Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [148]
Ashraf was sitting at the foot of the gangplank, smoking and staring placidly into space. He sprang to his feet when he saw Ramses.
“Nur Misur is looking for you, Brother of Demons.”
The golden visions were replaced by what his mother would have called a hideous foreboding. “What has happened, Ashraf?”
“Nothing, nothing. But she said—”
Ramses hurried up the gangplank, leaving Ashraf talking to himself. Nefret must have heard their voices. She came running to meet him, eyes wide, face strained. He caught her in his arms.
“Darling, what’s wrong? Did he—”
She pushed him away. “He didn’t do anything. The next paroxysm has started, I’ve got to get back to him. But, oh, Ramses—you won’t believe this—it’s too awful—”
“What? For God’s sake, Nefret!”
There was a crumpled piece of paper in her hand. A telegram. He snatched it from her.
“Arriving Luxor Wednesday a.m. with Sennia, Selim, and others. Staying with Cyrus, no need for you to do anything.” She had even paid for another extra word. “Love, Mother.”
Ramses drew the curtain aside and looked out the window. The night sky was brilliant with stars, and moonlight streaked the rippling dark water. He had stripped to shirt and drawers and removed his shoes. “It’s time I was going. Are you sure you can handle him?”
The ghost of a smile touched Nefret’s lips. “Look at him.”
The first stage of the attack had passed, and fever reddened the sick man’s face. Though his eyes were open, he did not seem to be aware of his surroundings, and he hadn’t spoken, except for incoherent murmurs.
Nefret extinguished the lamp before she joined him at the window. Ramses felt as if he ought to say something, but he couldn’t think what. Don’t worry? But she would. I love you? That sounded as if he never expected to see her again. What was there to say, after all? He kissed her upturned face, a hard, quick kiss, and slid out the window. Reaching up, he took the bundle she handed him.
“Don’t be tempted to show off,” she whispered, and withdrew from the window.
Once ashore, he wrung out his dripping undergarments and put them on again. The fabric was uncomfortably clammy but there was a chance he’d want to discard the robe, and he didn’t fancy running about in his bare skin. The waterproof wrappings had kept the clothing dry. He put them on—robe, beard, turban, sandals, knife belt—and started walking.
Though he kept a wary eye out, he had ample time for what his mother would have called ratiocination during the mile-long hike. Unfortunately he still couldn’t think of any way of averting the catastrophe that would soon be upon them. He and Nefret had discussed alternatives that afternoon, once he’d recovered from the shock of the telegram.
“Tell them they mustn’t come” had been her first suggestion.
“Tell Mother not to do something?”
“You’re right, that would only make her more determined. What do you suppose brought this on?”
“Why speculate? It could be anything from wanting to share a jolly Christmas celebration to . . . I’m afraid to think.”
“They can’t know about him. Uh—can they?”
“Anything’s possible where my mother is concerned, but I don’t see how that fascinating bit of information can have reached her. We’ve got to get him off the Amelia before they arrive, Nefret.”
“Yes.” They stared blankly at one another. “How?” Nefret asked. “Where to?”
A rustle in the vegetation brought Ramses’s attention back to his surroundings. He was almost at the edge of the cultivation; to his right, the broken columns of Seti’s temple