He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [140]
“The road’s that way,” Ramses said, and wished he hadn’t, when his father said patiently, “Yes, my boy, I know.”
Ramses closed his mouth and after a moment his father condescended to explain. “Maxwell reminded me that the military keep a close eye on people heading into the Eastern Desert. We will report to the officer on duty and comply with the rules.”
It was a reasonable explanation, which was why Ramses doubted its truth. His father’s usual reaction to rules was to ignore them.
Early as it was, the officers were already at the mess. Emerson sent a servant to announce his presence. The horse was a large animal, and so was Emerson; when several people emerged from the building, he did not dismount but looked down on them from his commanding height with an air of affable condescension. Some of them were known to Ramses, including a tallish man wearing a kilt, who gave Ramses a stiff nod and then introduced himself to Emerson.
“Hamilton!” he barked.
“Emerson!”
“Heard of you.”
“And I you.”
Hamilton drew himself up, threw his shoulders back, and stroked his luxuriant red mustache. He was at a disadvantage on foot and he was reacting like a rooster meeting a bigger rooster.
“Hadn’t expected to see you here.”
“No, why should you have done? Following your rules, sir, following your rules. We are on a little archaeological exploration today. There’s a ruined structure out there, a few miles southwest of the well of Sitt Miryam. I’ve been meaning for years to have a closer look.”
The Major’s narrowed eyes measured Emerson, from his smiling face to his bared forearms, brown as an Arab’s and hard with muscle. He seemed to approve of what he saw, for his stern face relaxed. “Probably Roman,” he said gruffly.
“Ah.” Emerson took out his pipe and began to fill it. “You know the place?”
“I’ve done a bit of hunting in the area. There are ancient remains all over the place. Way stations and camps, for the most part. Hardly of interest to you.”
“For the most part,” Emerson agreed. “However, one never knows, does one? Well, gentlemen, we must be off.”
“A moment, sir,” Hamilton said. “You are armed, aren’t you?”
Emerson gave him a blank stare. “Armed? What for?”
“One never knows, does one?” The other man smiled faintly. “Allow me to lend you this—just for the day.”
He reached under his coat and pulled out a revolver, which he offered to Emerson. To Ramses’s surprise, his father accepted it. “Most kind. I’ll try not to damage it.”
He tried to put it in his trouser pocket, dropped it, caught it in midair, and finally managed to get it into the pocket of his coat. Watching him, one of the subalterns said doubtfully, “You do know how to use it, sir?”
“You point it and pull the trigger?”
Ramses, who knew that his father was an excellent shot with pistol or rifle, smothered a smile as the young man’s face lengthened. “Well, sir, er—more or less.”
“Most kind,” Emerson repeated. “Good day to you, gentlemen.”
After they had gone a little distance Emerson drew the weapon out of his pocket, broke it, and spun the cylinder. “Fully loaded and functional.”
“Did you think it wouldn’t be?”
“Happened to me once before,” Emerson said equably. “A nasty suspicious mind, that’s what I’ve got. Particularly when people with whom I am only slightly acquainted do me favors.”
“He seemed cordial enough,” Ramses said. “Even to me.”
“Highly suspicious,” his father said with a chuckle. “Ah, well, perhaps he was won over by my extraordinary charm of manner.”
If anyone’s charm had influenced the major, Ramses thought, it wasn’t yours or mine. He could only hope Nefret had not put ideas into the old fellow’s head. He wouldn’t be the first to make that mistake.
“Not that a Webley is likely to be of much use,” Emerson continued, slipping the gun into his belt. “The cursed things are cursed inaccurate. What sort of weapon have you got?”
No use asking how his father knew. Maybe he’d noticed the bulge