Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [151]
“Perhaps we can persuade his infernal majesty to change the order of the performance,” Emerson said. “Or—here’s an idea—we use the weapons when we stand beside the king at the Window of Appearance.”
“Shoot him, you mean? We can’t do that, Emerson, not in cold blood.”
“I suppose not,” Emerson admitted. “A pity. It would be a superb stroke. I denounce the bastard in ringing tones, and he drops dead at my feet, struck down by the god.”
“Control your rampageous imagination, my dear,” I said with a sympathetic smile. “If we can’t come up with anything better, we will have to act during the ceremony, though not by means of assassination. That is not worthy of us. There. I have put down several of our schemes, and we can only hope to receive a response.”
I gave Emerson the message. When he returned from the garden I inquired, “What time is it?”
“I have no idea,” said Emerson. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I am about to have another attack,” I said, glancing at Daoud’s lady friend, who was watching him shyly from behind a pillar. “A more severe attack.”
Dropping the pencil, I toppled over and began twitching.
“The handmaidens?” Emerson inquired.
“Demonstrate a trifle more agitation, Emerson, if you please.” I let out a resounding shriek. “The handmaidens, the king, Merasen—I want the whole city to know, tonight, that I have been poisoned or possibly seized by divine frenzy.”
“Very well,” said Emerson. “Here, Peabody, don’t overdo it, you will dislocate something if you throw yourself around in that melodramatic fashion. Daoud, pretend to hold her down, eh?”
The king did not make an appearance, but a good many other people did. Inspired by my growing audience, I screamed and spoke in tongues (French, German, and Latin) and put on a show of struggling against the big, gentle hands of Daoud. One of the handmaidens attempted to force a dose of medicine between my lips; I recognized it by the smell as some kind of opium derivative and knocked it out of her hand. It was rather fatiguing, and I was about to go into a restful coma when Merasen turned up.
“What is wrong with her?” he demanded with a conspicuous absence of concern.
“Poisoned,” Emerson shouted. “Are you the one responsible, you young villain?”
“Why would I do that?” Merasen demanded, backing away from Emerson.
I resumed thrashing about and babbling while they discussed this admittedly reasonable question. Finally Emerson got out the whiskey, and I allowed him to administer a dose as my spasms began to subside.
“I trust only our own medicine,” Emerson said with a generalized glare round the room. “Get out, all of you. All of you, I said.”
As the handmaidens retreated, I bethought me of Nefret. Raising my head, I cried in Meroitic, “The goddess was with me! Divine Isis has blessed me!”
I rolled my eyes back into my head and went limp. Emerson picked me up and carried me into our sleeping chamber. “What was the point of that?” he inquired sotto voce.
“I didn’t want Nefret worrying about me,” I muttered.
“I meant the whole bloody performance,” said Emerson, dumping me somewhat unceremoniously onto the bed.
“I am supposed to be unconscious, Emerson, I cannot continue conversing with you.”
“You are simply trying to avoid answering my question. No one can see or hear us.”
“What about another small sip of whiskey, Emerson?”
Emerson was back sooner than I expected. He caught me investigating the contents of my medical bag.
“I am going to put these bottles and vials on the chest by the bed,” I explained, suiting the action to the words. “In order to add verisimilitude to the claim that I rely on my own medications.”
“How soon do you expect to be fully recovered?” Emerson asked, handing me a cup.
“I haven’t quite decided. But this episode sets a useful precedent, don’t you agree? I can always fall down in a fit during the ceremony.”
“Oh,