Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [58]
“The die is cast,” said Emerson in reverberant tones. “The time has come.”
We were seated round a campfire, which had been kindled for comfort rather than warmth, though the sun had set and the air was already cooler. The moon had not yet risen, and the outlines of the tents glimmered palely in the darkness.
“What die?” I demanded irritably. “What time? We will not be ready to leave for several more days. You sound like the oracle of Amon Re.”
“How do you know what it—”
Ramses broke into his father’s complaint. “What Father means is that the time has come to tell Daoud and Selim the truth. Up until now they have heard only the story we told the hired drivers—that we are looking for ruins west of here.”
“And a cursed unconvincing story it is too,” I declared. “The number of camels and drivers we have hired is far too great for such a short trip. The men are already speculating.”
“Let them speculate to their hearts’ content,” said Emerson. “They don’t know anything. Good Gad, Peabody, you are in an excessively critical mood this evening. Get her another whiskey, Ramses.”
I accepted the offering in the spirit in which it was meant.
“You are both right,” I admitted, after a cheering sip or two. “Ramses, will you ask Selim and Daoud to join us? You might see if you can locate Merasen too. He has rather avoided us lately.”
“He’s been making friends with our men,” Nefret said, as Ramses went off toward the little camp our fellows had set up. “I told him his autocratic manner wouldn’t serve him well with them—or us—and he seems to have taken my lecture to heart. He and young Ali have become chums.”
I couldn’t help laughing a little, the word “chum” sounded so incongruous in connection with Merasen.
Ramses was back almost at once, with our two stalwarts. “I couldn’t find Merasen,” he explained.
Selim scowled. “He and Ali have gone off together. You must speak to the boy, Emerson; he is too interested in the women of the village, and Ali is young and a fool.”
“We won’t have to worry about the women of the village any longer,” said Emerson. “This is our last night here. Er—our last for some time to come. Selim—Daoud—my friends—the journey on which we embark tomorrow is longer and more hazardous than I have led you to believe. I am about to tell you of our true purpose, so that you may decide whether or not to accompany us. The choice will be yours.”
Placid and unmoving as a monumental statue, Daoud said, “There is no choice. Where the Father of Curses goes, we follow, even into the fires of Gehenna.”
Emerson cleared his throat noisily. “Hmph. Thank you, my friend. But you have not yet heard the facts.”
“There is no need,” said Selim. The moon had risen; its cold light outlined his sharp handsome features with shadows. “Daoud has spoken the truth. Your words come as no surprise, Emerson. The boy is no villager, and the weapon he carries is no Arab sword.”
Without further ado, Emerson launched into the story of the Lost Oasis. Daoud listened with interest but without surprise; he had an almost childlike sense of wonder about the world, which meant that nothing surprised him—or that everything did. Selim’s mobile features expressed a variety of emotions, but the predominant one was delight.
“It will be a great adventure,” he exclaimed.
“Think well, Selim,” said Emerson, in sepulchral tones. “At the end, our bones may lie whitening in the sand.”
Daoud’s deep voice replied, “Or they may not. It is in the hands of God.”
Emerson had been speaking his fluent and somewhat florid Arabic. I now said, in English, “We have a proverb: God helps those who help themselves.”
Selim threw his head back and laughed aloud. “And so we will, Sitt Hakim. How can we fail, with you and the Father