He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [179]
The darkness paled with the approach of dawn, and Ramses decided irritably that he couldn’t wait for the lazy lout to have his sleepout. He had to be out of the room before it was light enough for Rashad to get a good look at him. The tweed coat and trousers were the ones he had worn before, and the hat shadowed his face, but he hadn’t had time to alter his features with makeup. He lowered his voice to the resonant pitch he had learned from Hakim the Seer of Mysteries (aka Alfred Jenkins), who did a mind-reading stunt at the London music halls.
“Rashad!”
The response would have been entertaining if Ramses had been in a mood for broad humor. Rashad thrashed and squawked and squirmed, fetching up in a sitting position with his back against the wall and his knees drawn up and the sheet clumsily arranged over his naked body.
“Kamil! You! How—”
“Where,” Ramses corrected. “Where did you take them?”
There was no argument, but there were plenty of excuses. Ramses interrupted him. “The ruined mosque? You haven’t much imagination, have you? They must be moved. I’ll see to it myself. I will overlook your insubordination this time, Rashad, but if it happens again. . . .”
He left the threat unspecified, knowing Rashad had enough imagination to picture a variety of ugly possibilities, and went to the door. Rashad had not only barred it but shoved a chair against it. As he removed these pathetic impediments, Rashad continued to squeal apologies. Ramses left without replying. He didn’t suppose Rashad would work up nerve enough to follow him, especially since he had taken the precaution of “borrowing” the galabeeyah Rashad had laid out across a chair, ready to put on in the morning.
There was no sign of the camel. He didn’t waste time looking for it; it would not be lonely for long, and its original owner would be anonymously and generously reimbursed. In Ramses’s opinion he was lucky to be rid of the brute. It had the gait of a three-legged mule and it had tried to bite him on the leg.
He quickened his steps, reaching the mosque as the call to morning prayer ended. After removing his shoes and hat, he went inside, pausing by the fountain to bathe face, hands, and arms. There were few worshipers, since most people preferred to pray at home; and as Ramses went through the prescribed positions, kneeling at last close to the left wall, he hoped what he was doing would not be regarded as profanation. He slipped his hand into the opening in the wall, and paper crackled under his fingers.
The train left him off at Giza Station. Since it was now broad daylight, he was as likely to be seen climbing up the trellis as walking in the front door, so he did the latter. The smell of frying bacon floated toward his appreciative nostrils and he followed it toward the breakfast room.
The Vandergelts weren’t down yet, but Nefret had joined his parents at the table. They all turned to stare when he sauntered in.
“Enjoy your walk?” his father inquired, giving him a cue he didn’t need.
Nefret yawned prettily, covering her mouth with her hand. “Such energy! Early to bed and early to rise . . . I hope you are feeling wealthy and wise, because you don’t look especially healthy.”
“Kind of you to say so.”
“You’ve got those dark smudges under your eyes,” Nefret explained. “Very romantic-looking, but indicative, in my experience, of too little sleep. I thought you came home early last night.”
“I also woke early. Couldn’t get back to sleep, so I went for a long walk.” Fatima put a plate of eggs in front of him. He thanked her and told himself to shut up. He was explaining too much.
“You should have hoarded your strength,” said his father, with a wolfish smile. “I mean to get in a full day’s work, so hurry and finish breakfast.”
Ramses nodded obediently. His mother had not spoken, but he hadn’t missed the signs of silent relief when he walked into the room. She always carried herself like a soldier, even when she was sitting down; it made him feel like a swine