Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [159]
“Don’t lose your head, Emerson,” I implored. Emerson had begun growling and his fists were clenched. “I will be back before long. Won’t I, Merasen?”
“Oh, yes, Sitt. The Father of Curses has called me a liar. I will prove I spoke truth. Get the things you need.”
As I collected my supplies I heard Merasen holding forth in the next room. He must be very sure of himself, for the facade of boyish goodwill had been replaced by arrogance.
“You are the liars,” he declared. “You told the king you would speak for him, but you did not mean what you said. You sent your son to plot with Tarek. I am the defender of my father’s throne, I am the one who sent spies into Tarek’s camp, and now you will do as I say or your son will die.”
“You can’t have it both ways, you know,” said Emerson. “If he dies you will have no hold over us.”
Merasen smiled. “I did not say he would die quickly. Come, Sitt.”
“We are going with her,” said Emerson. “As far as your house, at any rate. That is not negotiable, so don’t bother arguing with me.”
Merasen snarled but gave in. I found this worrisome, and said so to Emerson as we walked behind him. “Ramses must be badly hurt, Emerson, or Merasen wouldn’t be so anxious to have me tend to him.”
“You forget our son’s histrionic talents,” said Emerson. “Good Gad, Peabody, Ramses has as many lives as a cat and an inventiveness equal to your own.”
“That is true. Thank you, Emerson, for reassuring me.”
“He was wrong to give Merasen the benefit of the doubt, anyhow,” said Emerson. “Villains are not always villains, and heroes are not always heroic; it is a pleasure to find a villain who is exactly what we took him to be.”
Merasen’s men held Emerson and the other two back while Merasen marched me up the stairs without giving me time for fond farewells. Emerson’s final words were not a fond farewell. “If you do not bring her back, Merasen, I will find you and tear you limb from limb.”
I had never visited any of the Holy City’s prisons, but I knew each nobleman had his own. It was quite a feudal system, really. Merasen’s cells were at the back of the house and below it. Stygian darkness filled the narrow passages. Torches were lit and the escort proceeded along a tunnel lined with heavy barred doors. My sympathies went out to the other hapless prisoners who lay behind those doors. Moroney must be one of them.
I did not have to feign my cry of distress when I knelt beside the still form of my son. He was covered with bruises, and patches of dried blood marked his body. His long lashes fluttered pathetically, and then one eye opened—and closed in an unmistakable wink.
“Meine geliebte Mutter,” murmured Ramses, softly but, of course, with perfect articulation. “Wo bist du? Warum kommst du nicht?”
“What does he say?” Merasen demanded. “What language is that?”
“He always reverts to German when he is ill or delirious,” I said, grateful for the hint and weak-limbed with relief. “Ich bin hier, mein Sohn. Any broken bones? Dizziness or clouded vision? Your father and I have not been harmed. What have you with the girl done?”
“Talk English!” Merasen shouted, jumping up and down with aggravation. His shout covered the gurgle of amusement that had escaped Ramses, and his murmur of “Straight to the point as always.”
“I only asked about his injuries,” I explained indignantly. “Someone give me a bowl of water. Thank you—oh, it is you, Captain Moroney. Forgive me, I neglected to wish you good morning. I was concerned about my son, you understand.”
“With good reason, ma’am,” said Moroney, blinking rapidly. “What can I do to help?”
“Keep quiet,” I said. Ramses had started talking again. In broken but coherent phrases he brought me quickly up-to-date on the situation. It was useful information, especially his arrangement with Tarek.
“Yes,” I exclaimed, forgetting myself for a moment. “That should—er—das ist ganz praktisch.”
“What does he say?” Merasen shrieked. “Ask him what Tarek plans! When will he attack?