Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [28]
Nefret pushed Selim away. “Are you hurt, Ramses?”
“The greatest damage is to my expensive new coat,” Ramses said sourly. “Mother will have a few words to say about that.”
Nefret took his word for it; there wasn’t much blood v isible against the brown tweed of his sleeve. Ramses caught Merasen by the neck of his galabeeyah and hauled him to his feet.
“My finger is broken,” Merasen complained, extending a rigid digit.
“Try that again, my fine young friend, and I’ll break all ten of them,” Ramses said.
“I am sorry,” Merasen said earnestly. “It was only a—”
“Game be damned,” Nefret snapped. “Let me see your finger…It’s not broken, only bruised. I want you to go straightaway to the dahabeeyah and report yourself to the Father of Curses. Can I trust you to do that?”
“Oh, yes.” Merasen’s smile was seraphic.
“Not on your life,” Ramses said, tightening his grip. “I will deliver you personally, my lad. Nefret, do you go on with Selim.”
Selim had retrieved Merasen’s weapon, just in time to prevent a hopeful scavenger from making off with it. It would have fetched a fair price; the blade shone steely gray, and the hilt was decorated with strips of gold. Merasen made a grab for it. Ramses knocked his arm down.
“Goddamn it,” he said. “How long have you been carrying that around with you? If it fell into the wrong hands…”
He feared it already had. Selim had wiped the blade clean and was examining it curiously. “I have never seen one like it, Ramses. Too long for a knife, too short for a sword, and too richly decorated. Who is this man and where does he come from?”
“I’ll introduce you properly at a later time,” Ramses said. “Go with Nefret.”
“Perhaps we should help you take Merasen to the dahabeeyah,” Nefret said uncertainly.
“Doctor Sophia is expecting you. I assure you, Nefret, I can manage him all by my little self. Merasen, I’ll break your arm if you give me any trouble.”
Merasen made no attempt to wrench away from Ramses’s grip. He was as cheerful and unrepentant as a little boy who has smacked someone with a snowball. Maybe rough-and-tumble wrestling was a custom of the Holy Mountain I missed, Ramses thought. But in most of the cultures with which he was familiar, you didn’t attack without warning and with a sharp blade unless you meant to damage the other fellow.
He had directed Selim to take charge of the sword-knife and keep it out of sight, a galabeeyah being more appropriate for such concealment than European trousers. “Be careful you don’t slash your leg,” he had added, and Nefret had said, laughing, “Or something else. I’ll rig up some sort of scabbard for it when we’re at Doctor Sophia’s, Selim.”
She had inspected Merasen’s finger but she hadn’t even bothered to look at Ramses’s arm. What did you expect, Ramses asked himself—that she would rush to you, all aquiver at the sight of your blood? The answer was no—not Nefret—it wasn’t the first time—but she might have been a little less nonchalant and a little harder on Merasen.
“Where have you been staying?” he asked, cutting into a vivacious description of Merasen’s opinion of Cairo (too big, very dirty, and the women all hiding behind veils). “We may as well collect your luggage before we go on.”
Ramses knew the place; it was one of the better-quality lodging houses for “natives.” Merasen swaggered off to get his suitcase and the proprietor greeted Ramses obsequiously but without surprise.
“He said you would come—you or the Father of Curses,” he explained.
“Did he indeed?”
“He said the Father of Curses would pay.”
Merasen came back carrying a heavy case which Emerson must have bought for him in London. His unrepentant smile made Ramses want to shout at him, but this was not the time nor the place to ask what Merasen had done with the generous funds Emerson had given him. Nor was there any use berating him for the damage he had done with his boasts and his extravagance. It was too late now.
Three