Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [188]
“Me and the lady with the eye patch,” said my brother-in-law in an equally subdued voice. “Pull us in. When we are within ten feet, grab the rifle and start shooting.”
Bertie’s lips tightened. It went against the grain for him to fire first, but he knew there really was no sensible alternative. We had to disable as many of them as we could before we boarded. At least the lad wouldn’t have it on his conscience that he had fired at a woman. Justin and Maryam had left the deck.
Squatting in the bottom of the boat, Sethos unwrapped the rifles. I reached for the little pistol I had concealed under my rags. The next ten minutes would tell the tale: victory or defeat, life or death.
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
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Ramses came up on the far side of the dahabeeyah and hung on, gasping for breath. He looked wildly around for David, and could have shouted with relief when David’s head popped up a few feet away. He reached out a hand and pulled his wheezing friend to his side. David had lost his turban. His black head, sleek as a seal’s, streamed water. Ramses removed his own dripping turban and pushed his hair back from his face.
There was no need for discussion, they had worked it out beforehand, trying to cover all possible contingencies. Ramses gripped the rail and pulled himself up till he could see the deck. There were three windows on this side, all open or ajar. None was the window to his father’s cell; according to the plan Nefret had drawn, it was on the opposite side of the dahabeeyah. The deck was deserted; the show had drawn the crewmen to the other side. He could hear their yells, and the agitated shrieks of his cohorts. Then he heard a voice he recognized, issuing orders that made him hurl himself up and over the rail. David was close behind him. Fighting the instinct that demanded he go to his mother’s help, whatever the odds, he climbed in the nearest window. They hadn’t started shooting. It was small comfort, but he had to stick to the plan. Their best and only hope was to take a hostage of their own.
The cabin was a woman’s. Various female garments were scattered about, and the hat his mother had given Maryam hung on a hook by the door. Without pausing he went to the door and listened before easing it open. Then he heard the sound he had been dreading, that of rapid rifle fire, and abandoned caution, bolting straight down the corridor toward the saloon, with David close on his heels.
They were there, all three of them—the old woman, Justin, and Maryam. And the doctor. Ramses left him to David, heard a grunt and a thump, and caught Justin by the throat. “Order them to stop firing,” he panted. “Maryam, tell them I’ll kill her if they don’t surrender.”
Without a word or a look, Maryam darted out. After a moment the firing stopped. Ramses loosened his hold, feeling like a brute. She stood quiet in his grasp; her throat was soft and slender, and her blue eyes were reproachful.
“You wouldn’t hurt me, would you? Your pretty little Hathor?”
“You’ve lost,” Ramses said. “It’s over.”
She laughed at him, showing even white teeth. David was standing by the old woman, who hadn’t moved from her chair. She looked contemptuously at the knife David held to her throat.
“Put that away, boy. Neither of you would harm a woman, and we hold the ace in this little game. If you want the Professor back in one piece, you will surrender to us. Once we have what we are after, we will set you ashore, unharmed.”
“You’re lying,” Ramses said. “Give me the keys to his room.”
“They are in the drawer there.”
He started toward the bureau and Justin laughed again. “They won’t do you any good. The Professor is not alone, you see. François is with him, and if anyone opens that door without giving the agreed-upon signal, he will cut your father’s throat. He can’t defend himself,” she added brightly, “because he is chained hand and foot.”
Ramses couldn’t think. The sounds on deck had subsided, but Maryam hadn’t come back, and his mother might be . . . Torn