Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [120]
I dismissed this last question as unimportant—an error on my part, as events were to prove. “We neither of us speak the language fluently, Emerson.”
“I believe I will be able to get my point across,” said Emerson.
The door was not barred. Emerson had got that point across by wrenching the heavy wooden bar out of its sockets and carrying it with him into our room. Looking neither right nor left, he pushed the guards aside and proceeded on his way, followed by me and Selim and Daoud. No one attempted to stop us until we reached the open salon that gave onto the terrace, where we encountered the captain of our guard. He informed us that the king wished to see us at once.
Emerson’s eyes brightened. “Tell him, wait,” he said. “Come, lady.”
“Three imperatives in a row,” I remarked, taking the hand he offered. “Can you explain to this agitated person, without imperatives, that we mean to call on the high priests?”
“I don’t intend to explain anything, my dear. We will go to the Great Temple. One of the bastards is bound to be hanging about there.”
When we reached the level of the road my eyes turned, not toward the temple but toward the rugged cliffs on the north. The newly risen sun illumined the western side, a pattern of dark shadows like the stitching of a crazy quilt. Was Ramses up there, making his slow and perilous way toward the mist-shielded northern part of the oasis? If his hopes of assistance from the villagers had failed, he might have sought refuge in the subterranean passages beneath our former habitation. I didn’t know which to hope for. I didn’t know which to fear more.
“Don’t stare,” said Emerson, steadying me as I stumbled.
Selim broke into a fit of the giggles when we passed between the great pylons that bore our images, but the sight of the courtyard beyond sobered him. Colonnades, supported by large pillars, lined all four sides, and huge bronze braziers flanked the doorway. The flames flickering in them were pale in the sunlight. The altar in the center reeked with the remains of the morning sacrifice. Priests were busy cutting up the carcass of the ox; the meat would be distributed to the temple servants after it had been presented to the god. It was a very practical arrangement, satisfying both the spiritual needs of the god and the alimentary needs of his priests. Our appearance brought all activity to a standstill; everybody stared, but we got as far as the inner colonnade before a priest summoned up nerve enough to stop us and ask what we wanted.
After a number of inappropriate imperatives we managed to recall a few appropriate nouns and were informed that the gentlemen we wanted were not at the temple, but at home. Apparently they left the daily rituals to subordinates except on special occasions. Relieved at seeing us go away, the priest took us back to the pylon and pointed out the high priests’ dwellings.
“They don’t shut the men up in stone cells,” said Emerson, studying the columned facades and green gardens. “That is Murtek’s former abode; it has passed on to his successor as High Priest of Isis.”
Instead of mounting the steps toward the dwelling, he set off down the road at a brisk trot. We were all caught off guard, including our escort; I had to run to catch him up. “What are you up to now?” I panted.
“I am making use of the element of surprise,” said Emerson. He caught me round the waist and swept me along with him, back the way we had come, past the palace, and then, without pausing, up a ramp toward a stately villa high on the hill. “Tarek’s house.” I managed to get the words out, though Emerson’s arm was squeezing my ribs.
“He’s certainly not there