He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [19]
“He was present,” Ramses said, and said no more.
“Good Gad, Ramses, must we use thumbscrews?” his father demanded hotly. “Why didn’t you tell us? By heaven, he’s gone too far this time; I will—”
“No, sir, you won’t. Percy was not one of my antagonists. In fact, it was he who brought Lord Edward Cecil onto the scene in time to—er—rescue me.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. “What do you suppose he’s up to now?”
“Trying to worm his way back into our good graces, I suppose,” I said with a sniff. “Madame said that on several occasions he has spoken up in Ramses’s defense when someone accused him of cowardice. She said Percy said that his cousin was one of the bravest men he had ever known.”
Ramses became very still. After a moment he said, “I wonder what put that extraordinary notion into his head.”
“What is extraordinary is the source,” Emerson said gruffly. “The statement itself is true. Sometimes it requires more courage to take an unpopular stand than to engage in heroics.”
Ramses blinked. This, together with a slight nod at his father, was the only sign of emotion he allowed himself. “Never mind Percy, I cannot imagine why any of us should care what he thinks of me or says about me. Is there anything of interest in the Gazette, Nefret?”
She had been staring at her clasped hands, frowning as if she had discovered a blemish or a broken fingernail. “What? Oh, the newspaper. I was looking for a report about Mr. Russell’s failed raid, but there is only a brief paragraph saying that Wardani is still at large and offering a reward for information leading to his capture.”
“How much?” Ramses inquired.
“Fifty English pounds. Not enough to tempt you, is it?”
Ramses gave her a long level look. “Wardani would consider it insultingly low.”
“It is a large amount to an Egyptian.”
“Not large enough for the risk involved,” Ramses replied. “Wardani’s people are fanatics; some of them would slit a traitor’s throat as readily as they would kill a flea. You ought not have expected the censors would allow any report of the incident. Wardani pulled off another daring escape and made Russell look like an incompetent ass. I don’t doubt that all Cairo knows of it, however.”
Nefret appeared to be watching the cat. Seshat had rolled onto her back and Ramses’s long fingers were gently rubbing her stomach. “Is press censorship really that strict?” she asked.
“We are at war, my dear,” Ramses replied in an exaggerated public-school drawl. “We can allow nothing to appear in print that might give aid and comfort to the enemy.” He added in his normal tones, “You had better not pass on any personal confidences to Lia when you write her. The post will also be read and censored, quite possibly by an officer who is an acquaintance of yours.”
Nefret’s brow furrowed. “Who?”
“I’ve no idea. But you do know most of them, don’t you?”
“That would be an unacceptable violation of the fundamental rights of free English persons,” I exclaimed. “The rights for which we are fighting, the basic—”
“Yes, Mother. All the same, it will be done.”
“Nefret does not know anything that could give aid and comfort to the enemy,” I insisted. “However . . . Nefret, you didn’t tell Lia about our encounter with Wardani, did you?”
“I haven’t mentioned anything that might worry her,” Nefret said. “Which leaves me with very little to write about! The primary topic of conversation in Cairo is the probability of an attack on the Canal, and I am certainly not going to tell her that.”
“Damned war,” said Emerson. “I don’t know why you insist on talking about it.”
“I was not talking about the war, but about Mr. Wardani,” I reminded him. “If there were only some way we could manage to talk with him! I feel certain I could convince him that for his own good and the good of Egypt he ought to modify his strategy. It would be criminal to throw away his life for what is at present a hopeless cause; he has the potential to become a great leader,