He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [78]
“Not tonight, Anna,” Katherine said sharply.
“If it is Mr. Pinckney you are thinking of, he isn’t going anywhere for a while,” Nefret said, giving the other girl’s hand a friendly pat. “He told me tonight he has been seconded to the staff as a courier. He’s so thrilled! It means he can ride one of those motorbicycles.”
Anna blushed and denied any particular interest in any particular individual. “I would love to learn to drive one of them, though,” she declared. “There is no reason why a woman cannot do it as well as a man, is there?”
She stuck out her chin and looked challengingly at Ramses, who replied, “It is not much more difficult than riding a bicycle.”
“I’m surprised you have not got one.”
“They make too much noise and emit a vile stench.” Ramses shifted position slightly, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands. “Perhaps you can persuade Pinckney to give you a ride in the sidecar. You won’t like it, though.”
I let my attention wander. Katherine looked tired, I thought, and reproached myself for not spending more time with her. She needed distraction. It was cursed difficult to carry on our normal lives, though.
Cyrus had also observed his wife’s weariness and soon declared they must go. Before leaving he repeated his invitation to Emerson to visit his excavations at Abusir.
“I’ve come across something that might interest you,” he said, stroking his goatee.
Emerson’s abstracted expression sharpened. Archaeology can distract him from almost anything. “What?” he demanded.
“You’ll have to see for yourself.” Cyrus grinned. “Why don’t you all come by one day? Stay for dinner.”
We said we would, though without committing ourselves to a particular date, and they took their departure. Nefret declared her intention of retiring at once, and I said we would do the same, so Fatima and her crew could get to work cleaning up.
I was fairly itching to discuss the evening’s developments with Emerson, and even more anxious to learn what damage Ramses’s reckless performance had done to him. That it had done some damage I did not doubt; his feet were a trifle unsteady as he mounted the stairs. Nefret noticed too; she gave him a quick, frowning glance, but did not remark upon what she probably took to be intoxication. He had had quite a number of glasses of champagne; however, most of it had gone into one of my potted plants. I had noticed it was looking sickly.
We gave Nefret time to settle down before we went to his room, where we found him sitting on the edge of the bed. As I suspected, the wound had reopened. It had stopped bleeding, but the bandage was saturated and his shirtsleeve was not much better.
“Another shirt ruined,” said Emerson, taking out his pipe.
“It must be a hereditary trait,” I said grimly.
Ramses said, “Why didn’t you tell me about your visit to Aslimi’s shop?”
I came back with, “Why should I have done? Lean forward, if you can, you are getting blood on the pillowcase.”
“For God’s sake, Mother, this is important! I—” He broke off, bit his lip, and continued in a more moderate tone. “I beg your pardon. You didn’t know. Aslimi is one of our people—Wardani’s, I should say. He’s a damned reluctant conspirator, but he’s been involved from the beginning and his shop has been very useful. In technical terms it is what is called a drop. The messages we leave are concealed in objects that are picked up by apparently harmless purchasers.”
“And the other way round?”
Ramses nodded. He was trying very hard not to swear or groan, and he waited until I had finished cleaning the wound before he ventured to open his mouth. “A buyer may examine several items before settling on one, or buy nothing at all. He can easily insert something into a jar or hollowed-out statue base without being seen by anyone except Aslimi—who puts that particular object aside until the proper person calls for it.”
“This is not good news,” Emerson said gravely. “What do you suppose has happened to the bastard?”
“The important question is not what has