Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [113]
“Reminds me of the time we insisted on visiting the cemetery, and the captain of the guard was torn between violating his orders and interfering with us,” remarked Emerson, listening with interest to the debate between Ramses and the officer in charge of the detachment. “I wonder what has become of Harsetef? I gave him one of my pipes as a memento.”
“Yes, my dear, I remember. Ah, Ramses. Have you won your point?”
“I bullied him into letting us go up to the facade,” Ramses replied. “It would be all his life is worth to let us enter.”
“A happy thought,” said Emerson. “I don’t care for this fellow’s tone. Harsetef, now—”
“This fellow and the others are Merasen’s personal guard, Father. He’s won them over by bribes or promises of promotion, and it would be a waste of breath to argue with them. Let’s take what advantage we can.”
We inspected the front and two sides of the temple. There were paved walkways on either side, which ended abruptly in solid walls of stone.
“Curse it,” I said, as we returned to the facade. “I was afraid of that. The inner apartments are rock-cut into the cliffs. You haven’t a chance of getting in there, Ramses.”
“Not necessarily true, Mother. Look up. No, don’t stare! Just a casual glance.”
The cliff face over and behind the roof of the temple had been cut back and smoothed. There were several openings, black against the golden glow of the rock—squared-off openings, obviously man-made. I hadn’t seen them the night before. I looked from them—twenty feet or more above the roof—to the intent face of my son, and my heart sank.
“You don’t know for sure that they are the windows of the apartments of the High Priestess,” I muttered.
“They must be. One couldn’t keep a woman immured for years without access to air and light. There’s something up there, anyhow.”
He nudged his father, who had ignored his admonition, and was staring fixedly. “The cliff face is as smooth as glass,” said Emerson in a flat voice.
“Not really, Father. Come, let’s go on. Our escort isn’t liking this.”
“Where now?” I asked.
“The village. They aren’t going to like that, either.”
Several flights of steep stairs led down from the roadway to the floor of the valley, where the rekkit village was located. We took the nearest. Emerson, who obviously enjoyed tormenting our guards, gave them no chance to stop us; he pushed past the foursome who were in advance and started down. The steps were so narrow and Emerson is so large that once he was on them no one could get past, and he ignored the officer’s impassioned demands that he stop. We all followed, single file, with Ramses behind me holding me firmly by the coattail and Daoud bringing up the rear and the officer shouting loudly and ineffectually.
Like most villages, this one had grown more or less at random, with winding paths leading off from the wider street that ended in a central space with a stone-rimmed well and a few spindly trees. Some of the houses were built of mud brick, some of reeds and sticks like the Nubian tukhuls. The air was humid and hot; the sun reached these sunken depths only at midday, and deep springs moistened the air.
The place had changed, though, since our last visit. Drainage ditches and low embankments controlled the water that had formerly turned the paths into mud. They were relatively clear of rotting vegetation and human trash. One could not say that the air was pure and odor-free, not with so many people living in so confined a space, but the improvement was impressive.
There was another difference. Few people had the temerity to show themselves when we had been there before. Now faces appeared at window apertures; some persons lifted the mats that hung over the doorways and fixed wondering eyes upon us. By the time we reached the village square, a small group of the bolder spirits had gathered, keeping a safe