Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [167]
“We had been seen visiting the Isis,” I mused. “The watchers would have no reason to suppose anything was wrong. Which way did it go?”
“We’re working on that.” The carriage stopped. David jumped out and handed me down. “I’ll tell you about it in a minute. Sabir is waiting with his new boat.”
Tourist steamers lined the bank, all atwinkle with lights. There was no gap in the line. The Isis’s berth had been taken by another boat. When Sabir saw us coming he stood ready to cast off.
“What, then, is the current situation?” I asked, stepping into the boat.
“We decided Bertie should go back to the house to tell the others while I waited for the train. The Isis headed downstream, we learned that much; Bertie said he’d telegraph the police at Hammadi and Qena to watch out for her.”
Motionless as a statue, his hands clasped, Ramses said, “Useless. All she has to do is pull in to a landing somewhere, dowse her running lights, and make a few alterations under cover of darkness. A new name, another flag at the stern, and she’d be difficult to spot.”
David was no more deceived by that cool voice than I was. “Ramses, I’m sorry. I should have—”
“Done what? It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
When we reached the house it was buzzing like a beehive and shining like a Christmas tree, every lamp alight and—as it appeared—a goodly portion of the population of Gurneh mounting guard. Some were pacing up and down, all were talking, and a few brandished rifles. It was illegal for Egyptians to own them, but the authorities tended to turn a blind eye when the owner was a responsible individual. Though I do not generally approve of firearms, I found the sight comforting.
Evelyn was the first to burst out of the house. She flung her arms around me. “Thank God you are safe, Amelia.”
“I was never in danger, my dear,” I replied, putting her gently away. “There is no time for that sort of thing now. We must have . . . Ramses, where are you going?”
“I won’t be long.”
I watched him move away with long, measured strides, and had not the heart to call him back. No assurances are as convincing as the evidence of one’s own eyes. He was going to the children.
The others were in the sitting room. Cyrus and Katherine and Bertie, Walter and Lia, Gargery, Daoud and Kadija and Fatima, and . . .
“Selim!” I cried. “Go back to bed at once.”
His brown face was a little paler than usual, but he was fully dressed and his neatly wound turban concealed the bandages. “Lie in bed while Emerson and Nur Misur are in danger? My honored father would rise up from his tomb.”
“It is true.” Daoud nodded. “Now you are here, Sitt Hakim, God be thanked. You will tell us what to do.”
The hard knot in my interior softened a little as I looked round the room. No woman could have had more valiant allies than these. I did not protest, for I knew I would have to have Selim tied to his bed to keep him there. He had a knife at his belt and so did Daoud. Cyrus, too, was armed, with a holstered pistol. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when I saw that Evelyn was gripping my sword parasol. They would obey my slightest command. If only I knew what command to give! I had preserved my outward calm, but inwardly I was in such a confusion of rage and worry I couldn’t think sensibly.
Stalling for time, I took a chair and asked, “Where is Sethos?”
“Somewhere around,” Cyrus replied. “Said he couldn’t sit still, and durned if I blame him.”
Ramses and Sethos must have met outside, for they came in together. “Ah, there you are,” said the latter, nodding at me. “Hasn’t anyone offered you a whiskey and soda?”
Cyrus let out a multisyllabled American exclamation. “Jumping Jehoshaphat, I should have thought of it. How about you, Ramses?”
Ramses shook his head. “What we need is one of Mother’s famous councils of war.”
Everyone looked expectantly at me. “First,” I said, taking the glass from