Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [183]
“What if you’re wrong?” I asked, half convinced but reluctant to abandon the pursuit. “We would never catch them up if they have gone on ahead.”
“I think he’s right,” Sethos said. He gave Walter an approving nod. “There is definitely a streak of larceny in the family. I’m ashamed I didn’t think of it myself. I vote for heading back upriver.”
“No,” Ramses said. He went back to the window.
I looked at David. He had seen it too, the increase of tension to such a point that Ramses was beyond reason. The idea of retracing our route was unbearable.
David took him by the shoulders and spun him around. Ramses’s eyes were dead black, without a spark of awareness. He swung at David; David dodged the blow and struck back, hard enough to set Ramses back on his heels.
“It takes a blunt instrument to stop him when he’s in this frame of mind,” David explained coolly.
Ramses’s eyes came back into focus. He rubbed his cheek and blinked at David. “Did you have to do that?”
“My friend, you have been half out of your mind for hours. Stop and think. Father’s theory provides the first rational motive we’ve found. Everything fits, don’t you see? Even blowing up the railroad station. An armed assault on the steamer will be attributed to terrorists. We have to gamble, but this is our best hope. If we start back straightaway, we can reach Qena before dark.”
Ramses nodded. “All right.”
“I’ll tell Reis Hassan,” Walter said happily, and trotted off.
“All right,” Ramses repeated.
My heart ached for him. “What about a nice whiskey and soda?” I suggested.
“If you would like one, Mother.”
I was afraid I would have to administer another therapeutic smack on the face. However, Ramses is a true son of his father (and me). He passed his hand over his mouth, gave himself a little shake, and managed a smile.
Everyone joined us except Selim, who could not be extracted from his engines. Reis Hassan got us turned round in a series of maneuvers that inspired several breathtaking close calls and a lot of bad language from the persons thus inconvenienced. The white sail of a felucca passed so close it filled the entire window aperture. But finally we were headed south again.
It was late in the afternoon and the sun was setting when Bertie came into the saloon to report that someone was hailing us. “Looks like a local fishing boat.”
“Probably hope to sell us something,” Cyrus grumbled.
“We had better see what they want,” I said. “They may have news.”
We followed Bertie onto the deck. The sun was low in the west. A flotilla of small boats raced toward us, their white sails flapping like the wings of a flock of birds. The occupants were all shouting at once. It was impossible to make out words.
“Good heavens,” I said. “It is a miniature armada—every boat in that small village, by the looks of it. Tell Selim to stop the engines. They must have news for us.”
In my understandable agitation I caught the arm of Ramses, who stood next to me. He shook me off with absentminded force and raised both hands to shield his eyes against the glare of the sunset. Then his rigid body sagged forward across the rail and his breath came out in a long, shuddering sigh.
My vision is not the equal of his, but I believe I was the next to see her, standing in the nearest boat, supported by one of the men. The coronet of golden hair was unmistakable, but so unbelievable and so welcome was the sight I refused to credit the evidence of my own eyes until the little boat came alongside and the grinning crewmen lifted her up into Ramses’s outstretched arms.
“It is a miracle,” Walter said reverently. He removed his eyeglasses and wiped them on his shirttail.
“Miracle be damned,” said my other brother-in-law. “Nefret, I am unspeakably relieved to see you, but—”
“Give them a minute,” I said. Ramses