He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [80]
“No, thank you, Mother. I don’t need anything to help me sleep, and I don’t want any whiskey, and I am quite capable of washing my own face and taking off my own clothes.”
“Then I will leave you to it, on one condition.”
“What’s that?” Ramses asked warily.
“Promise me you will not go out tonight. I want your solemn word.”
Ramses considered this. “Would you believe my solemn word? All right, Mother, don’t scold; I was joking. I won’t leave the house tonight. It’s taking a chance, but I think I can safely wait another day or two.”
“A chance of what?” I asked, looking down at him.
“Of my enthusiastic young friend Farouk convincing the others that Wardani is dead and that he is his logical successor. Even if it wasn’t he who tried to kill me, he would be more than happy to take advantage of my presumed demise.” His lips curved in a rather unpleasant smile. “I’m rather looking forward to seeing the lad’s face fall when I turn up, suffering but steadfast, and worst of all, alive. Perhaps I should bare my wounds for the admiration of all. It’s the sort of theatrical gesture Wardani would appreciate.”
•
Six
•
Emerson had been less than truthful when he said he did not expect us to work on Boxing Day. We did not go to Giza, but we spent most of the day catching up on paperwork. Few laymen realize how much of this is necessary, but as Emerson always says, the keeping of accurate records is as important as the excavation itself. I did not object, since it served to keep Ramses from exerting himself. I also managed to prevent him from going out that night. He put up an argument, but of course I prevailed, adding just a touch of veronal to his after-dinner coffee in order to make certain that after I had got him into bed he would stay there.
After breakfast the following morning I drew Emerson aside.
“Can’t you invent some chore for Ramses to do here at home? I don’t believe he ought to go into that dusty hot tomb today.”
Emerson studied me curiously. “What’s come over you lately, Peabody?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’ve turned into an absolute mother hen. You never fussed over him like this before, even when he was a child and getting into one grisly scrape after another. Now don’t deny it; you keep trying to put him to bed and make him sit down and lie down and take his medicine. When he refused a second serving of oatmeal this morning I thought you were going to pick up a spoon and feed him yourself.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Am I really doing that? How odd. I wonder why?”
“He is terrifyingly like you, you know.”
“Like me? In what way, pray tell?”
“Brave as a lion, cunning as a cat, stubborn as a camel—”
“Really, Emerson!”
“Concealing the affectionate and vulnerable side of his nature under a shell as hard as a tortoise’s,” said Emerson poetically. “As you do, my love, with everyone except me. I understand, Peabody, but for God’s sake control yourself. All he has to do today is sit quietly on a campstool and copy texts. It should be particularly restful after his other recent activities.”
There was no denying that. However, the best-laid plans of mice and men, including Emerson, often go awry (I translate from the Scottish). When we arrived at Giza, Selim was waiting for us. Our young reis has an open, candid face, and the splendid beard he had grown in order to inspire more respect from his men failed to conceal his emotions. One look at him was all Emerson needed.
“What has happened?” he demanded. “Has a wall collapsed? Anyone hurt?”
“No, Father of Curses.” Selim wrung his hands. “It is worse than that! Someone has tried to rob the tomb.”
With a vehement oath Emerson ran for the entrance. In his haste he did not duck his head far enough under the stone lintel; I heard a thud and a swear word before he vanished inside.
The rest of us followed. Selim was babbling, as he did when he was upset. “It is my fault. I ought to have posted a guard. But who would have supposed a robber would be so bold? Here, at the very foot of the Great Pyramid, with visitors and guards and. . . .”
Such