He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [101]
“Proceed slowly or you will ruin everything,” he hissed like a stage villain.
“Why are you in such a hurry, Aunt Amelia?” Nefret asked.
I turned. We were not far from Aslimi’s now; his place was around the next curve of the lane. My ears were pricked. So, I observed, were those of Seshat, perched on Ramses’s shoulder. Her eyes reflected the lamplight like great golden topazes. I forced a smile.
“Why, my dear, what makes you suppose I am in a hurry? That is my normal walking pace.”
Seshat’s tail began to switch and she leaned forward, sniffing the air. Her eyes had lost their luster; the lamp behind me had been extinguished. The shutter of the shop went down with a bang. The steel grille of the establishment next to it slammed into place. All along the lane, lights were going out and doors were closing.
“What is happening?” Nefret demanded. She moved closer to Ramses and took hold of his sleeve. He detached her fingers, gently but quickly, and caught Seshat in time to prevent her from taking a flying leap off his shoulder. Lowering her to the ground, he handed Nefret the scarf. “Hold on to her.”
“Damnation,” said Emerson under his breath. “They know. How do they know?”
It did smack of witchcraft, that unspoken recognition of danger that runs like a lighted fuse through a group of people who live with uncertainty and fear of the law. The mere sight of a uniform, or even a too-familiar face, would be enough of a warning.
“Know?” Nefret repeated. I could barely make out her features, it was so dark. “Know what?”
“That trouble is brewing,” Emerson said calmly. A sudden outburst of noise, including a pistol shot, made him add, “Boiled over, rather. Follow me.”
A lesser man might have ordered the rest of us to stay where we were. Emerson knew none of us would obey such an order anyhow, and until we had ascertained precisely what the situation was, it was safer to keep together. He switched on his electric torch and led the way along the lane.
The only open door was that of Aslimi’s shop. As we hastened toward it, one of the men outside turned with an expletive and a raised weapon. Emerson struck it out of his hand.
“Don’t be a fool. What is going on?”
“Is it you, O Father of Curses?” the fellow exclaimed. “We have him cornered—Wardani—or one of his men—there is a fifty-pound reward!”
I heard a gasp from Nefret, and then Ramses said, “Where is he?”
“He went into the back room. The door is barred but we will soon have it down!”
It certainly appeared that they would, and that they would smash every object in the shop during the process. Small loss, I thought, as an enthusiastic ax-wielder swept a row of fake pots off a shelf. But . . .
“Hell and damnation!” said Emerson, retreating in such haste that I had to run to keep up with him.
There are no alleyways or conventional back doors in the Khan el Khalili. Most of the shops are mere cubicles, open only at the front. We may have been among the few Europeans who knew that Aslimi’s establishment did have another entrance—or, in this case, exit. It opened onto a space between two adjoining structures that was so narrow a casual observer would not have taken it for a passageway, and even knowing its approximate location we would have missed it in the darkness without the aid of Emerson’s torch.
“Turn off your torch,” Ramses said urgently.
Emerson’s only answer was to thrust out his arm in a sweeping arc that flattened Ramses and Nefret against the adjoining wall. Standing square in the opening, he allowed the light to play for a moment on his face before he directed the beam into the passageway. Peering under his arm, I had a fleeting glimpse of a figure