Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [100]
“Just as well I did, then,” said Emerson. “Do you suppose you could have stopped him if he were intent on getting away? You didn’t even have your parasol!”
“There wasn’t time to find it.”
“Oh, bah,” said Emerson. “They wouldn’t have sent a single man.”
“They would have done if ‘they’ was not the current regime but Tarek.” My generally excellent syntax was suffering from annoyance at Emerson’s skepticism. They all knew what I meant, though.
“Tarek and his supporters are in hiding, Peabody. This purported visitor purportedly left by the front door, which is guarded by Zekare’s men.”
“Purportedly guarded, do you mean?” We glared at each other.
“It was not a dream,” Selim said. He had been crawling on hands and knees, inspecting the floor outside my chamber. Now he rose and held out his hand.
White against his brown palm was a small circular object. A button.
When we gathered round the breakfast tables, Emerson drank his coffee with less pleasure than he had the day before. “This proves they have some contacts with the outside world,” he declared. “Not only through places farther west, but with traders who deal in imports from the east.”
“We have better evidence than that,” I said. “Evidence of direct contact. They do not use buttons here, and that one came from a man’s shirt. I have sewn enough of yours back on to know.”
“Are you absolutely sure it isn’t one of mine?” Emerson asked.
“You know perfectly well that none are missing from your shirts, or those of Ramses’s. You watched me inspect them. Anyhow, the one Selim found is slightly larger than the normal sort. I believe it to be of French or German manufacture.”
Emerson and Ramses exchanged doubtful looks.
“I don’t know why you are so reluctant to accept the truth,” I said in exasperation. “We agreed, did we not, that Merasen must have had a confederate who was responsible for the attacks on our men and who guided him here. He is still here. The logic is inescapable.”
“Logic, bah,” said Emerson, glowering. “It need not be the same man. Whoever the devil he is.”
“The most likely suspect,” I began, but was interrupted by Ramses.
“Excuse me, Mother, but I can’t see the point in speculating about that. Shouldn’t we be ready in case the king sends for us?”
“Yes, quite,” said Emerson. “But we must appear surprised, even reluctant, when that occurs. Let’s get back to work.”
As the morning wore on without a summons, I began to wonder if we had exaggerated our importance to the new regime. “Unlikely,” said Emerson, when I expressed my sentiments. “He’s playing the same game we are, and the first to approach the other will lose prestige. Hand me that piece of drafting paper, will you, please?”
We had divided forces, sending Ramses off by himself to continue his exploration of the back rooms and hoping that our busy activities in the sitting room would keep the servants interested. By midday we had collected quite an audience, and I was about to suggest we stop for luncheon when there was a disturbance at what we had decided to call the front door. It was flung open, and in dashed Count Amenislo, in such a rush he pushed past two guards. His wig was askew. He ran to Emerson and began plucking at his sleeve.
“Hurry! Hurry! Come, come!”
Emerson turned, with awful dignity. Amenislo’s fat hands fell as if they had been burned.
“We do not go or come at the orders of underlings,” said Emerson. “We are busy with our work.”
Amenislo dropped to his knees and raised his hands. “The king sends for you. Come, hurry!” His brow furrowed, as if he were trying to remember a word he seldom used. “Pliss?”
“I believe he is attempting to say ‘please,’ ” said Emerson to me. “That is much better. But shall we linger awhile? I do enjoy seeing him get so worked up.”
Amenislo groaned. “I will be punished…”
“I would enjoy