Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [134]
Not until later did it occur to me that it had been too easy.
I waited until late afternoon next day before I set out. The house Sayid had told me about was on the west bank. It was only one of several places the Master used, but Sayid considered it to be the most likely.
“It is the largest house in the village and the others do not approach it, because they believe he is a holy man, a Haggi and a descendant of the Prophet. When you knock on the door, Sitt, make sure he knows it is you. He is always on guard, and quick with a knife. I would not want you to be harmed, Sitt.”
I believed that. I still owed him fifty pounds.
Knowing that a tourist would be besieged and harassed by hopeful guides the moment she set foot on the west bank, I acquired women’s clothing from Sayid (he charged me an extra pound) and put it on in the boat while he took me across. (Five pounds.) He landed me as close as he could, but I had a walk of almost two miles ahead of me. I had taken the risk of wearing my own clothes, including my shoes, under the robe. Authenticity is all very well, but I knew I couldn’t walk that far barefoot, or in the clumsy sandals some of the locals wore.
I felt somewhat self-conscious at first, and very awkward in all those layers of cloth. It is not only demanded of women to conceal their faces; heads, bodies, and even hands are covered whenever they walk abroad. Sayid had informed me that my costume, which included a voluminous outer garment of black cotton, was what would be worn by a rigidly respectable, somewhat old-fashioned female of moderate means, but I’m sure he enjoyed watching me stumble and trip over my skirts. Sayid had quite a sense of humor.
Apparently I did look respectable, for no one accosted me or even gave me a second glance. My progress was slow, but I was in no hurry. I didn’t want to approach the house until dusk.
I had no trouble finding it. Larger and more pretentious than the others, it stood a little apart from them, backed by a low undulating ridge of rock. I squatted down, knowing I was invisible in the twilight, and waited until most of the lighted windows in the houses of the village had gone dark. No lights showed in the house I wanted, and I began to wonder, not for the first time, if Sayid had sent me on a wild-goose chase. He had already squeezed fifty pounds out of me. He would probably consider it a fine joke if I found myself trying to explain to a genuine holy man, a Haggi and a descendant of the Prophet, who the devil I was and what I wanted.
Having come this far, I had to go on. Followed by two of the village dogs growling and snapping at my heels, I went to the door and knocked.
“It’s me,” I said. “Margaret Minton. Please let me in.”
At first there was no answer. Then I heard a scrape of wood against metal, and the door opened onto darkness. “By God, it is,” said a voice I knew. “Are you out of your mind? Get the hell away from here.”
“Don’t worry. I’m alone.”
“So you think. Oh, Christ, it’s probably too late. Come in and bar the door.”
His voice sounded strange.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“No. But I’ll be in far worse shape shortly if I don’t—” A match flared and wavered wildly before it went out. “Here,” he said, thrusting something into my hand. “Light the candle. It’s on the table.”
In the brief flare of the match I had managed to close and bar the door. My hands were almost as unsteady as his; I spilled several matches onto the floor