Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [88]
Ramses pounced on his father, and by main strength managed to drag him off his victim, whom he had by the throat. “Father, stop it,” he gasped. “Mother, can you make him—” He let out a whoop and doubled up as Emerson’s elbow drove into his ribs.
My intervention was not necessary. His son’s cry of pain had struck through the red mists of anger into the strong core of paternal affection.
“Good Gad,” Emerson exclaimed. “My dear boy, accept my profound apologies. I didn’t realize it was you. Not hurt, I hope?”
Ramses shook his head dumbly. Taking advantage of his temporary inability to speak, I remarked, “Pull yourself together, Emerson. I believe we are about to receive a delegation. At least we were, until you knocked one of them down. I am sure I do not know how they are going to respond to—”
“It was his own fault,” Emerson said sullenly. “Coming at me like that.”
Ramses had got his breath back. “If you remember, Father, this procedure is the one followed before, when we were visited by an emissary. Distinguished persons were always preceded by an armed escort. We were told the king would see us this morning; I expect this gentleman has come to take us to him.”
He slipped past his father and addressed several sentences to the person whose white-clad form I could see behind the guards—several yards behind them. The man was an official or a priest, to judge by his pleated garment and beaded collar. He replied in a high-pitched voice but kept his distance.
“Gentleman be damned,” said Emerson. “I want to know what they have done with Nefret.”
“Then, sir, may I respectfully suggest the sooner we are ready to go, the sooner we will be able to ask that question?”
“Shall we take the guns?” I asked.
“You aren’t taking anything of the sort,” Emerson snarled.
“It would be advisable to leave them here, I think,” Ramses said. “We don’t want to give Tarek a false impression of bellicosity.”
“I am feeling quite bellicose at the moment,” said Emerson. “But I suppose you are right. Tell the fellow we will be with him shortly. Peabody, why aren’t you getting dressed?”
The servants had taken our clothes away and returned them, laundered and neatly folded. After I had assumed proper attire I considered whether I should take my parasol. I did not consider for long. It was a weapon, but it didn’t look like one. I then hastened back to the sitting room, where I found Ramses in conversation with our visitor.
He was a man who had obviously lived well; his cheeks were pink and plump, and a roll of fat circled his neck above the broad collar of gold and gemstones; as he bowed and raised both hands in salute, the pleated sleeves of his robe fell back to display broad armlets of gleaming gold.
“Mother, may I present Count Amenislo, overseer of the royal storehouses and Second Prophet of Aminreh.”
“How nice,” I said, acknowledging his bow. The round pink face was vaguely familiar. “Haven’t we met before?”
“Yes, yes,” said the count, bowing again. “I speak some of the English to you. In welcome.”
“He was one of Forth’s students and Tarek’s brother,” Ramses said. “Only a youth when we last met.”
“Enough of these empty courtesies,” exclaimed Emerson, to the obvious bewilderment of Count Amenislo. He understood the next sentence, however. “Take us to Tarek.”
“Yes, yes. We go. To the king.”
The four soldiers stood at attention, two on either side of the door. I was relieved to see that Emerson’s victim appeared unhurt, if somewhat disheveled. With ironic courtesy, Emerson gestured to the count to precede him.
“What about Selim and Daoud?” I asked. “Are they included in the invitation?”
“No,” Ramses said. “Apparently they are considered to be servants. We’ll have to set Tarek straight on that,