Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [56]
“Hmmm,” he said. “That is—thank you. Most kind.”
While MacFerguson bustled about, finding seats for us in the shade of his tent and directing his servants to make tea, I whispered to Emerson, “I know what you are thinking, Emerson. You are mistaken.”
“How do you know what I am thinking? How do you know I am mistaken? That nose is too good to be true.”
“Be that as it may, Emerson, and be MacFerguson who he may, he is not Sethos. For one thing, Sethos is almost as tall as you, and MacFerguson is several inches under your height. For another, his eyes are dark brown. For a third thing, he has short stubby fingers and broad palms. It is impossible to change the shape of one’s hands. Sethos’s hands are narrower and more flexible, with long slender fingers.”
Emerson’s glare informed me that I ought to have omitted this last criterion. I said hastily, “And his shoulders are much narrower than yours, my dear. So please don’t pull his nose.”
“Bah,” said Emerson, convinced against his will but still aggravated. “All the same, he may have been sent here by Budge.”
“Nonsense, Emerson. His being here is pure coincidence. Be nonchalant, my dear. Be agreeable. Smile. Do not arouse suspicions which are, in my opinion, as yet unaroused.”
“Ermph,” said Emerson, thereby acknowledging the justice of my remarks.
I cannot say that his attempt at a smile was particularly convincing, though it did show quite a number of teeth. He declined Mr. MacFerguson’s eager offer to share the site, however.
“We mean to have another go at the pyramids of Nuri,” he explained. “Finish the job we started ten years ago. Better be on our way, eh, Peabody?”
MacFerguson’s face fell. “At least let me show you round the site, Professor. There has been a great deal done since you were last here.”
“Another time,” said Emerson, with a longing glance at the looming bulk of Mount Barkal and the ruins that stretched out around its base. They had never been properly excavated, and it was Emerson’s contention that they were the remains of temples of various periods, stretching back in time to the sixteenth century B.C. or even earlier. Emerson loves temple ruins, the more complicated, the better. I gave him an affectionate pat on the arm.
The resourceful Mustapha summoned up a small flotilla of boats and we got ourselves and our baggage across the river. My attempts to persuade Emerson to postpone this activity until the following day fell on deaf ears. “May as well get it over, Peabody. I want to be on our way within forty-eight hours, before that fellow MacFerguson can report we are here.”
“I cannot believe he is one of the vultures, Emerson. Our change of plans was so sudden, no one could have anticipated we would head for Napata, and he had been there for almost a week.”
“So he claims,” Emerson muttered. “I have never heard of the fellow. Have you?”
“No, but perhaps he is new to the field.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson.
We left the animals behind. There would be, Mustapha assured us, other donkeys and camels awaiting us. I sincerely hoped so. The pyramids were on the plateau, a mile and a half from the river, and the sun was hot. However, Emerson was in the right; the crossing had to be made sooner or later, and unpacking and repacking our goods would be an unnecessary waste of time.
It was late afternoon before my donkey ambled up the slope and I saw the pyramids ahead, black against the blazing reds and purples of the sunset. An even more welcome sight were the flatter pyramid shapes of tents. The men had gone on ahead, with the baggage camels and what appeared to be half the local population, and many willing hands had made light work of preparing camp.
A quick look round told me that Budge, or someone of his ilk, had been at Nuri since we worked there in ’98. The poor pyramids were even more dilapidated than they had been then.
“There’s Mother,” called Ramses, as I and my escort approached. “All right, are you, Mother?”
“She’ll be fine as soon as she gets her whiskey,” said Emerson, assisting me to dismount.