Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [143]
“She must do as she likes. Perhaps—who knows?—she will want to stay—with me.”
Emerson’s hands clenched into fists. It was all I could do not to slap the smile off the boy’s face, but I contained my wrath and stepped on Emerson’s foot as a gentle reminder that he should do the same. It was useless trying to negotiate with Merasen. He had no intention of allowing Nefret to leave the Holy City. If he could not persuade her—and he was vain enough to harbor that delusion—he would employ other means.
“Let us talk about the weapons, then,” I said. “How soon can we leave?”
“As soon as you have played your part in the ceremony. Your son must be there too. Send for him.”
“How?” I asked.
Merasen made it clear that that was our problem and that it must be solved before the ceremony took place. On our way out Emerson looked into the sleeping chamber and said good-bye to the ladies. A duet of giggles answered him.
“That was unnecessary and rather rude,” I said.
“I enjoy stirring the little weasel up,” said Emerson. “A pretty proposition, was it not? Does he really suppose we are dim-witted enough to believe he will let us go after he’s got his bloody guns?”
“Like most venal persons he believes what he wants to believe,” I said thoughtfully. “Emerson—what if his talk about the weapons is only a blind? It would take us weeks to go and return with them. I think he means to act sooner, with or without his father’s knowledge. He was very insistent that we all be present at the ceremony.”
“Hmph.” Emerson stroked his beautifully shaven chin. “Perhaps they mean to assassinate us after we have done the job for them.”
“Goodness only knows. I will have to think about it. And about poor Captain Moroney. Merasen must have clapped him into a dungeon cell. I expect he is frightfully uncomfortable.”
“Serves him right,” snapped Emerson. “He is the least of my concerns at this moment. Why didn’t you ask Merasen about the other white man?”
“Because he would have looked me straight in the eye and lied. Ah—there are Selim and Daoud. They look pleased with themselves.”
We met at the foot of the staircase. “I have taken many excellent photographs,” Selim announced. “Shall I put the camera in its box now?”
The box was empty. “No one saw you?” I spoke in a low voice to Daoud.
“No, Sitt. Those who did not go with you were having their pictures taken by Selim. He made them stand with their backs to the house.”
It was hard to turn my back on the house, hard to think that Ramses was so close and yet so unreachable. I hoped—I sincerely hoped—that Daria was safe with him.
“We had better hurry,” I said. “It is almost time for our meeting with the king.”
“How do you know?”
“My watch, of course. I have kept it tucked away from dust and sand and remembered to wind it every day.” I took it from my pocket. “Half past three.”
“Yes, but you don’t know that his fourth hour is the same as four P.M.” Emerson’s face took on an abstracted expression. “I wonder how they do measure time. Most people without mechanical means count the hours from sunrise, and their hours are not sixty minutes long. The Egyptians—”
His steps had slowed as he lost himself in scholarly speculation. I tugged at him to keep him moving and gave him a little poke to get him back on track.
“Hurry, my dear. I am breathless with anticipation and suspense.”
His Majesty’s fourth hour was not four P.M. That hour came and went. The shadows lengthened and faded into the dusk. Anticipation had given way to doubt and then to despair before I heard at last the sounds I had been waiting for. I sprang to my feet as the curtain was swept aside by two of the inevitable, and in this case numerous, guards. They spread out across the chamber, peering into corners and looking into the adjoining rooms. Not until their commander had announced that the coast was clear (I translate idiomatically) did the king enter. Instead of sending for us, he had come in person—and he had brought her with him. She was veiled from head to foot and attended