He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [143]
“Did you get him?” he inquired.
“I doubt it,” Ramses said, drawing a deep breath. “Taught him to keep his head down, I hope. Were you hit?”
“No.”
“Anything broken?”
“No. Better get ourselves and Risha behind that wall.”
He sat up, turned white, and fell backwards. Ramses caught him before his head, now uncovered, hit the ground. He’d been sick with fear when he feared his father might be dead or gravely injured. Now the lump in his throat broke and burst out of his mouth in a furious cascade of words.
“Goddamn you, Father, will you stop behaving as if you were omnipotent and omniscient? I know we must get under cover! I’ll take care of that little matter as soon as I determine how seriously you’re injured!”
Emerson gave his son a look of reproach. “You needn’t shout, my boy. I put my shoulder out again, that’s all.”
“That’s all, is it?” They both ducked their heads as another shot whistled past. “All right, here we go. Hang on to me.”
After an effort that left them both breathless they reached the shelter of the ruined wall, with Risha close on their heels. Ramses eased his father onto the ground and wiped his sweating hands on his trousers.
“Better let him have a few more reminders to keep his head down,” Emerson suggested.
“Father,” Ramses said, trying not to shout, “if you make one more unnecessary, insulting, unreasonable suggestion—”
“Hmmm, yes, sorry,” Emerson said meekly.
“I don’t want to waste ammunition. I haven’t any extra. It will be dark in a few hours and we’re all right here unless he shifts position. If he moves I’ll hear him. I’m going to put your shoulder back before I do anything else. Need I continue?”
“Your arm. It isn’t . . .” His eyes met those of Ramses. “Hmph. Whatever you say, my boy.”
Ramses had heard the story of how his father’s shoulder had first been dislocated. His mother’s version was very romantic and very inaccurate; according to her, Emerson had been struck by a stone while shielding her from a rockfall. Ramses could believe that all right. What he didn’t believe was her claim that she herself had pulled the bone back into its socket. Such an operation required a lot of strength, especially when the victim was as heavily muscled as Emerson. Nefret had once demonstrated the technique, using Ramses as a subject, with such enthusiasm that he could have sworn her foot had left a permanent imprint under his arm.
For a few agonizing moments Ramses didn’t think he was going to be able to do it. His right arm was unimpaired, though, and the left was of some little help. A final heave and twist, accompanied by a groan from Emerson—the first that had passed his lips—did the job. Weak-kneed and shaking, Ramses unhooked the canteen from Risha’s saddle.
The process had been more agonizing for his father than for him. Emerson had fainted. Ramses trickled water over his face and between his lips, then poured a little into his own hand and wiped his mouth. It was the same temperature as the air, but it helped. His father’s face was already dry and warm to the touch. Water evaporated almost instantly in the desert air.
“Father?” he whispered. Now that the immediate emergencies had been attended to, he had leisure to think about what he had said. Had he really sworn at his father and called him . . .
“Well done,” said Emerson faintly.
“Done, at any rate. Have a drink. I’m sorry it’s not brandy.”
Emerson chuckled. “So am I. Your mother will point out, as she has so often, that we ought to emulate her habit of carrying such odds and ends.”
He accepted a swallow of water and then pushed the canteen away. “Save it. Mine is on the body of that unfortunate animal, and it’s not worth the risk of . . . Er, hmph. May I smoke?”
“You’re asking me? Uh—I suppose so. Better now than after dark.”
“You don’t mean to stay here until dark, do you?”
“What else can we do?” Ramses demanded. He took the pipe from his father. After he had filled it he handed it back and struck a match. “Risha can’t carry both of us, and it would