Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [168]
“Curse it,” said Emerson. “Where is—ah, hullo, Tarek. What’s going on?”
Tarek was dressed like a common soldier, with only the royal diadem to proclaim his rank. He had never looked more kingly or more handsome, a smile of welcome warming his features. “As you see, O Father of Curses. Now that you are here, we cannot be defeated. We will lead the charge side by side, you and I, as soon as the bark of the god sinks below the cliffs.”
Ramses was only too accustomed to being overshadowed by his father, although it would have been nice to have Tarek acknowledge his presence. Tarek’s troops were drawn up behind the wall, and one quick glance was enough to explain his strategy, if it could be dignified by that name. The ladders were ready, several dozen of them.
“Father,” he said urgently.
“Yes, yes,” said Emerson. “Get one of those ladders in place. No, just one.”
“Make it two,” Ramses said. “I’ll cover you.”
His father gave him a quick look and nodded reluctantly. “Two. You will await my orders, Tarek. The orders of the Father of Curses!”
Tarek and his entourage froze. “Ha,” said Emerson in a pleased voice, and began to climb the ladder.
Ramses went up the second ladder. Standing on the top rung, he unslung the rifle and looked down at the opposing force. It was a mirror image of Tarek’s, the same weapons, the same intent faces, even the ladders—a poignant reminder of the futile, fratricidal nature of this little war. All the faces were upturned, staring at the same spot.
The last rays of the setting sun framed Emerson in a halo of gold as he stood atop the wall, feet braced and arms raised. He looked larger than life-size, and the hero worship he would always feel for his father held Ramses as breathless and motionless as the soldiers below.
Not all were motionless, though. One man, in the last rank, had drawn his bow. Cursing his momentary lapse, Ramses got the fellow in his sights and fired, but not before the arrow was on its way. It struck Emerson square in the breast.
Emerson looked down. With a gesture of magnificent nonchalance he plucked the arrow out and tossed it away. A united gasp, like a strong wind, drowned out a quiet voice that said, “Er—what’s that word again? ‘Rightful’?”
Ramses managed to get it out, though he was painfully short of breath. Emerson’s voice made the echoes roll.
“Friends! The Father of Curses speaks. Pull down the wall, embrace your brothers, and greet Tarek, the rightful king of the Holy Mountain!”
I couldn’t get Nefret to stop crying. “We’ll never see them again,” she sobbed. “And it’s all my fault. I was the one who insisted we come.”
Obviously stern measures were called for. I took her by the shoulders. “Stop it this instant. This is not like you, Nefret. We have a job to do and I expect every English—er—woman to do her duty. And set your wig straight.”
“Yes, Aunt Amelia.” She wiped her eyes with her fingers.
“That is better. Now let us assess the situation.”
Unbeknownst to Ramses and Emerson, Selim had followed them at a short distance. I am a woman of iron nerve, and I had accepted the risks they would face, but I wanted to know that they had carried out the first, most hazardous part of the plan successfully. When Selim came back he was smiling. “The guards did not try to stop them. They are safely on their way to the village. It is strange, Sitt Hakim, that there are no soldiers in the corridors. But there are many of them outside this house.”
“Zekare is consolidating his forces, I expect,” I said. “His spies will have reported that Tarek is about to mount an attack. I think…yes, I believe it would be advisable to send the servants away.”
“But they’ll tell the king,” Nefret began.
“If he doesn’t already know his schemes are in disarray, he soon will,” I replied. “Step away from the door, Captain Moroney, and shoo the servants out of our suite.”
The flight of the unhappy servants did rather resemble that of a flock