Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [189]
“Ah, there you are,” she said, brandishing her pistol. “I presume everything is under control.”
“Well, no, not exactly,” Ramses said, struggling for breath. “Mother, are you . . . Sethos and Bertie—”
“Both wounded, but not seriously. They have subdued the crew.” His mother climbed nimbly through the window. “This isn’t my blood,” she added. “My dear boy, you are white as a sheet. You weren’t worried about me, were you?”
“Worried? About you?” He ran out of breath again.
“Thank God,” David exclaimed. “But the Professor is—”
The pound of feet along the passageway stopped him. Emerson burst through the door. “I heard gunfire. Where—damnation, Peabody, I knew it was you! Why are you wearing that idiotic eye patch?”
She dropped the pistol, and Ramses, dizzy with relief, was treated to the spectacle of his eminent parents, both of whom resembled survivors of a small war, rushing into each other’s arms. Their incoherent remarks were, he realized, completely in character.
“How dare you do this to me, Peabody? Ramses, why did you—never mind, you couldn’t have stopped her. My darling Peabody, are you injured?”
Interspersed were her own comments. “Another shirt . . . Oh, my dearest Emerson, what have they done to you?”
“And what has happened to François?” Ramses asked. “They told us you were shut in with him.”
“Well, I had to kill the bastard, didn’t I?” Emerson detached himself from his wife’s embrace and ran a bloodshot eye over the room. Unconquerably Emerson, he gave the old woman a stiff bow. “Good morning, er . . . Matilda.”
The old woman sat with a face like death. “So you have won. The last battle.”
“Have we won, Ramses?” Emerson inquired.
“Yes, sir, I believe so,” Ramses said. “But how—you were chained and locked in, weaponless—”
“I didn’t need a weapon for a piece of scum like that,” his father said magnificently. “I did have one, though. And she had freed me, early this morning. When they put François in with me, I had to—”
“She? Who?”
“Little Maryam, of course. I told you the child was . . . But where is she? She was following me.”
“And where,” said his wife, “is Justin?”
She had taken advantage of their distraction to slip away, and so had Khattab. They found Maryam lying in the corridor. She had been struck unconscious—it wasn’t hard to guess by whom—but she was beginning to come round, and when Emerson lifted her, she caught hold of him and tried to speak. “Quick . . . You must go. She has lit the fuse.”
MATILDA JUMPED UP AND RAN for the door. She was quite agile for an elderly person; the prospect of imminent death, I have observed, lends wings to the feet. Ramses was quicker. He took her by the shoulders and shook her, none too gently.
“Where has she gone?”
She tried to twist away from him. “It’s in her room. She loves dynamite. You can waste time trying to break the door down, if you like, but let me go! God knows how much time we have, if she has shortened the fuse.”
“She is right,” I cried. “This is no time for bravado, or chivalry. Hurry!”
Bertie and Sethos were holding the disgruntled thugs at gunpoint. Several bodies lay sprawled on the deck. Sethos’s eyes moved from Emerson to Maryam, but before he could speak, Emerson bellowed, “Abandon ship! Everyone! She’s about to blow!”
Thugs rained into the river like beetles shaken from a branch. Sethos limped toward us. He had taken a bullet in the leg and a trail of blood spots followed him. “The boat,” he said. “Get the women into it.”
The little craft was tied to the side. Matilda was the first to reach it; she scrambled into it and started to untie the rope. “Hands off, Matilda, or I will shoot you where you sit,” Sethos said. She backed off, cursing him. Emerson shoved me in and handed Maryam down to me. “Now