Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [119]
“She has already been hurt—frightened, and roughly handled, and perhaps struck. How else could they keep her quiet? Good Gad, Emerson, can’t we go faster?”
Emerson’s lips curled back, baring his teeth. “Stay close.”
I do not believe we actually knocked anyone down. The persons who fell to the ground tripped over their own feet in their haste to get out of our way.
How Emerson found the place I do not know; “hamlet” was too grandiose a word for the scattering of huts, not more than half a dozen of them, nestled in a hollow at the foot of the escarpment. It was one of the poorest, most miserable-looking collection of dwellings I have ever seen, even in Egypt. The inhabitants must have had to carry drinking water from the river or the nearest irrigation canal, for there was no well nor tree nor green plant. The crumbling mud-bricks of the houses were the same drab color as the surrounding soil. Emerson had galloped straight into what would have been the village square if the place had boasted such an amenity. There was no sign of life except for a dog sleeping in the dust, and a few chickens. Our approach had not been silent or inconspicuous; the inhabitants had had time to flee or conceal themselves.
“The place looks deserted,” I said. “Are you sure he wasn’t lying?”
“To me? I think not.” Emerson, who had, of course, lost his hat, shaded his eyes with his hand and studied the dismal scene. “That seems the most likely place.”
My own eyes had told me there was only one possible place where a prisoner might be held. It stood a little apart from the other houses and it was more stoutly built. Bolted wooden shutters covered the single small window and the door was also barred, from the outside. As we approached, the dog got up and stood watching us with feral yellow eyes. I knew the temper of these vicious half-wild beasts, so I was not surprised when it bared its teeth and began to growl. Emerson ignored it; he had no thought at that moment for anything except the child; but I picked up a stone and held it ready. My heart was pounding so hard it hurt my chest. Except for the dog’s low growls the place was utterly silent. It was like a Moslem cemetery, dusty and deserted and baking under the hot sun. Was the child unconscious, or bound and gagged, or in the grasp of the villain who had carried her off? I could not imagine Sennia failing to protest her captivity if she was able to articulate.
We were almost at the door before I heard a voice, and astonishment stopped me in my tracks. It was not Sennia’s unmistakable, high-pitched voice; it was not the gruff voice of a man. The crooning, quavering tones were a woman’s, repeating soft endearments.
“Little one, sit down and rest. Here is water, darling; will you drink? Or honey cakes, eat them, they are good.”
“La, shukran,” said Sennia.
My knees almost gave way. It was such a relief to hear her, sounding quite cool and unhurt, politely declining the offering. I looked at Emerson. “What on earth—” I mouthed.
He put his finger to his lips. I knew why he hesitated; he wanted to be certain there was no one else in the room.
Sennia went on, in the same gentle voice. “I want to go home, Mother. Please let me out.”
“Sweet one, I cannot. He locked us in. You aren’t afraid, are you? Don’t be afraid. You are safe with me.”
She had been very brave, but now she began to cry, and when Emerson heard her sobs he lifted the heavy wooden bar and wrenched the door open.
There was some light in the room from small ventilation holes high under the eaves; I made out dim shapes that were, as I later discovered, a low bed or couch, a brazier, and a few pots and baskets. In the first moment I had eyes only for Sennia. Her face was dirty and smeared with tears and her clothing was crumpled. That was all I saw before she hurled herself at Emerson. He caught her up in his arms and held her close.
“It’s all right, Little Bird, we are here. Did they hurt you?”
“Not very much.