Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [112]
“We will meet again soon,” Merasen said, no longer smiling. “And perhaps—another wrestling match?”
“Any time,” Ramses said.
“Well, well,” said Emerson, after the door had closed behind our visitor. “I now know what Merasen’s title is, or should be: Chief Liar of the King. He can’t even stick to a single story. I felt as if I were trying to nail down a gust of wind.”
“I wonder if we are doing him an injustice,” Ramses said slowly. “We are judging him by the standards of our own culture, which is not his. He may honestly believe he has not acted against his own moral code.”
“Oh, come,” Emerson exclaimed. “There is no culture with which I am familiar, including that of ancient Egypt, that does not condemn murder.”
“We can’t prove he killed Ali,” Ramses argued.
His father gave him a critical look. “You are leaning over backward to be fair because you dislike the fellow so much. It is an admirable quality for a clergyman, but it is damned impractical.
“At any rate,” Emerson continued, “he confirmed our theory about Tarek’s whereabouts. He is holding out in the northern part of the valley, and as we saw, neither side can force the pass without considerable losses. Guns in the hands of Zekare—”
“He doesn’t want weapons for his father,” Ramses said flatly. “I think he has his eye on the throne. He might be able to pull it off if he had our enthusiastic cooperation, and enough modern weapons—and Nefret.”
“What?” I cried.
“He didn’t say so in so many words, but it was implicit in his reference to her place in the temple and in the palace. The High Priestess does not serve for life; like the handmaidens, she is married off after a certain time. And she would remain here, as hostage, while we returned to the Sudan to get the damned weapons. Would you care to speculate on what would happen to her while we were away?”
“No,” said Emerson through his teeth. “I would not. What the devil, Ramses, one minute you are trying to make out a case for Merasen and the next minute—”
“I was simply considering all the possibilities.”
“Well, don’t,” snapped Emerson. “We aren’t leaving Nefret here, no matter who promises what.”
“There’s a chance for us in that scheme, though,” I said hopefully. “If we are allowed to get a caravan together, we can snatch Nefret away at the last minute and make a run for it.”
“Hotly pursued by soldiers, some of them armed with our rifles?” Ramses inquired caustically. “And what about Tarek? And the rekkit? Sorry, Mother, but it’s back to my original plan. We may have to start—and win—a civil war before we can get away with Nefret. Are you ready to go out? A bit more reconnoitering would seem to be in order.”
Emerson followed me into my room. “Peabody, my dear,” he began.
“Emerson, he is only a boy—barely twenty. You must forbid him to do this!”
“He is the only one of us who can do it,” said Emerson, taking me into his arms. “He may be young in years, but he’s proved himself more than once. There is a great deal at stake, my love. Don’t cry. It will be all right.”
“I am not crying. I am simply annoyed with Ramses for taking so much on himself.”
We made our way directly to the temple area, and I pointed out the small shrine where I had been the previous night. It was a miniature version—a condensed version, one might say—of the larger temples, with a single columned courtyard, an antechamber, and the inner room where the ceremony had taken place. In Egyptian temples the innermost shrine was usually small, just large enough to contain the divine statue. Such was not the case here, as we had observed.
“Why don’t we just march up there and ask to see the High Priestess?” I suggested.
“Barge straight ahead? I like the idea,” said Emerson, fingering the cleft in his chin.
Ramses was already halfway up the steep causeway, with two of the guards in agitated pursuit. They had to run like fury to get ahead of him. He stopped when they blocked his path, and as we joined him I heard him expostulating.