Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [114]
Emerson inspected them with a pleased smile and cleared his throat.
“Emerson, no. Don’t make a speech,” I begged.
“But, Peabody, don’t you understand what an astonishing thing this is?” His sapphirine orbs blazed with excitement. “Tarek didn’t simply give these people better living conditions, he gave them the will and the ambition to live better! He has been out of power for months, yet the streets are still clean and the drainage ditches maintained. They are doing it themselves! They have gained the courage to defy their oppressors, to venture forth in order to…Here, now, none of that!”
Turning with pantherlike quickness, he snatched the spear from one of the guards. The others lowered their weapons and backed off, staring at Emerson.
“Time for a little subversion,” said Emerson. His arm went back, balancing the spear. It was aimed at the captain, whose face had gone as white as the shade of his complexion allowed.
“Emerson,” I murmured. “You wouldn’t…Would you?”
“They’ve all heard the stories,” said Emerson. “Look at them. Ramses, translate if you please.”
It was one of Emerson’s more eloquent speeches, and Ramses did it justice, pitching his voice into a fair imitation of Emerson’s basso.
“The Father of Curses has returned! The curse of the gods will fall on any who do not obey him. He could drive this weapon through your body, but he spares your life because he is merciful as well as all-powerful. On your knees before him!”
A positive drumbeat of knees hit the ground.
Ramses let out his breath. “Congratulations, Father. May I suggest that we leave, before one of them has time to think it over.”
“Have you any objection to my smiling and waving?” Emerson inquired.
“Not at all, sir. Smile and wave all you like—as we walk away, slowly and with dignity.”
Most of the audience had fled into nearby houses and shops when the scuffle broke out, the women pulling their children with them, the old gentlemen tottering as fast as they could. One woman had retreated only as far as the doorway of her house, where she stood holding the matting aside. She was a little person, like most of the rekkit, dark-skinned and thin. Her black hair was liberally streaked with gray and her coarse brown garment barely covered limbs that showed the swollen joints of rheumatism. Her arms were folded across her breast. Her black eyes moved from me to Ramses, and then to Emerson; he directed one of his broadest smiles at her, and she dropped to her knees, raising her hands in salute. “We serve the king,” she cried. “The king who is our friend.”
She had, by chance or intent, used simple words. Emerson’s eyes flashed. “We too serve him,” he said loudly. “Ahem. Ramses, tell her—”
“Not now, Father, please. Let us go.”
Emerson allowed himself to be led away. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw the woman was still on her knees, watching us.
“Did you learn what you hoped to learn?” I inquired of my son.
“It was a useful encounter.” He took my arm to help me up the stairs. “There is one more piece of information I would like to verify, but I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.”
“What is that?” I inquired.
We had reached the top of the stairs. Ramses turned and looked down into the village. “There are paths leading north from the village, into the fields and beyond. The rekkit once had free access to the northern valley and their kin in villages there. As we saw, the pass is now blocked and guarded. I suspect the paths are guarded too, with the equivalent of roadblocks at strategic intervals. Shall we go back to our rooms now? We’ve a lot of planning to do.”
“Do you still mean to leave tonight?” I asked, refraining with some difficulty from trying to dissuade him.
“Yes. I have a strange foreboding,” said Ramses, smiling at me, “that from now on your movements are going to be even more circumscribed.”
I noted the pronoun.
His foreboding, which I shared, was correct. We were at dinner—roast goose, bread, and onions—when we had a visitor. Poor chubby