Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [101]
Ramses came running. “It’s all right, my boy,” said Emerson. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. We have been invited to call on His Majesty.”
Ramses looked in wonder at Amenislo, who was bouncing round the room trying to push at us without actually touching us. “What’s wrong with him?” Ramses asked.
“He keeps telling us to hurry,” said Emerson, motionless as a column.
“Yes, yes, hurry, come!” His eyes moved from the impassive face of Emerson to the equally inexpressive countenance of Emerson’s son, and in desperation he tried the magic word again. “Pliss? Pliss!”
Emerson condescended to take one step toward the open door. “Don’t forget your parasol, Peabody,” he said.
I took the parasol, and the arm Ramses offered, and we followed Emerson and the count. Emerson moved like a mourner at a funeral, with slow, dragging steps. The count twittered and gabbled.
“Something is up,” said Ramses.
“So it seems,” I said uneasily. Badgering Amenislo had been entertaining, but I had begun to think of all the things that might have gone wrong—wrong for us, that is. The capture of Tarek? Something to do with Nefret?
“Could you please pick up the pace a bit, Emerson?” I said.
The small throne room was deserted—not even guards. Amenislo hurried across the room, waving us on. As we proceeded through a series of antechambers and short corridors, I began to hear a strange sound—a murmur like the magnified buzzing of a nest of wasps. It grew louder as we went on, rising to its highest pitch when we entered the chamber where the king awaited us.
He was not alone. Merasen was there, and others who wore the regalia of high rank, including several dressed in the snowy pleated mantles of priests. Zekare was standing at a wide aperture, like an open window with a waist-high sill. Instead of formal robes, he was garbed in a long-sleeved shirt and short kilt, both of them bright with colored embroidery. A sword was slung in a scabbard across his back.
Amenislo flopped down on his face. The king ignored him as if he had been a beetle. With a peremptory gesture he beckoned us to come forward.
The aperture reminded me of the Window of Appearance found in Egyptian palaces, where the king appeared to his adoring subjects and rewarded the worthy with collars of gold. Zekare stepped aside as we approached.
Below the window was a stone-paved court or plaza, opening off the main highway. Plaza and highway, as far as the eye could see, were teeming with people—people of all sorts, men, women and children, including a group of the small, dark-skinned rekkit. Hands brandished stones and sharpened sticks, voices were raised. The words were indistinguishable, but the tone was indubitably hostile. The crowd swayed back and forth, but did not advance, for a very good reason: the spears and arrows of a troop of soldiers drawn up in solid ranks below the window.
At the sight of us the wordless clamor died. A sea of faces stared up at us. (A trite metaphor, I admit, but descriptive.) In the silence the king’s deep baritone rolled out.
“They have come, the Great Ones, as I promised. Now go to your homes.”
No one moved. The king bit his lip in vexation. “Speak to them,” he ordered. “Tell them you are with me in friendship. Tell them to…”
“Disperse,” said Ramses, before I could ask what the word meant.
“Damned if I will,” exclaimed Emerson. “By Gad, the news of our presence has already spread.”
“Father, we must do as he says,” Ramses said urgently. “Or be responsible for a bloody massacre. There are women and children in that crowd.”
“Oh, curse it,” said Emerson, somewhat abashed. “You are correct, of course, my boy. You talk to them. I would choke on the words—even if I knew what words to use.”
Ramses leaned over the wide rim of the window and raised his hands. There was no need to ask for attention; every eye was fixed on him. It was as if no one in that vast assemblage breathed.
I did not understand everything he said, but the gist of it was