Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [121]
“Sir?” William edged up to us. I hadn’t noticed him; he was so confounded self-effacing. “What can I do, sir?”
“Nothing,” Emerson said, cruelly but correctly. Seeing the young man’s face fall, I added, “Thank you, William, but as you see, the matter is under control.”
“Yes, ma’am. I—I am very glad the child is safe.”
Emerson had already turned away; I patted William’s arm and followed my husband and Selim into the study.
“What have you done with him?” was Emerson’s first question.
“He is locked in the garden shed, with Hassan on guard. They would have torn him limb from limb, Father of Curses, if I had allowed it. What happened? Where was she? Did you find the other man?”
We gave him a brief account of what had transpired. “Ah,” said Selim, brightening. “So we will go there and wait for him to come back tonight!”
“That is a step we must take,” Emerson agreed. “Though there is a chance someone will warn him. It couldn’t be helped, Selim, we had to get the child home at once. Fortunately we have another source of information.”
I persuaded Emerson to wait a bit before beginning the interrogation of our prisoner, since I wanted to be present, and there were other duties I needed to carry out first. They did not take long. Gargery had been put to bed by Selim and smeared with green ointment by Kadija. He was a sight to behold, but his cheerful if distorted smile and air of self-satisfaction told me that he considered his bruises a small price to pay for his new role as hero—which, I feared, he intended to milk to the full. Sennia had been to see him; she was now in the bath, attended like a small Sultaness by Kadija and Basima and several other women—and Horus, who lay stretched out on a cushion watching.
The cat and I studied one another with mutual distaste. Now was when we missed Nefret. Veterinary medicine is not one of my specialities, but I knew that an animal in pain may attack even a friend. However, I have never been known to shirk my duty. I advanced upon Horus with a firm stride.
“Peabody, don’t,” Emerson exclaimed in alarm. “Not without gloves—not without several people holding him down—not without a stout stick . . .” His voice trailed off into silence. Horus had rolled over, and we saw that his entire underbelly was bright green.
“Oh,” I said. “Kadija, how did you—”
Kadija glanced at me over her shoulder. “He has no broken bones, Sitt Hakim, and I think nothing inside is hurt. He has eaten a great deal of chicken and clawed halfway through the door of Sennia’s room.”
“But how did you—”
“I talked to him.”
In what language? I wondered. I decided not to ask. Horus sneered at me.
The storage shed had no windows. The interior was as hot as an oven. The prisoner’s sweating face shone like glass. He was a young man, dark-skinned and heavily bearded. The men had not handled him gently. His head was bare and his robe was torn.
If there had been any fight left in him, the sight of Emerson’s stalwart form filling the narrow doorway would have ended it. He had been sitting on the floor; he wriggled back as far as he could go and raised his hands in appeal.
“It is said that the Father of Curses does not torture prisoners,” he croaked.
“Only when they refuse to answer my questions,” Emerson said. “That has never happened. I hope you will not be the first. What is your name?”
The first few questions were answered without hesitation. His name was Mohammed, his profession camel driver, he lived in Giza village, where he had met Saleh Ibrahim, who had hired him for a little job. “The child was in no danger, Father of Curses, I swear. Saleh said she must be taken alive and unhurt or he would not be paid. He said—”
“Paid,” Emerson repeated. “By whom?”
“I do not know, Father of Curses. I have done wrong, but do not send me to prison; beat me, and let me go. It was Saleh who planned it. He took her to his house. That is all I know. I swear