Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [156]
Urgency prompted him to begin the descent at once, instead of waiting until twilight. The sun’s rays struck the eastern ramparts with the intensity of a searchlight, but, he assured himself, his tanned body and the soldier’s brown linen kilt were almost the same color as the stone, and it was a lot easier to find hand- and footholds in daylight. He was making excellent time when he sensed movement on the hillside below and paused to look down.
Like his own, the man’s form was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding rock. Ramses didn’t see him until he moved again, rising to his feet and raising the bow he held. Ramses acknowledged the salute with a wave before proceeding.
The arrow grazed his forearm. It was only a slight injury, but it was enough to make his left hand lose its grip and throw him off balance. His effort to break his fall only made the process more prolonged and unpleasant; it was a relief when his head hit the stone and the pain went away.
“We need to think of a way of ridding ourselves of the servants,” I said, sipping my coffee—and mentally thanking Sethos for the treat. It must have been he who had brought it. He was certainly a man who liked his little comforts.
“Why?” Daoud inquired. “They are friendly people.”
“Hmmm,” said Emerson, who thought he understood the reason for my suggestion. “Do you think you could bring yourself to be very friendly to the kind woman who keeps bringing you food?”
“I am friendly to her,” said Daoud in surprise.
“Hmmm,” said Emerson again. “Er—you see, Daoud, there is a chance—a far-out chance—that MacFerguson may be able to carry out his promise. If the servants are not here, Nefret won’t have to stay in that dark place alone, we can have her with us.”
“Ah,” said Daoud.
“So…er…If we can convince Merasen and his father that there are spies among the servants—people friendly to us—very friendly—people who would help us escape…”
“I will ask her,” Daoud said.
Emerson was trying to think of a way of explaining the idea of seduction to a man who had never in his life practiced that art, and Selim was chortling behind his hand when Merasen and his lot burst into the room. One look at Merasen’s face told me we were in trouble. It positively glowed with triumph. He didn’t even wait for his troop to search the room, but came straight to me.
“I have him,” he exclaimed like a rooster crowing. “In my prison. Your brave, clever son.”
From Manuscript H
Ramses woke up with a vague memory of a dream that had involved rough hands and futile, painful struggle, and darkness. And laughter. Hearty, triumphant laughter that was worst of all.
It was still dark, but he knew he was awake because the pain was back. He must have hit every bloody rock on the way down to…where? He had no idea where he was. The air was close and hot, the darkness broken by a single ray of feeble light. As his eyes adjusted, he realized he was lying against a stone wall, with stone under him and more of the same overhead. The light came from a small opening in the ceiling.
It hadn’t been a dream. Hands had pried him off the surface on which he landed, subdued his ineffectual attempts to fight them off, and brought him here. The location of the place was still a mystery, but there was no doubt about its nature, or about the identity of the man responsible. He’d heard that merry boyish laughter before.
“Goddamn it,” he said, not loudly but with feeling.
“You speak English! Who are you?”
The voice startled him so that he made the mistake of sitting up. Once he’d got that far, there didn’t seem to be any point in lying down again. He got his back against the wall and peered into the gloom. Not far away he made out a human form. The room—cell, to give it its proper name—was only eight feet square.
“More to the point, who are you?” he demanded. “MacFerguson?”
“Who the devil is MacFerguson?”
“Never mind. You must be Moroney, then. Unless you’re Kevin O’Connell or the Reverend