Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [188]
“Get me my medical bag,” Nefret said.
“No time.” Ramses lifted the girl and went down the gangplank at a run, with Nefret following. “Take the stallion,” he said. “He’ll carry two. You can hold her, can’t you?”
“Yes. But you—”
“If Jamil told Kuentz about their ‘guest,’ he may decide to act now, when there’s no one at the house but women and children and poor old Yusuf.”
Nefret had scrambled into the saddle. Ramses handed Jumana up to her and began shortening the stirrups. “Go straight to the Castle. Don’t let anyone or anything stop you. If they did catch a glimpse of her they may come here.”
“I understand.” She gathered Jumana into a firm grip and smiled down at him. She did understand—not only what she must do and why, but how much it cost him to let her go off alone, encumbered with a half-conscious child. Events had conspired to force him into a decision he had not had the courage to make before. She was braver than he; she had not tried to dissuade him or told him to take care. All she said was, “I’ll join you at the house as soon as I can.”
“Yes,” Ramses said, and saw her blue eyes flash with pride. “Send Mother and Father too, if you can find them. I may need all the help I can get.”
Ramses mounted the mare without bothering to adjust the stirrups and urged her into a trot. It was impossible to go faster, there were too many people, donkeys, camels, carts, carriages on the road. He hoped and prayed he was worrying unnecessarily, but Jamil had deliberately disobeyed orders and gone straight to their chief suspect. They had never suspected Jamil; the members of that family were above suspicion, almost by definition, but the clues were there. Hadn’t Jumana boasted of her brother’s knowledge of the west bank mountains? Looking for tombs was a popular amusement. If Jamil had found the tomb and Kuentz had caught him in the act and had proposed an alliance . . .
Once he left the main road he made better time. How long had Jumana been unconscious before she woke and dragged herself, with a sprained ankle and a possible concussion, to warn them? She’d get her chance, all right—and anything else she wanted, including Bertie.
Yusuf’s two youngest children were playing on the veranda. Ramses let out a long breath of relief. Nothing had happened. Yet. He left the mare standing and took the children into the sitting room where Yusuf was enthroned on the settee. Leaving Yusuf in the middle of one of his long-winded greetings, he ran along the corridor. Better safe than sorry, his mother would say. The older children and the women were in the courtyard, busy with domestic chores. He cut their greetings short too.
“There may be trouble,” he said, addressing Kadija. “Get everyone into the sitting room and keep them there.”
She didn’t waste time asking questions, not Kadija. Herding Yusuf’s assorted wives and descendants ahead of her, like a flock of bewildered sheep, she disappeared into the house.
They came over the wall, agile as weasels—three of them. Only one of the faces was familiar, and it wasn’t that of Kuentz or Mubashir. Ramses had seen the man somewhere, on the street in Luxor, or outside the hotel.
The sight of him stopped them for a moment. They had expected only women and children.
Then he realized that Kadija was behind him, silent and solid as a rock, holding a granite statue of a centaur by the neck, like a club. She had snatched up the first heavy object that came to hand.
“Go in,” he said urgently. “Stay with the children. Lock yourselves in.”
He pushed her into the house, slammed the door, and put his back against it. After a whispered conference, the three men drew apart, one on either side of the courtyard, the other in the center. Rudimentary tactics, but effective, considering the odds. One was as dark-skinned as a Nubian, the other two had the sharp features and long limbs of the Western Desert peoples. Their robes had been pulled up and tucked into their belts, and the blades of the knives they held were a good