Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [142]
I mustn’t give up. She wouldn’t. She’ll find a way, she and the Professor and dear Daoud and Selim. And Ramses.
Why did he take Daria?
“I am becoming bloody tired of this bloody escort,” said Emerson. “I keep stepping on their heels.”
“Stop here,” I ordered. “The gates of the cemetery are exceedingly picturesque, Selim, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Sitt,” said Selim, aiming the camera. I wondered if there was a plate in it.
“Just a minute. Emerson and I will pose between the pylons.”
We repeated this same maneuver several times, going up staircases and onto private terraces, where we stood grinning and pointing as people do when they are being photographed. Emerson made a point of stopping and chatting—gesturing and smiling, rather—with all the guards we encountered.
“Merasen’s house again?” Emerson inquired between his rows of teeth.
“Our little foray will distract the spectators, to say nothing of the guards, while Selim and Daoud carry out their instructions, and we will have another little chat with Captain Moroney. We ought to be able to make use of him some way or other.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson.
We strolled along the road, looking round like innocent sight-seers and waving at passersby. Some of them flapped their arms back at us, and I heard the word “fly” repeated more than once. I deduced that the news of Daria’s mysterious disappearance was already known. It is really astonishing that people prefer to believe the impossible and fabulous instead of employing common sense.
At a given signal Emerson and I whirled about, as smartly as soldiers, and trotted back the way we had come. One would have supposed our guards would have got accustomed to this sort of thing by now, but they were very slovenly, uttering startled exclamations and jostling one another before they got themselves sorted out. I was pleased to observe that all of them followed us, leaving Selim and Daoud to stroll on with the camera.
“Discipline is very poor,” I panted.
“Save your breath,” Emerson advised. He caught me round the waist and broke into a run.
Since our first visit Merasen had increased the number of his guards. Emerson’s cheery greetings had no effect on this lot; he had to push two of them out of the way. The reception room was unoccupied when we entered it. Emerson hastened at once to the doorway of the room I had identified as Merasen’s bedchamber and pulled the hanging aside.
We had caught him, if not in flagrante, in a state close to it. He was on his feet when we entered, trying to wrap some sort of garment about him. The two young women could not decide whether to burrow into the tumbled bedclothes or make a run for it. They settled on screaming.
“My profound apologies,” Emerson exclaimed. “We were looking for our friend Captain Moroney.”
“He is not here.” Merasen sounded as if he were choking. He managed to fasten the skirt round his waist.
“So I see,” said Emerson. “Shall we retire to the reception room and allow the ladies to—er—in private?”
He bestowed his most winning smile upon those young persons, who immediately stopped screaming and studied his stalwart form with interest.
After taking in the scene in one quick comprehensive glance I had politely turned my back and was pretending to examine the pretty painted reliefs on the nearest column when Merasen followed Emerson out of his room.
“You go too far.” Merasen’s voice was a full octave higher than usual. “I could have you killed for this.”
“I did apologize,” Emerson said self-righteously.
We were wasting time, so I thought it best to intervene. “Your threats are idle, Merasen, and you know it. If you still want those weapons, you had better cooperate with us. Where is Captain Moroney?”
“In a place where you will never find him.” The angry color began to fade from Merasen’s face. “I treated him well, I offered him gold to bring me what I wanted, but he was too quick to agree. I did not trust him to come back, and I do not need him now. You will come back, with the guns, because she will stay with me until you do.”
“Ah,