, sir. Unfortunately, although there was a corresponding depression under the lip of this slab, my attempts to release the catch were in vain.”
I recognized, with some regret, a return to the youthful pedantic speech patterns which Ramses had almost overcome. He must be even more worried than I had realized. My own spirits had lifted a trifle. We were acting — making plans — taking steps! Or it might have been the whiskey.
“Drink your whiskey,” I said to him.
“Yes, Mother,” he said absently.
He ate very little at dinner. I had had an idea that I thought might cheer him up, so I proposed it. “When we see the king I am going to ask if I may pay Nefret a visit. The priestesses are secluded, but I might be allowed when a man would not be. If the king agrees — and I will be very insistent — I can report back to you, not only on her health and state of mind, but where she is.”
“That is a good idea, Mother,” Ramses said, looking, if not cheerful, a trifle less gloomy. “It is important that we be able to communicate directly with her. If I know Nefret, she won’t take this lying down. Persuade her to appear submissive and tell her we are putting on a show of acquiescence in order to —”
“Yes, my dear, that was precisely what I had in mind.”
Ramses went back to his plan and Emerson and I took a little stroll in the garden. It was a pleasant place in the twilight, with vines covering the walls and a pool lined with blue tiles. The lotus blooms had closed into tight buds, but the velvety green leaves waved in a gentle breeze, spilling crystalline drops as perfectly formed as beads of mercury. Emerson is not unmoved by natural beauty, but on that occasion he spent most of his time inspecting the walls. He had to climb on a low stone bench to look over them, for they were eight feet tall.
“Well?” I asked. “Are there guards?”
“No need for guards. There’s a sheer drop, into a ravine thirty feet down. We could probably descend safely if we had ropes or some substitute for them.”
“Not much point in that unless we had some idea of how to get up the other side, and where to go once we were up.”
“Quite,” said Emerson. “Let us get rid of these damned servants, eh?”
He did so, with peremptory gestures, and then suggested somewhat pointedly that the others retire as well.
“Emerson,” I said, as he advanced toward me. “I hope you won’t take this in the wrong way, but I really am not in a proper frame of mind for — er — that. Not this evening. And not with that beard.”
“My dear Peabody.” He gave me a reproachful look. “That was not what I had in mind. Well — to be honest, I always have it in mind, but for once it was not my primary reason for wanting to be alone with you. We have lost Nefret; I will not let the bastards carry you off too.”
I took his outstretched hands. “My dear Emerson. I beg your pardon.”
“Granted. Er — did you mean it about the beard?”
I made it clear that I did.
Emerson’s presence was a great comfort in every way, but sleep did not come easily to me, perhaps because I was trying too hard. I wanted to dream of Abdullah, not only in the hope that he might have a useful suggestion, but because I was beginning to fear that that wonderful vision would never be repeated — that the comfort it had given was the sole reason why it had been vouch-safed to me.
I was in that state of drowsy discontent that can be more tiring than full wakefulness when a faint sound broke the stillness. There was always at least one lamp left burning, to save the laborious business of making a new fire, which was done in the old way. The lamp on a stand near the bed illumined only a small part of the chamber and bred shadows that huddled in distant corners. The sound had come from the doorway. I lay on my side, facing in that direction, but the large bulk of Emerson — lying flat on his back, arms folded across his breast like a pharaoh of old — blocked my view of the lower part of the curtain. The sound came again…No, I thought, not the same sound — the first might have been a soft footfall, the second was that of expelled breath. It might be Ramses, on the lookout for intruders. Or — it might be the intruder himself! My heart beat faster with excitement. I lay motionless, waiting for him to creep into the chamber. If they expected to find me alone, they might not have sent more than one abductor. I would have to climb over Emerson and locate my parasol, but I felt confident I could deal with one man. If there were more than one, I would have to fight them off until Emerson came fully awake, which always takes a while.
The fighting blood of the Peabodys was up, but I reminded myself that I must not be hasty. It was possible — not likely, but possible — that Tarek had heard of our being there and was attempting to communicate with us as he had done once before, secretly and by night.
Whoever he was — or they were — they — or he — was in no hurry. The seconds ticked by. The curtain moved slowly and cautiously away from the right-hand wall and a pale oval appeared in the gap, visible only because it was not so dark as the darkness behind it. A face! Surely it was a face, though I could not make out the features. I felt eyes upon me — eyes that burned with the intensity of their regard — heard another exhalation of breath, louder than the first…
Emerson let out a shout. “Peabody!” His hand groped wildly, trying to find me. It was the wrong hand. I was on his other side.
The face vanished, the curtain fell into place. I cried, “Curse it! Emerson, wake up!” Eluding his flailing arms, I got out of bed and ran for the doorway. I was too late. Nothing moved in the moonlit room.
“Burning eyes, indeed,” growled Emerson. “You admitted you could not make out the fellow’s features.”
“I felt the eyes, Emerson. Ramses, may I have a drop more of that whiskey?”
Aroused by Emerson’s cries and mine, the others had rushed out of their rooms to find us embracing in the sitting room. The embrace was not friendly. Convinced I was suffering from nightmare, Emerson was attempting to keep me from pounding on the door. It was, as he proceeded to demonstrate, immovable.
Ramses fetched the whiskey and we sat down to discuss this latest development.
“You were dreaming,” Emerson insisted. “The door is still bolted. How could anyone get out that way?”
“By bolting it again after he had gone out the way he came in,” I snapped. “I resent the implication, Emerson. If you think I cannot tell the difference between a dream and reality…Hmmm.”
No one took notice of my momentary confusion. Ramses ran his fingers through his tangled curls and said tactfully, “Go over it again, Mother. Every detail.”
So I did. I thought it better to omit the adjective to which Emerson had objected, but stuck to the eyes. “We all know the feeling — that of being the object of a prolonged, intense stare. What I saw was a real face, and a real hand drew the curtain aside. If Emerson had not frightened him off and interfered with my pursuit of the fellow, I might have caught him!”
“Just as well I did, then,” said Emerson. “Do you suppose you could have stopped him if he were intent on getting away? You didn’t even have your parasol!”
“There wasn’t time to find it.”
“Oh, bah,” said Emerson. “They wouldn’t have sent a single man.”
“They would have done if ‘they’ was not the current regime but Tarek.” My generally excellent syntax was suffering from annoyance at Emerson’s skepticism. They all knew what I meant, though.
“Tarek and his supporters are in hiding, Peabody. This purported visitor purportedly left by the front door, which is guarded by Zekare’s men.”
“Purportedly guarded, do you mean?” We glared at each other.
“It was not a dream,” Selim said. He had been crawling on hands and knees, inspecting the floor outside my chamber. Now he rose and held out his hand.
White against his brown palm was a small circular object. A button.
When we gathered round the breakfast tables, Emerson drank his coffee with less pleasure than he had the day before. “This proves they have some contacts with the outside world,” he declared. “Not only through places farther west, but with traders who deal in imports from the east.”
“We have better evidence than that,” I said. “Evidence of direct contact. They do not use buttons here, and that one came from a man’s shirt. I have sewn enough of yours back on to know.”
“Are you absolutely sure it isn’t one of mine?” Emerson asked.
“You know perfectly well that none are missing from your shirts, or those of Ramses’s. You watched me inspect them. Anyhow, the one Selim found is slightly larger than the normal sort. I believe it to be of French or German manufacture.”
Emerson and Ramses exchanged doubtful looks.
“I don’t know why you are so reluctant to accept the truth,” I said in exasperation. “We agreed, did we not, that Merasen must have had a confederate who was responsible for the attacks on our men and who guided him here. He is still here. The logic is inescapable.”
“Logic, bah,” said Emerson, glowering. “It need not be the same man. Whoever the devil he is.”
“The most likely suspect,” I began, but was interrupted by Ramses.
“Excuse me, Mother, but I can’t see the point in speculating about that. Shouldn’t we be ready in case the king sends for us?”
“Yes, quite,” said Emerson. “But we must appear surprised, even reluctant, when that occurs. Let’s get back to work.”
As the morning wore on without a summons, I began to wonder if we had exaggerated our importance to the new regime. “Unlikely,” said Emerson, when I expressed my sentiments. “He’s playing the same game we are, and the first to approach the other will lose prestige. Hand me that piece of drafting paper, will you, please?”
We had divided forces, sending Ramses off by himself to continue his exploration of the back rooms and hoping that our busy activities in the sitting room would keep the servants interested. By midday we had collected quite an audience, and I was about to suggest we stop for luncheon when there was a disturbance at what we had decided to call the front door. It was flung open, and in dashed Count Amenislo, in such a rush he pushed past two guards. His wig was askew. He ran to Emerson and began plucking at his sleeve.
“Hurry! Hurry! Come, come!”
Emerson turned, with awful dignity. Amenislo’s fat hands fell as if they had been burned.
“We do not go or come at the orders of underlings,” said Emerson. “We are busy with our work.”
Amenislo dropped to his knees and raised his hands. “The king sends for you. Come, hurry!” His brow furrowed, as if he were trying to remember a word he seldom used. “Pliss?”
“I believe he is attempting to say ‘please,’ ” said Emerson to me. “That is much better. But shall we linger awhile? I do enjoy seeing him get so worked up.”
Amenislo groaned. “I will be punished…”
“I would enjoy seeing that even more,” remarked Emerson. “Oh, very well.” He let out a shout that made the count jump. “Ramses!”
Ramses came running. “It’s all right, my boy,” said Emerson. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. We have been invited to call on His Majesty.”
