Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [158]
He thought a lot about Daria and felt even guiltier for finding delight in those memories.
Chains rattled. Moroney started violently, and Ramses dropped flat onto the floor. “Don’t forget,” he whispered.
They carried torches. The light sent crimson sparks flaring from the points of the spears. Ramses raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare and could have crowed with satisfaction when he saw Merasen, prudently in the rear. The spearman surrounded Moroney and lined up along the floor where Ramses lay. The spears were sharp and pointed directly at his body.
Once his men were in position, Merasen edged into the room. He was decked out in the full regalia of a prince—tight-sleeved tunic and long skirt, diadem, gold-hilted sword and dagger—but instead of the triumphant grin Ramses had expected, his face wore a frown. Ramses groaned and let his arm fall limply to his side.
“Stand up in the presence of your prince,” Merasen ordered. “You were in the camp of Tarek. You will tell me what you did, what you said.”
Ramses muttered something unintelligible and held his breath until—finally!—Moroney spoke his piece. “He’s hurt badly, Merasen. He’s been unconscious most of the time.”
“Do something!” Merasen ordered. “Wake him!”
One of the spear points pricked Ramses’s side, and he decided he had better respond. Merasen appeared to be in a bad mood.
“It was you,” he said faintly. “You dirty little rat.”
The word was the worst insult in the language of the Holy City. Merasen’s upper lip lifted in a snarl. Reassured by Ramses’s apparent helplessness, he pushed one of the spearmen aside and bent over him.
“Guard your tongue or you will suffer for it.”
“You won’t kill me,” Ramses said, hoping he was right.
The spear dug deeper into his side; he flinched, and Merasen smiled. “Not quickly, no. The Father of Curses and his lady know you are my prisoner. They will now act as I order.”
“They won’t take your word, Merasen,” Ramses said, knowing that this time he was right. “You’re such a goddamn liar they wouldn’t believe you if you told them camels can’t fly. They will insist on seeing me.”
Merasen’s expression told him he had struck gold. He groaned again and said in a failing voice, “My mother has medicines…”
Merasen swung on Moroney. “You. Watch over him. If he dies, you will die.”
He stalked out. The door slammed and the chains rattled appropriately.
“They forgot to feed us,” Moroney said. “Maybe they’ve decided to let us die of starvation.”
He seemed to have recovered from his attack of heroism. Ramses wondered how long this mood would last. He pulled himself to a sitting position and used the hem of his kilt to wipe away the blood that was running down his side. “You weren’t listening. My life is as dear to Merasen as his own just now. I’ll lay odds he’s gone to get Mother. It should be an interesting encounter.” He contemplated the stained edge of his garment and added, “Another kilt ruined.”
Merasen was back sooner than I had expected, scowling so blackly that I felt a brief surge of hope that we had succeeded in calling his bluff—or that Ramses had got away. It was only too brief. “Come,” he ordered, beckoning to me. “Bring your medicines. And bandages.”
This time I knew he wasn’t bluffing. I turned in mute appeal to Emerson, who had risen to his feet and was watching Merasen like a cat who is being prevented from getting at a particularly tooth-some mouse.
“Don’t lose your head, Peabody,” he said. “He’s still alive.”
“Yes, and you will keep him alive,” Merasen said. “You