Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [131]
Ahead the ruined walls of the temple of Seti I shone in the starlight. Remembering the night she and “the parents” had searched the crumbling precincts for Ramses and David, and the long hours of waiting before they found out what had become of them, Nefret clung more tightly to her husband’s arm. Ramses appeared unaffected by painful memories—after all, she reminded herself, there was hardly a site on the west bank that didn’t hold them.
“Am I going too fast for you?” he asked, slowing his steps.
“A little. Let’s not hurry, it’s a lovely night.”
The road to the public ferry landing turned south. Leaving it, they struck off across the cultivation, following the raised pathway Cyrus had built so that he could reach his private dock by carriage. The original owners of the land were still living off the generous price he had paid.
They went on in silence for a while. Ramses began to whistle softly. Recognizing the melody, Nefret smiled to herself. They had waltzed to that song once. For the moment at least he had put aside his worries and was simply enjoying the night air and her company.
The lights of the Amelia were visible when a dark form burst out of a grove of palm trees and ran toward them. Ramses whipped around. Fortunately the moon was bright; he was able to stop himself before his raised hand caught her across the throat.
“Don’t, it’s Miss—it’s Margaret,” Nefret exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”
Gasping for breath, the journalist took her arm in a hard grip and tugged at her. “Come with me. I’ve been waiting for hours.”
“Come where?” Ramses asked, holding tightly to Nefret’s other arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, don’t ask questions, just hurry. I had to leave him—I don’t think he can move, but if he can, he will . . .”
A feeling his mother would have described as a hideous foreboding came over Ramses. His fingers relaxed their hold on Nefret. She didn’t have to ask who “he” was either. “Of course we’ll come,” she said, in her dispassionate, reassuring physician’s voice. “Where is he?”
He was lying on the ground under one of the trees, flat on his back and unmoving. Trunk and branches diffused the moonlight; shadows hid his face and blurred his form, but there was no mistaking his identity.
“I can’t see,” Nefret said, dropping to her knees. “It’s too dark. Is he injured?”
“I don’t think so.” Margaret leaned against one of the trees. “He’s ill. At first it was chills, he was shaking and his teeth were chattering, but he could still walk, and I got him this far, but he wouldn’t go to the dahabeeyah, and I did, and they told me you were out for the evening, and when I came back he was like this, and—”
“Slap her,” Nefret said curtly. “She’s hysterical.”
“You slap her. I’m not awfully keen on hitting women.”
“Delighted to hear it.” Margaret took a deep breath. “I’m not hysterical, I was just trying to tell you everything at once. What’s wrong with him, Nefret?”
“Damned beard,” Nefret muttered. “How the hell can I make a diagnosis when I can’t see him, and most of his face is covered with hair? He’s not shivering now, his skin is dry and hot and he’s comatose. It could be . . . Let’s take him to the boat.”
“Yes, right,” Ramses said resignedly. “Nefret, go on ahead and get the crew out of the way.”
She obeyed without hesitation or question. Ramses lifted his uncle and heaved him over one shoulder.
The gangplank was down and the man who usually kept guard was not there. So far, so good, Ramses thought. As he turned into the corridor leading to the sleeping quarters, he heard Nefret’s voice in the saloon. She was chattering cheerfully in Arabic, presumably to Nasir. None of the cabins was occupied except theirs; he had a choice of rooms. He chose the nearest, edged in, dumped the unconscious man onto the bed, and rubbed his back. Sethos wasn’t as heavy as Emerson, but he was a big man and at the moment, a deadweight.
Margaret had followed him in. “What can I do?” she asked.
“Draw the curtains.” By the time she had done so he had found the