Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [84]
“Hmph. Well, I won’t ride in one of those damned litters. It is a matter of principle,” Emerson added loftily.
The official, whose name is irrelevant to this narrative, had to accept this, since wrestling Emerson into one of the litters presented obvious difficulties, but I thought he would burst into tears when Nefret also declared her intention of walking.
“Forget your confounded principles for the time being,” said Ramses, who appeared to be in a state of mounting exasperation. “Let’s just get to where we are going. Mother is tired, and Daria is about to drop in her tracks.”
I was a trifle surprised that Tarek had not come himself to greet us, but Ramses had the right of it. So we proceeded, we three women and the official in the carrying chairs, and the men walking behind and beside us. The winding passages through which we passed were rock-cut and narrow. The ramparts of the Holy Mountain were honeycombed with such passages, leading under and into and through the cliffs, excavated over the millennia by thousands of hands. Impossible to tell whether we had traversed this particular part of the maze before; the walls all looked the same.
I expected we would emerge into the open air, with the city spread out before us, framed and hidden from the outside world by the heights all around. Instead, the rock-cut passage changed into a wider corridor, which debouched into a series of antechambers and at last into a large pillared room where the bearers stopped and lowered the litters to the floor.
A single glance told me that this was not the same house in which we had dwelled on our first visit. Even after ten years I could recall every detail of that place; I had spent many weary hours in its confines. This room was airy and cool and prettily furnished with chests and tables and low bed frames piled high with embroidered cushions. Carved pillars supported the roof, and there were several curtained doorways along the walls. The litter bearers took up their burdens and went out through the doorway by which we had come. The official was about to follow them when Emerson interposed his person.
“Take us to Tarek,” he demanded in his primitive Meroitic.
Visibly intimidated by the large form towering over him, the official began flapping his hands and talking very fast. “The king will send for us tomorrow,” Ramses translated. “Tonight we are to rest and refresh ourselves after our long journey.”
“That makes sense, Emerson,” I said. “We are travel-stained and weary, and Tarek has courteously allowed us time to rest before he greets us.”
Emerson abandoned his aggressive stance and came at once to me. “Are you tired, Peabody?”
“Tired, hungry, thirsty, and filthy, Emerson.”
“Oh.” Emerson rubbed his chin in mild perplexity. He hadn’t shaved for days, and his beard was at its worst, thick and bristly. I meant to see to that later, but at the moment all I could think of was water—cool, clean water, quantities of it, running over my entire body. I had fond memories of the baths of the Holy Mountain—one of my few fond memories, I should add.
“Let us settle in and make ourselves comfortable,” I urged. “Where are the servants, do you suppose?”
“Perhaps they are waiting to be summoned,” said Nefret. She clapped her hands.
“I refuse to deal with those swaddled handmaidens of the goddess,” Emerson grumbled. “If one of them turns up I will send her away.”
The women who sidled in were not swathed in veils, nor were they the little dark-skinned rekkit who had waited on us before. We had had attendants like these too: women of what one might loosely term the middle class, wives and daughters of minor officials. Their ornaments were of copper, not gold, and their garments were of coarser linen than those worn by the nobility. An equal number of male attendants followed them, eyeing us warily. Nefret issued orders in Meroitic, and I saw that Ramses was watching her with that hooded look of his. She spoke with fluent authority; her tone and manner