Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [179]
The other men had gathered round. Bertie let out a muffled oath, and Daoud invoked his god. “Does this mean the boat did not come this far?” he asked.
“Not necessarily,” Ramses said. He leaned out over the rail, squinting against the sunlight. Water traffic was heavier here, vessels coming in to load, and departing with their cargoes of pots, a steamer slowing for the landing ahead, where tourists would disembark for a visit to the temple of Denderah. Feluccas glided like large white butterflies around the larger boats. One of them appeared to be heading straight for us.
Ramses let out a shout. “Stop! Tell Selim to stop the engines.”
The boat was heading straight for us. Standing upright, one hand on the mast, the other arm waving in emphatic gestures, was a man whose face and sturdy frame were oddly familiar. His bearded face split in a grin when the Amelia began to slow. The little craft came neatly alongside. The man grasped one of the hands that reached down for him, and scrambled nimbly on board.
“Reis Hassan,” I cried. “How did you—”
“The word has gone down the river with the speed of a flying bird. We have been watching for you. What have you done to my boat?”
“Nothing yet, but we had a few close calls,” Ramses said, with the first genuine smile I had seen on his face for hours. “Marhaba, Reis Hassan—welcome and thrice welcome. Something told me we might see you here.”
“Nothing told me,” I admitted. “Yet I ought to have known. Thank you, my friend, worthy son of your father.”
He shrugged my thanks away. “This is not a time for talk. What is the plan? Where do you want to go? And who”—his voice cracked—“who is steering my boat?”
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
* * *
Nefret had asked for more oil for the lamp. She hadn’t got it. They had also refused her request to see Emerson, but she knew where he was—in the room next to hers. As they led her along the passageway she had raised her voice in a string of swear words, and got an immediate, equally profane, response. The doctor added a few curses of his own before he pushed her into her room.
At least she knew he was still alive and conscious, and she had been able to reassure him about herself. The lamp was burning low. It wouldn’t last much longer. She examined the wall that separated the two rooms, inch by inch, and could have laughed aloud when she heard a steady scraping sound at the base of the partition. Lying flat on the floor, she retrieved the last of the hoarded nails from her shoe.
At the first sound from her, the scraping stopped. Three soft knocks sounded. She knocked back, three times, wondering what system of communication he had in mind. Tapping through the alphabet would take forever.
Apparently Emerson came to the same conclusion. The scraping resumed. Her ear against the panel, Nefret located the source of the sound and began digging with her nail. The wood of the partition was thin, but neither of them had a proper tool; it seemed like, and probably was, hours before a sharp point jabbed into her hand. She pulled it back, and heard splinters snap as Emerson enlarged the hole. When she heard his voice she lay flat and pressed her ear to the small opening.
“Nefret, my dear. Can you hear me?”
“Yes. Father, are you hurt?”
“Perfectly fit, my dear. Pay attention, time is running out on us. It will be light before long. They had me in that room for a bit earlier on. I believe you can lift the bar on the outside of the shutters.”
“I haven’t anything to use as a lever. I tried to steal a knife at dinner, but—”
“Pay attention, I said. There’s a lamp bracket next to the washbasin. I managed to loosen it a trifle. If you keep bending it back and forth, it ought to come off. Do it now.”
“Yes, sir.”
The last of the oil flickered out as she wrenched at the metal strip. It came away from the wall so suddenly, she staggered. She had to feel