Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [145]
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Sethos was lying with his back to the door. When it opened he turned over. The ruffles framing his bristly face should have been mirth-provoking, but he carried it off as only Sethos could.
“Now what?” he demanded.
Nefret sat down beside him and began to speak softly. After only a few sentences Sethos threw up his hands. “I know better than to argue with a woman when she’s in that frame of mind. You’d dismember me without hesitation if it would help him, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm. There’s nothing like devoted love to bring out the finest qualities in . . . All right, all right. I was going to tell you anyhow.” His eyes turned to Ramses. “So far as I know, there are only three of them in addition to their anonymous leader. One’s a Syrian named Mubashir, who worked for me in Cairo in ’08. He probably thinks he’s still working for me. Short, stocky, scars on both cheeks . . .”
He gave brief descriptions of the other two, adding, “Mubashir’s the most dangerous. One of the best men with a knife I’ve ever employed, and quick as a snake. You’ll go armed?”
“He will,” Nefret said, before Ramses could answer. “Do you think they’ll be waiting for you to come back?”
“Not if they know my habits. One of the reasons for my long, successful career is that I never return to a place once it’s known to the other side, even if it means abandoning useful items.” He gave Ramses an insolent grin. “You made good use of the items I had to leave behind once before. You’ll find that skill useful tonight, but don’t be tempted to show off. It’s a family failing. All you need do is make sure some of the villagers see and identify you. You’re about my height and build. The green turban should dispel any doubts; I lost mine somewhere along the way, but you can probably come up with—”
“He’s doing it again,” Ramses said to his wife.
“Right. I am willing to believe,” said Nefret, articulating with precision, “that you haven’t learned the identity of the leader. Why haven’t you questioned that man Mubashir?”
“Go after Mubashir?” Sethos shuddered, or pretended to. “Thank you, no; I would rather my liver, lungs, and intestines remained intact. I wouldn’t get anything useful out of him anyhow. If my wily opponent has the wits for which I give him credit, he’ll be playing the game as I did, skulking about by night, keeping conversation to a minimum, and never letting any of them get a good look at him. You’d be surprised how effective that sort of childish playacting can be with people who—”
“I don’t want a lecture,” Ramses said, trying to keep his voice level. “I want to know what started this game. What’s the prize and where is it?”
“It’s rather a long story . . .”
“Quiet.” Nefret raised her hand. “Is that Nasir calling us?”
“Nasir can go to the devil,” Ramses said. “I want answers, Sethos.”
“They can wait,” Nefret said. “No, really, darling; he’s going to ramble on and on until you hit him or I hit him, or Nasir comes bursting in here. The only thing that matters now . . .” She leaned over Sethos, her face so close to his that their noses were almost touching. “If anything—anything at all!—happens to Ramses tonight,” she said in a voice as sweet as a chime of golden bells, “and it happens because you concealed information that might—might!—have made a difference . . .”
For a long second he stared as if mesmerized into her blue eyes. Then he swallowed, with difficulty, and turned his head away. “There’s nothing. You have my word. For what it’s worth.”
Nasir’s hails were becoming peremptory. Ramses left Sethos to his wife’s tender mercies; she looked like a ministering angel as she lifted his head and held a cup of water to his lips, her hair a halo of gold.
He got past the door of their room before Nasir appeared, still shouting his name. So far they had managed to keep the staff in the dark about their visitor. The longer they could do so the better; the word would be all over the boat and then all