Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [187]
I raised my voice just a trifle. “You said, back in Luxor, that you would not return without Nefret. I will not go back without your father.”
“You can’t stop her,” Nefret said. She stroked his bare arm, as one gentles a restive stallion. “You haven’t the right.”
“You’re on her side,” Ramses groaned.
“Of course. If it were you, I’d be in that boat myself.”
“A compromise,” I said helpfully. “I won’t take my parasol.”
On Ramses’s countenance amusement struggled with anxiety and anger, and I knew I had won. “All right, Mother. But please—not the eye patch.”
“It helps to hide my face,” I explained. “I neglected to bring a beard.”
The others had wisely refrained from joining in the discussion. Cyrus gave me a hearty embrace and helped me into the boat. “We’ll be waiting for your signal,” he said. “Good luck.”
David cast off and raised the sail. Sethos caught hold of me and pulled me down on the seat beside him.
“You are an infernal nuisance, Amelia, do you know that?”
“I believe I can be of some use,” I replied modestly.
I was the recipient of an extremely ambiguous glance from my son, who was at the tiller. “Get out the oars,” he said.
The prevailing wind swelled the sail but the current was strong. With Bertie and Sethos rowing, we made good progress, and finally Ramses said, “They’ve seen us. David, start playing wounded duck, but get well upstream of her before you drop the sail. Bertie, if anyone makes a hostile move or points a rifle at you, make sure you shoot first.”
We had two rifles, wrapped in oiled cloth, and extra ammunition. We would have had three if anyone had listened to me, but Ramses would not let me have one. Now he went on, “Mother, for God’s sake, stop staring, you don’t make a very convincing male Egyptian—even with an eye patch.”
I raised one arm so that my full sleeve covered my face, but I peered out from over it. We flapped on past, close enough to see the faces of the crewmen, who had gathered to jeer at our erratic progress. Several of them were armed, among them Dr. Khattab, who appeared to be in charge. I ducked my head and heard him call, obviously in answer to a question. “It is only a fishing boat, madame. About to capsize, if I am any judge.”
Then we were past. “Here we go,” Ramses said, and fell overboard with a startled cry and an impressive splash. The boat rocked, the sail collapsed, and David slid into the water. The rest of us were making as much noise as possible. Sethos cupped his hands round his mouth. “Throw us a rope,” he shrieked. “Help, we will all drown. For the mercy of God!”
There was no mercy on those hard faces. Laughing, one of them pointed at a pair of arms and a distorted face that rose above the water between us and the dahabeeyah. The arms waved pathetically and disappeared. Bertie was paddling wildly in circles. The audience found this even more amusing. They began offering advice, all of it rude, some of it quite vulgar. My arms over my head, I swayed and whimpered. My breath came hard and my heart was pounding.
Sethos’s cries cut off abruptly. Peering round the hem of my sleeve, I saw two other people at the rail. Justin was wearing male clothing, but everything else about her—the way she stood, the gesture with which she pushed back her windblown curls—was so obviously female that I wondered how I could have been deluded. She had her arm round Maryam, who gripped the rail with both hands and stared fixedly at us.
Justin’s pretty face wore a frown. “Bring them on board or sink them,” she called, in idiomatic and accented Arabic. The accent was that of a Cairene.
One of the men raised a rifle; clearly he found the second alternative more interesting. Maryam whispered something to her sister. After a moment Justin nodded. “I suppose you’re right. Gunfire might attract attention.” She went on in Arabic, “Do not fire. Throw them a rope.”
Bertie caught it on the second try. The men on the dahabeeyah made no effort to help; one of them had fastened the other end of the rope to the rail, leaving it to us to