Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [166]
“I’ll take the rifle,” Ramses said in a voice that allowed no argument.
Emerson rubbed his chin. “I suppose it might come in useful. But I hate to leave them without some means of defense.”
“A single rifle won’t help much, and it may cause trouble,” I remarked, frowning at Selim. “We’ll keep the pistol—or rather, Daoud will, hidden as before.”
“Don’t let her have it,” Emerson said, pointing at me. “And don’t shoot anyone unless you must. We are trying to avoid bloodshed, not cause it. Peabody, you know what to do. If they come for you, don’t resist unless they offer you bodily harm or try to separate you. Stall as long as you can. When they learn I have gone—”
“There is no need to repeat yourself, Emerson. You can depend on me, I believe, to come up with an appropriate strategy, whatever circumstances may arise. And may I add that your wholehearted confidence in me—”
“No, I beg you will not,” said Emerson. His manly tones faltered, and he cleared his throat. “I…er…”
“Chin up, Emerson,” I said. “In my opinion it is most unlikely that Zekare will allow us to be killed, and if he throws us in a dank, dark cell you will free us in due course.”
“Quite,” said Emerson. “Hmph. All right, Ramses, let us be off. There’s no need for secrecy now. Straight ahead at full speed, that’s our method. Er—à bientôt, Peabody. I know you still have that pistol of yours. Try not to shoot yourself in the foot.”
“À bientôt, Emerson. Try not to get yourself shot.”
“Be careful, Professor,” Nefret whispered. “Ramses—”
“I’ll look after him,” Ramses said with a smile at his father.
Tears filled her eyes and overflowed. Ramses took a step toward her.
“Oh, curse it,” said Emerson. “Come along, Ramses, I can’t stand this sort of thing.”
From Manuscript H
“The tricky part will be getting past the guards and across the Great Road to the stairs,” said Emerson, as they hurried along the turns in the corridor. “Are we adequately disguised, do you think?”
Ramses glanced at his father. He had never seen a less convincing disguise. The robe was too short by at least a foot, and Emerson didn’t know how to walk wearing skirts. The wig had been made for a man with a smaller head and less hair; it sat precariously on top of Emerson’s head. “The rifle doesn’t help,” he said tactfully.
“True. Give it me.”
Mine not to reason why, Ramses thought. He handed the weapon to his father, who clasped it to his breast and wrapped his voluminous sleeves around it.
“All right,” Ramses said. “Wait a minute.”
He began unwinding the bandages from hands and head and arms. His mother always overdid the bandages. “They’re more conspicuous than a few cuts and bruises,” he explained, meeting his father’s eye.
“Hmmm, yes. Er—you sure you’re fit, my boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“March straight ahead, at a good clip, and don’t stop,” Emerson advised, as they neared the portico.
“Yes, sir,” said Ramses, who had intended to do so anyhow.
It was probably the sheer preposterousness of their appearance that got them through the guard—that, and the fact that people were slow to react to the unexpected. They made it all the way to the steps that descended into the village before somebody got his wits back and shouted for them to stop. Ramses headed straight down the stairs at breakneck speed, with his father close behind him. When they reached the bottom Emerson turned and got off a few warning shots. Stone splintered and sprayed, and someone screamed.
“That should hold them for a while,” Emerson said. “What’s the matter?”
“Goddammit, the rekkit have already taken out the sentries.” Ramses had almost fallen over one of the limp bodies. “Get out of that wig and robe, Father, or they’ll be after us next.” He raised his voice in a shout. “Friends! The friends!”
It was the sight of Emerson, now unmistakably himself, that