Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [11]
I nodded acknowledgment, sipping my whiskey, and trying to collect my scattered wits. The young man bore a certain resemblance to his brother, with his well-cut features and well-made frame—or rather, I told myself, his brother as I remembered him. He must be about eighteen, the same age Tarek had been ten years ago.
“It is good to see you too,” I said, politely if somewhat mendaciously—for I suspected his arrival meant trouble. It wasn’t likely that Tarek would send an emissary all that long, dangerous way simply to say hello. “Er—Ramses, perhaps you can lend our guest some clothes.”
“I have clothes, English clothes.” The boy indicated a bundle at his feet. “I will put them on?”
It was a question, not an offer; I rose to the occasion, as any good hostess should when confronted with well-meaning eccentricity. Smiling, I shook my head. “Not if you would rather not. The weather is extremely warm.”
Nefret, who had exhibited growing signs of impatience, burst out, “Aunt Amelia, perhaps you can persuade Merasen to tell us why he is here. I doubt that he undertook that long, arduous journey simply to make our acquaintance.”
“My thought exactly,” I agreed. “He has not confided in you and Ramses?”
“No, he was too busy fighting with Ramses,” Nefret said caustically.
The boy grinned engagingly. “Tarek said Ramses would now be a man. I wished to see what sort of man.”
“You found out,” said Ramses curtly.
The overt antagonism and the touch of braggadocio were so unlike him I looked at him in surprise. Merasen only smiled more winningly.
“And she”—a little bow in the direction of Nefret—“she is even more beautiful than Tarek said. She is not your wife?”
Ramses’s countenance became even stonier. Nefret said, “I told you, we are brother and sister, in affection if not by birth.”
Realizing, as did I, that the monarchs of the Holy City, like Egyptian pharaohs, often married full or half sisters, Nefret amplified the statement. “I am no man’s wife, Merasen, nor about to be.”
“Now that we have settled that,” I said. “What is the message, Merasen?”
“It is for the Father of Curses.”
“Oh, dear,” I murmured. “Ramses, will you go and get your father? You needn’t mention the identity of our guest,” I added.
Ramses smiled and went out of the room, leaving the door open.
“And you, Nefret,” I went on, “might just warn Gargery before he brings the tea tray. I don’t want any more cups broken.”
“He knows,” Nefret replied. “We met him in the hall. He was absolutely thrilled.”
“He would be,” I muttered.
I heard the rattle of the tea cart, which was coming at a great pace. Emerson got there before it. I could tell from his appearance that he had been hard at work, for he had removed as many of his garments as was proper. His shirt was open and the sleeves rolled above the elbow, baring his muscular forearms.
“What is all this?” he demanded. “Ramses said—” His eyes lit upon the prince, who had risen and was making his obeisance. “Ah,” said Emerson, without so much as blinking. “A visitor from the Lost Oasis? Sit down, my boy, sit down. I am—”
“Emerson, the Father of Curses,” the boy breathed. “Now that I see you, I know the stories are true. That you drove a spear straight through a man’s body and killed another with your bare hands, and fought a hundred men with sword in hand to help Tarek to the throne.”
Emerson drew himself up to his full height, basking in the admiration that filled the young man’s eyes. “At the bottle already, Peabody?” he inquired, smirking at me. I looked accusingly at Ramses. He shook his head. Ramses preferred equivocation