Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [177]
Ramses joined me at the rail. “You are grinding your teeth,” he remarked.
“My blood is up,” I explained. “I am going to tell Selim we are ready to push off.”
“You don’t have to tell Selim anything.” The breeze freshened, blowing the hair back from his brow; we were in motion, gliding gently away from the dock. “I only wish we had a helmsman. Bertie and David know a bit, and so do I, but you had better pray we don’t go aground.”
The sun peeped over the eastern hills, blood-red, as suited my mood. Gradually the temples of Luxor faded into the morning mist.
If the Reader has a map before her (or, as it may be, him) she will see that the Nile does not run directly northward from Luxor, but in a gentle curve to the northeast. After approximately sixty miles it swings westward, in a sharper curve. What the Reader may not see are the innumerable smaller bends, curves, and bays—or the islands and sandbanks that interrupt the smooth flow of the river. A feature that looks small on a map occupies hundreds of yards on the ground. The vessel we sought might be concealed anywhere—or it might be miles ahead, steaming at full speed toward some unknown destination.
The wind tugged at my garments. The Amelia was capable of a fair turn of speed, especially downstream. How satisfying it would have been to race in pursuit, the rapidity of our progress keeping pace with our raging anxiety! It was a luxury we could not afford. We had to watch for signals from our scouts along the bank, and for the missing dahabeeyah.
After a time Sethos came to stand beside me. “Nasir has made coffee. Shall he bring you a cup?”
“Yes. No. Nasir should not be here. He is no fighter, he is only a steward, and not a very good one.”
“Fatima sent him. Along with enough food to nourish a regiment for a week.”
“Each of us serves in her own way,” I murmured gratefully.
“Quite. Now, Amelia, gripping the rail in that white-knuckled fashion isn’t going to help. I’ll be right back.”
When he returned, Nasir was with him, trying to balance a tray. I rescued the cup before it slid off, and thanked him—amd observed with alarm that the boy had strapped to his narrow waist a knife as long as my forearm.
“Oh dear,” I said to Sethos, as Nasir staggered off. “We must keep him from engaging in combat.”
“Be honest, Amelia.” Sethos leaned forward, arms resting on the rail. “You would sacrifice Nasir or anyone else if it were necessary to save Emerson.”
“Yes,” I said.
Neither of us looked at the other. Our eyes were fixed on the shoreline. Nestled in the shelter of palm groves, amid the green of growing crops, were the whitewashed houses of a village. Above the rooftops rose the minaret of the mosque. Two black-robed women bearing jars on their heads descended the bank toward the river.
“Why are we slowing down?” I demanded.
“Looking for our first signal,” Sethos replied. “That insignificant hamlet is Tukh. The channel is close to the West Bank here, and when a vessel is spotted all the local entrepreneurs take to their boats, hoping to sell some piece of junk to the tourists.”
We all crowded to the left side of the boat (it is properly termed starboard, I believe, or perhaps port). A water buffalo wallowed in the shallows, and above it, on the bank, were several figures capering up and down, waving a banner. It was bright green.
“They saw her,” I cried. “She passed this way. But when?”
“Green means yesterday,” Sethos said coolly.
“Not much help,” I muttered, waving away the platter of bread Nasir shoved under my nose.
“We’re two hours down from Luxor,” Sethos said. “That means she passed here late in the afternoon. And we know we’re going in the right direction. There was always a chance she’d turn and go upstream.”
“But they are at least six hours ahead of us, even if they stopped last night.”
“They must have done,” Sethos said impatiently. “Don’t be such a pessimist, Amelia, it isn’t like you. No captain would risk his boat trying to navigate this river after dark.