He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [66]
He’d waited a little too long. The impact of the bullet spun him sideways and knocked him to the ground. He managed to roll into a convenient depression beside a wall and lay there, unable to move and expecting at any moment to see a shadowy form looking down at him and the dark glint of light on the barrel of a gun.
As the seconds passed, so did the numbness in his arm and shoulder. He drew his knife and then froze as footsteps approached his hiding place and an agitated voice called his name. He couldn’t tell which one of them it was; the voice was as high-pitched as a girl’s. Another, equally agitated voice answered. “Farouk! Come back, we must hurry.”
“There was someone in that grove of trees—with a gun! I fired back—”
“You missed, then. No one is there now.”
“But I tell you, I saw him fall. If he is dead, or wounded—”
“He would wish us to go on.” The speaker had come closer. It was Asad, sounding frightfully noble and pompous, but, thank God, sensible enough to follow orders. “Hurry, I say. Someone may have heard the shots.”
Someone almost certainly did, Ramses thought, fighting the waves of faintness that came and went. He had to stop the bleeding and get the hell out of there, but he dared not move while Farouk was nearby. Farouk might or might not be telling the truth when he claimed some unknown party had fired first; in either case, Ramses knew he couldn’t risk being in the tender care of Wardani’s followers. Under close scrutiny there were a dozen ways in which he might betray himself.
Finally the footsteps moved away. He slashed and tore at the fabric of his shirt and bound the uneven strips around his arm. The pain was rather bad by then, but he was able to pull himself to his feet.
The rest of the journey was a blank, broken by brief intervals of consciousness; he must have kept moving, though, because whenever he became aware of his surroundings he was farther along—on the railroad platform at Kurreh, slumped in a third-class carriage, and finally, facedown in an irrigation ditch. That woke him, and he crawled up the muddy bank and examined his surroundings. He had crossed the bridge—he couldn’t remember how—and was on the west bank, less than a mile from the house. Still on hands and knees, he wiped the mud from his face and tried to think. He’d meant to head for Maadi, where David was waiting for him. No hope of getting there now, he’d be lucky to make it home.
The cool water had revived him a little, and he managed to stay on his feet for the remainder of the distance. He covered the last few yards in a staggering run and leaned against the wall wondering how in God’s name he was going to get up to his room. The trellis with its climbing vine was as good as a ladder when he was in fit condition, but just now it looked as long and as steep as the Grand Gallery in the Great Pyramid.
A soft sound from above made him look up. Poised on the edge of the balcony was Seshat. She stared at him for a moment, and then jumped onto the mass of entwined stems and descended, as surefooted as if she were on level ground. He had never known a cat who could do that; they were first-rate climbers, but once they got up they didn’t seem to know how to come down. Even his beloved Bastet . . .
Teeth and claws sank into his bare ankle, and the pain jarred him back to full awareness. Having got his attention, Sheshat put her large head against his foot and shoved.
One foot at a time, he thought hazily. Right.
She climbed with him, muttering discontentedly and pushing at him when he stopped. Finally he hauled himself over the edge of the balcony and fell to hands and knees. Another shove from Seshat got him to his feet; he hung on to the window frame and looked into the room. It was dark and quiet, just as he’d left it; no trouble there, anyhow, thank God for small blessings.