Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [192]
The vines along the wall rustled. Ramses spun round and saw a face, wide-eyed with terror, peering out from among the leaves. It was the proprietor, Hussein Ali. Ramses dragged him out by the collar and broke into his protestations of ignorance and innocence.
“Where are they? Which room?”
“He threatened me with his long knife. How was I to know he had offended the great and powerful—”
“Which room?”
It was at the back—the best room in the hotel, Hussein Ali explained. A suite, in fact! Two adjoining rooms, one for sleeping, the other—
Obviously not for bathing. Ramses left him salaaming and explaining, and went to the door. It had once been quite beautiful, painted with bright designs like so many of the doors of Gurneh houses, before time and neglect had taken their toll. It stood ajar. There was no point in reconnoitering, he knew what places like this were like; the windows at the back would be high and narrow, to keep thieves out. The Syrian must know he was here. He hadn’t bothered to lower his voice, and Hussein Ali had yelled even louder.
He kicked the door back against the wall. No one there. The doors lining the narrow hallway were closed, except for one at the far end. The need to see her, to know she was alive, was so strong it pulled him like a cable, straight down the hall to the open door.
Sunlight streamed in through the windows high under the eaves. It shone on her hair. She was lying on the filthy divan, her feet and hands bound. Her eyes were open, blue as cornflowers and limpid with relief. She had been afraid for him.
Mubashir sat beside her. “Welcome, Brother of Demons,” he said. “Come in and drop your knife.” His own blade rested on her cheek.
I cannot imagine how I could have been so careless as to let both of them get away from me. I had not seen the blood on the back of Ramses’s shirt till he turned, but he pretended not to hear my call. When we found Sethos had slipped away too, and that he had taken Emerson’s gelding, my indignation could not be restrained.
“The foolish man is in no condition to ride,” I exclaimed. “And if he were, he ought to have come with us and offered what assistance he can. After all we did for him—”
“Get me a horse,” said Emerson, as single-minded as Richard III.
“Perhaps we don’t require further assistance,” I conceded, as Selim ran toward the stable. “Selim and Daoud and you and I should suffice. Supposing we find him, that is. We have disposed of three of his followers; he can’t have many left.”
“The devil with the horses,” said Emerson, who obviously had not heard a word I said. “We may as well go on foot.”
“Go where?” I demanded. “You don’t know the precise location.”
Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin. “It has to be somewhere between Deir el Bahri and Deir el Medina—probably less than a hundred yards beyond the place where the accident occurred. Kuentz was afraid they might notice something if they went any farther. It’s less than half a mile as the crow flies.”
“We are not crows, and it’s all up- and downhill! For pity’s sake, Emerson, use your head. Ramses said he would meet us at Deir el Bahri. If we start there and follow the cliff south—”
“Then where is my damned horse?” Emerson demanded. “Selim!”
“Here, Father of Curses.”
Emerson’s jaw dropped and Selim, anticipating his protest, explained, defensively, “There are no others.” He was leading Yusuf’s fat mare.
“I can’t ride that!”
“If she can carry Yusuf she can bear your weight,” I remarked. It was all to the good, really. Gripped by intense archaeological fever, Emerson would have outstripped the rest of us had he been properly mounted. Before he could propose a change of horses, I ordered Selim and Daoud