Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [170]
Her nervous state had been succeeded by one of unnatural calm. I preferred it to the other, but I found it worrisome.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Oh, yes.” She turned and held out her hands to me. “Now that I am with you. I only wish I could see the Professor and Ramses once more. And Tarek.”
“You will see them, and before much longer,” I said with a conviction I wished I felt. The attack was to begin at sunset. The western sky was streaked with gold. If Emerson could carry out his plan, there would be no fighting at the pass and he would hasten at once to my side. If he could not, a bloody, prolonged battle would ensue, with, I did not doubt, Emerson in the thick of it and Ramses at his father’s side.
Win or lose, and I did not doubt he would win in the end, Emerson would find me and he would find me doing my part. I squared my shoulders and squeezed Nefret’s hands.
“I depend on you, Nefret, to obey my orders instantly and precisely. Don’t worry; I have it all worked out.”
When Bakamani returned, the room was cool with shadows. He was in quite an unusual state of agitation, and we had a rather loud argument about the arrangements I proposed. Finally I turned to the men and said, “You will be allowed to accompany us, but you must agree to leave your weapons behind—your knife, Selim, and your scissors, Captain.”
“But, ma’am, how can we defend you without weapons?” Moroney demanded fiercely. “I promised Ramses—”
“Never mind what you promised him, he has no business issuing orders on my behalf. Do as I say.”
Daoud coughed politely. “Sitt Hakim,” he began, his hand moving to the breast of his robe.
“No,” I said quickly. “No, Daoud. Await my orders.”
“Ah,” said Daoud. “Yes.”
This reminder, that Daoud was in possession of a concealed weapon, consoled Selim a little, but he was slow to release his grip on his knife. Ignoring Bakamani’s demands that we hurry, I marshaled my troops and inspected them. I must say they did me credit. At my request Moroney had shaved, and he was wearing a tweed coat and trousers that belonged to Ramses. I had had to roll up the trousers and the coat was too wide across the shoulders, but the effect was not at all bad. Selim and Daoud wore nice clean galabeeyahs and their best turbans. The former had adorned himself with several pectorals and armlets, to which he had taken a fancy. I gave Nefret a little poke. “Step out strongly,” I hissed. “And straighten your wig.”
As we left the room I took one last look at the light—or rather, the lack thereof. It had faded quickly. The sun must have set, or be on the verge of setting. The next hour or two would determine our fate.
I assure you, Reader, that I had considered the possibility that Zekare might threaten to murder us should Tarek’s victorious troops surround the palace. I didn’t think he would, though. He must know that even if Tarek agreed to lay down his arms and surrender, a promise given under duress does not hold. Anyhow, I had no intention of submitting meekly to any such thing. I felt certain we could work things out. He had not struck me as a cruel or vindictive man.
The Reader will agree, I am sure, that my logic was impeccable. I could not possibly have anticipated the development that ensued.
When we were ushered into the reception room with the Window of Appearance, it was not Zekare who awaited us.
The room was crowded with people—courtiers, priests, soldiers of the royal guard. They had to squeeze back to make an aisle for us to approach the throne. Seated upon it, wearing the royal robes and the diadem, was Merasen.
“Where is your father?” I demanded.
“My father is dead. Where is the Father of Curses?”
Could nothing disturb the boy’s monumental self-esteem? I wondered. The news that had staggered me had left no shadow of grief or anger on his handsome young face.
“I do not know,” I stammered. “What do you mean, dead? How? When?”
“Killed,” Merasen said coolly. “By my brothers. They too are dead, at my command, for their crime. I am king of the Holy City. And so