Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [163]
“Move forward. Slowly. One step at a time. Hold out your hands. No, madame, not you. Remain where you are.”
His voice shook, and so did the hand that held the pistol. There was nothing for it but to obey. The odds were too great and they were both weaponless. Emerson shrugged.
“You should have done this before you tossed me in here,” he pointed out, as one of the men fastened a pair of handcuffs over his wrists. “Saved yourself all this fuss and worry. Poor planning. Who’s in charge here anyhow?”
“I hate talk like that!” The doctor’s voice rose into falsetto. His lips drew back. “I hate you damned British, with your supercilious sneers and your superior airs! How dare you condescend to me? How dare you look at me that way? Don’t look at me that way!”
His hand lashed out. The barrel of the gun caught Emerson across the face. He fell back against the wall, his knees buckling.
“Please,” Nefret said. “Please don’t hurt him again.” Her hands were clenched, her nails digging into her palms, but if the man wanted her to beg, she would.
“You have better sense than he,” the doctor muttered. “You two, get him out of here.”
The men he indicated exchanged dubious looks. Coming within arm’s reach of an angry Father of Curses, even when he was barely able to stay on his feet, was not a job a sensible man relished. One of them got up sufficient nerve to grip Emerson’s left arm. The other jabbed the gun into his ribs.
“Go with them, Father,” Nefret said. “There’s no use resisting.”
Emerson raised his hands and wiped blood off his chin. “I wasn’t resisting,” he said in an injured voice. “Meek as a lamb.”
“Out!” The doctor shrieked. “Take him out of here!”
Emerson submitted without further comment to being led toward the door. I can’t let him go like this, without a word, Nefret thought. I may never see him again. To hell with stiff upper lips.
“Father, I—”
“Yes, my dear, I know.” He gave her a quick glance over his shoulder and smiled. “À bientôt.”
That said it all, really. Not good-bye. See you soon. “À bientôt,” Nefret said.
EL-GHARBI BADE US FAREWELL with unconcealed glee. We were deeply in his debt now, and I knew it was only a matter of time before we received a demand, couched as an obsequious request, for recompense. We cut his courtesies short and hurried away. I did not want to miss the train. Trains are always late when one is on time, and on time when one is late. I kept telling myself there was no need for haste but I failed to convince myself. Our discovery had altered the entire picture.
We arrived at the station at Esna in ample time. The train was late. There were only a few English persons on the platform—students, to judge by their youth and their casual clothing. The vendors of fake antiquities identified us at a glance (those who did not know Ramses personally recognized my parasol and my belt of tools) and left us alone. Other merchants were selling water, fruit, and vegetables. I took a seat on the single bench, next to a gray-bearded gentleman holding a rooster. The gentleman bared a mouthful of brown teeth and greeted me effusively. The rooster cocked its head and gave me a hot, mad glare. Ramses paced up and down, circling groups of squatting Egyptians who were accustomed to such delays and who whiled away the time nibbling on sweetmeats and gossiping. I too was accustomed to such delays, but as the sun sank into the west and the shadows lengthened, the knowledge we had gained that day lay more and more heavily on my shoulders.
The rooster stretched out its neck and gave me a sharp peck on the arm. I accepted the apologies of its owner but I could no longer sit still. Rising, I joined Ramses, who had stopped to chat with a small party consisting of a man and a woman and a babe in arms. The young mother was unconcernedly suckling her infant, while her husband talked with Ramses and scratched his stomach.
“Are you hungry, Mother?” he asked. “They have kindly offered to share their dinner.”
The man fished a chunk of gray bread out of the basket