Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [33]
He wasn’t on the terrace when Ramses arrived, so Ramses settled himself at a table and surveyed his surroundings. He might have been at an English country house, for the lawn was emerald green and the flower beds were bright with the flowers his mother grew in England—roses and zinnias, petunias and marigolds. A mixed group was playing croquet, the men stripped daringly to shirtsleeves and braces, the ladies in long white dresses and corseted to within an inch of their lives. Ramses wondered idly how they could walk, much less swing a croquet mallet. There was no doubt about it, the female was a lot tougher than the male. Girlish shrieks of laughter arose; apparently some women had to giggle over every stroke, successful or missed. Nefret’s laughter was low-pitched and full-throated, and when she missed a stroke or a target, she didn’t laugh; she swore.
Finally he saw Feisal coming toward the terrace. Strictly speaking, he was entitled to be called Prince Feisal, since his father was Sheikh Bahsoor, the honored and influential leader of an important Bedouin tribe, and an old friend of Emerson’s.
Emerson’s “old friends” had become something of a joke in the family; they were scattered up and down the Nile, from Cairo to Khartoum, and after meeting some of the more disreputable of them Ramses had wondered about the kind of life his father had led during his bachelor years. Emerson didn’t talk much about it—at least not to his wife and son.
Feisal was a handsome, hawk-faced young man, and his clothes had obviously come from Bond Street. He carried a tennis racket, and he hailed Ramses with genuine pleasure.
“I heard you were back,” he remarked. “How are your distinguished father, and your honored mother, and your beautiful sister?”
They finished the formal exchange of compliments and queries and ordered tea. Ramses wouldn’t have minded something stronger, but Feisal was as well known for his piety as for his athletic prowess. He was the unofficial tennis champion of the club and a first-rate shot.
“So it’s the Sudan, is it?” Feisal inquired. “Why there? I thought you were all settled at Thebes.”
Ramses shrugged. “My father had a falling-out with Maspero.”
“And he’s punishing the rest of you by dragging you off to Meroe? Or are you looking for Zerzura?”
Ramses managed to conceal his surprise. “It’s a myth,” he said negligently. “The white city where the king and queen sit sleeping on their thrones, and the key to boundless treasure is in the beak of a carved bird. I thought you’d have abandoned that fantasy by now.”
“The fabled city of the little bird is a fairy tale, no doubt.” Feisal’s long, aristocratic fingers stroked the side of his cup. “But there is an unknown oasis out there, Ramses; Wilkinson mentions it, and Gerhard Rolfe got as far as the edge of the Great Sand Sea before he had to retreat to Siwa, and—” He broke off, smiling. “Did I bore you senseless talking about it last time we met?”
“Idée fixe does come to mind,” said Ramses, returning his smile.
“Perhaps. But I’ll find it one day, Ramses, wait and see. If it weren’t for my father, I’d start out tomorrow. He’ll give me permission one day, so don’t you go finding it first.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Whatever gave you the idea we were planning such a thing?”
“Him.” Feisal indicated a man sitting alone at a nearby table. He was bareheaded, his hair and beard grizzled, his face brown as a nut and seamed with scars. “Newbold. Calls himself Hunter Newbold. D’you know him?”
“Slightly.”
“You don’t like him?”
“Not much.”
The man’s wandering gaze met that of Ramses’s. His lips drew back in what was probably intended to be a friendly smile, and he rose and came toward them, limping a little. He was of short stature, but powerfully built, with arms so disproportionately long they looked like a gorilla’s.
“Mind if I join you gentlemen?” he asked. He seated himself without waiting for a reply, leaned back in his chair, and hoisted his glass. He wasn’t drinking tea.