Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [61]
“So did others,” Nefret muttered, as she knelt, head bowed, among the scattered papers.
“We are wasting time,” said Emerson. “The sooner we get off, the better. Masud is watering the camels. I will hurry him up and tell him to start loading. Nefret, get your gear together. Peabody, find Selim and tell him we are leaving immediately after the funeral.”
“You mean to go on, then?” I asked.
“Have we any other choice?”
In fact, we did not. It would have been unthinkable to abandon Tarek if there was the slightest chance that we might be of service to him. As Ramses had been the first to point out, Merasen had carried no written message, and his behavior since had given us good cause to question his veracity. Yet I had known men to be proved innocent with even stronger evidence against them.
The evidence against another, unknown party was mounting. Merasen could not have been responsible for Hassan’s injury; Ali’s brutal murder and the theft of the map from Nefret must be part of the same deadly plot. The map in itself would be of no use to Merasen; he could not read the compass bearings; yet, as we had realized, he could not find his way to the Holy City, or guide another there, without such an aid. Whoever this “other” might be, his intentions could not be honorable or harmless, toward us or toward Tarek. We knew only two things about him. He could use a compass and follow a map; and he had been on the boat to Wadi Halfa.
The missionaries, the Great White Hunter, the garrulous German tourists, the agreeable Captain Moroney? Or someone else, cleverly disguised as one of the crewmen?
The sun sank slowly in the west. (Or, to put it in scientific terms, the turning globe on which we stood revolved slowly in the opposite direction.) Like most sunsets in sandy regions, this one set the horizon ablaze with streaks of brilliant color, and the last rays of the solar orb cast a theatrical effect of light and shadow over the forms of man and beast.
It was a scene to capture the imagination of the most romantic—the line of heavily loaded camels, their long shadows even more grotesque than the beasts themselves, and the men attired in long robes and a variety of exotic headgear. Except for the incessant grumbles of the camels, an eerie silence reigned. We were to travel at night, avoiding the daytime heat, while the moon was at the full.
It was the evening of the day following our discovery of Merasen’s treachery. Emerson’s intention of leaving that same night had been overly optimistic. Camels cannot be hurried when they are being readied for a long expedition; they must be allowed to drink their fill and rest afterwards. Proper loading also requires time and deliberation. Zerwali had politely pointed out these facts to Emerson.
He was the leader of the Bedouins we had hired to accompany us. Most of our men were Nubians, but the Bedouin know the desert well and were valuable additions to our crew. Zerwali was a slight, wiry fellow who had—of course—known Emerson before. When he joined us that evening, he was wearing the usual Bedouin garb of shirt and long calico drawers, with the voluminous woolen jerd wrapped round him to ward off the chill of the night air. He was accompanied by Masud, the Nubian, who was to accompany us, and from whom we had hired the majority of the camels.
We had just returned from seeing poor Ali laid to rest, as was his due. When the brief service was concluded, Selim had been the first to turn away. Daoud’s eyes were red-rimmed, but there was no sign of grief on Selim’s face, only a fierce determination. It bore the same expression as he sat listening to the exchange of compliments between Emerson and Zerwali and Masud. Finally the latter got to the point.
“It is said, Father of Curses, that our destination is farther distant than we believed.”
“I contracted with you for thirty marhalas (days’ travel),” Emerson replied. “I did not inform you of our destination.”
Masud accepted this snub with a shrug, but