Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [123]
Moroney’s premonitions had been correct. Running footsteps heralded the arrival of Merasen, accompanied by several soldiers. He was flushed with fury and haste. “Why did you come here?” he demanded. “The king has sent for you. You insult the king.”
“No, no,” Emerson said soothingly. “There was no insult intended. We came to consult you, Merasen, before we spoke with your father, so that we would know what to say if he asked us about you.”
It was a fairly direct threat and Merasen recognized it as such. He bit his lip. “He will not ask. You will not tell him. I am the only one who will help you leave the Holy Mountain!”
“Well, well,” said Emerson. “That is still open to negotiation, eh? You were not honest with us. You did not tell us our—er—friend was here.”
Merasen glowered at Moroney, who was edging toward the door of his room. “He is no friend of yours. He forced me to steal from you. He killed your servant.”
Moroney started to protest. Emerson waved him to silence. “Your word against his, Merasen. What about the other Englishman?”
Merasen’s youthful countenance took on a look of innocent astonishment. “What other Englishman?”
“Never mind, Emerson,” I said. “He never admits to anything unless he is caught red-handed. We may as well go and see the king.”
“May as well,” Emerson agreed. “Come along, Merasen.”
“You will not tell the king what I said about the guns. It is to be a surprise for him. He would not believe you.” Merasen was nothing if not resilient. He smiled. “Your word against mine.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. “We shall see.”
Emerson refused to be hurried. He strolled along, deep in thought, chewing on the stem of his pipe. After a time he said to me, “Merasen non parle français?”
I understood what he meant, even though his command of that language is exiguous. When his limited vocabulary fails him, he picks a word at random, and he has never bothered to learn the gender of nouns. “I don’t suppose so,” I replied.
“Très bien.” Having got one phrase right, Emerson smirked complacently and went on, “We have placed him over a container—”
“A what? Oh.”
“—and play him like a cat (m.) with a mouse (m.).”
“Yes, my dear, I see what you mean. But please don’t speak French anymore, it makes my head ache.”
Our audience that morning was private. The king was alone, and obviously put out, but the only signs of anger he allowed to escape him were a hard stare and a brusque order. “Sit.”
“Thank you,” said Emerson, helping me to a chair.
“Send them away” was the next order, indicating Selim and Daoud.
“Send him away,” said Emerson, indicating Merasen.
The boy’s jaw dropped. “No. The king does not understand—”
“Oh, I think we can make do without you,” said Emerson. He went on in Meroitic, “Send him away, I send them away.”
A spark of humor lit the king’s eyes. He gestured at his son. Merasen dared not disobey; he left with dragging steps, looking over his shoulder. After Selim and Daoud had left the room, Emerson settled himself comfortably onto a chair.
“Good,” he said. “We talk—you, I—a man to a man.”
The king glanced at me. I smiled pleasantly.
“My son,” said Emerson. “Where?”
“I do not know.” He spoke slowly and in a very loud voice, as people do when they are trying to communicate with someone who does not understand their language. “Do you know?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you, you bastard,” said Emerson in English.
“Just ignore the question,” I advised.
“Hmmm, yes,” said Emerson. “My daughter,” he went on in Meroitic. “See, talk. Now.”
The discussion continued for quite some time, slowed, as the Reader no doubt realizes, by the difficulty of communication. Emerson had to resort to sign language, and on two occasions, to drawings penciled on the stone dais. Somewhat to my surprise, the king patiently persevered. From time to time, when they hit an impassable language barrier, he looked at me, and I was able to supply the essential word. There