Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [115]
His attempt to beat a hasty retreat was forestalled by Emerson, for no reason that I could see except my husband’s delight in tormenting the fellow. Lifting Amenislo onto tiptoe, he began shouting indignantly. We were as anxious to see the king as he was to see us. He had deceived us, whereas we had done only what we had been told we might do. We would go now, this instant, to complain.
“Not now,” Amenislo gurgled. “The king rests. The king is with his women. The king dines. The king—”
“Oh, bah,” said Emerson, tiring of the game. “Go away, you miserable little traitor.”
He gave him a shove that sent him staggering out the door.
“Apparently you were right,” I said to Ramses. “I wonder precisely what it was we did today that annoyed His Majesty.”
It took us several hours to make our arrangements, such as they were. We went through our baggage looking for anything that might be useful to Ramses. It made a pitifully small bundle. As I was beginning to expect of him, Daoud contributed the most useful items—one of the hooded cloaks worn by the camel riders and a coil of rope. He tried to make Ramses take the weapons, but was refused.
“I have my knife,” Ramses said, clapping him on the back. “And you may need them more than I. Thank you, Daoud. The rope is a godsend. Whatever made you think of bringing it?”
“The Sitt Hakim carries rope, to tie up prisoners,” Daoud explained. “I thought on such a long, dangerous journey we might have to tie up many prisoners.”
The hour was late, the lamps burning low by the time we had finished discussing contingency plans. Obviously we could not anticipate everything, but we had at least arranged for a possible means of communication. Ramses had inspected the gully below the garden wall and thought he detected a way of descending into it from the far side. The vines that covered the wall and hung down on either side were not strong enough to bear his weight, but he might be able to leave a message.
When Ramses came out of his room, wearing only a knee-length kilt and buckling a knife belt around his narrow waist, my breath caught. At least he looked the part; I had trimmed his hair into a fair imitation of the short curled wig, and in the shadows he bore an unnerving—and reassuring—resemblance to the men of the Holy Mountain. He came straight to me and, after a moment of hesitation, gave me a quick, awkward hug. “Don’t worry, Mother. It’s all right, you know.”
Selim and Daoud embraced him in the Arab style, and then he turned to his father and held out his hand. “Good-bye, Father.”
“Not good-bye,” said Emerson hoarsely. “À bientôt. Good luck, my boy.”
Ramses strapped his bundle onto his back and put on the long robe, pulling the hood over his head. “Ready,” he said. “Go ahead, Father.”
Emerson nodded brusquely and went to the door. As we had already ascertained, it was barred from the outside.
We had rehearsed our movements in advance, and Ramses had coached Emerson in what he was to say. He proceeded to say it, at the top of his lungs, as he pounded on the portal. “Help! Help! Murder! Thieves! Attack! Hurry! Murder!”
We heard the bar being lifted and cries of alarm. Daoud, Selim, and I began running back and forth, shouting. The door was flung back, and a half dozen men rushed into the room. We converged upon them, waving our arms in seeming agitation (and, in Daoud’s case, in calculated assault). Out of the corner of my eye I saw a lithe, dark form slip from behind the hanging into the corridor beyond.
From Manuscript H
As Ramses moved noiselessly along the passageway, his father’s furious voice, amplified by echoes, followed him. “My daughter and now my son! Anubis take you; what have you done with my son?”
It had been his mother’s idea to pretend he had gone missing, as mysteriously as Nefret. She was a great believer in taking