Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [12]
The tea cart rattled in, propelled by Gargery. He was alone; either the maids had been too timid to face the visitor, or, what was more likely, Gargery had seized on an excuse to prolong the service of the genial beverage so that he could listen to our conversation. I had no intention of discussing our visitor’s purpose in Gargery’s presence, so I dismissed the latter, telling him we would wait on ourselves. He left the door slightly ajar. I slammed it and heard a muffled yelp.
I then turned my accusing gaze on my son. “You told your father.”
“No, Mother, honestly.”
“Emerson, how dare you pretend you aren’t surprised?”
Emerson tried to keep a straight face, but he could not. “I saw him through the study window,” he admitted with a grin. “Almost fell off my chair. Well, well. You are welcome in my house…What is your name, my friend? You may leave off bowing,” he added graciously.
The young man drew himself up. “I am Merasen. I bring a message to the Father of Curses from Tarek, my brother and my king.”
Emerson held out his hand.
“I do not have the writing,” the boy admitted. “It was lost when the slavers took me. But I know the words. I will speak them. ‘Come to me, my friends who once saved me. Danger threatens and only you can help me now.’ ”
Curse it, I thought. Glancing at Ramses, I saw my sentiments mirrored in his normally inexpressive face. The expression—tightened lips, narrowed eyes—was fleeting. Emerson—it was just like him!—responded with chivalrous, unquestioning enthusiasm. “Certainly, certainly! How can we do less?”
“Emerson,” I said repressively. “You might at least ask what sort of danger Tarek is in before you commit yourself, and us, to what you once referred to as a harebrained adventure.”
“I agree,” said Ramses.
“That was quite different,” Emerson exclaimed. “On that occasion we were following a rumor and a questionable map, and that villainous servant of Reggie Forthright had poisoned our camels. This time—”
“Professor!” Nefret jumped to her feet. “Excuse me. But could we, for once, stick to the point instead of arguing? Aunt Amelia has asked a sensible question. Merasen—what is the danger that threatens Tarek?”
“It is a strange sickness. Not one of our priests can cure it. It comes and goes away, and each time it leaves the sick one weaker. Two times Tarek has fallen ill. He is a strong man and it will take long to kill him, but now the child is sick too. He is Tarek’s heir, his only true son. It is for him Tarek sends to you.”
“Good Lord,” Nefret gasped. “The little boy can’t be more than ten years old. We must go, of course.”
“Let’s hear a little more about this,” Ramses said coolly. “How long has it been since you left the Holy Mountain? Surely you did not cross the desert in the heat of summer.”
I understood what he was getting at. The journey must have taken weeks, if not months. It might be too late for Tarek and his child. Nefret understood too. Her face paled. “What difference does it make?” she asked passionately. “There is a chance we might be in time, a chance we must—”
“I am not denying your premise.” Ramses’s voice was like icy sleet on flame. “But we need to learn all we can before we decide what to do. Tell us about your journey, Merasen.”
It was a riveting narrative, for the boy spoke with considerable eloquence. He had left the Holy Mountain in the season of Peret—winter—with only six companions. It was a small force to face the peril of the desert, but no more could be spared, for they went in secret, braving the old law of the Holy Mountain that forbade contact with the outside world on pain of death. The others were members of the royal bodyguard, strong men, armed with swords and bows. They had been on their way for several days when they met the caravan—thirty men and as many camels, driving a forlorn line of bound captives.
Slavery had been officially abolished and the trade vigorously suppressed—to the credit of Britain let it be said! But as we all knew, the caravans still