Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [197]
What had happened to Margaret? She raised her head and looked around the room. It had a pathetic, faded look, as if someone had been trying to imitate the ambience of a proper hotel without the money or the knowledge to do it right—worn matting on the floor, tattered curtains at the window, a set of chipped, soiled bathroom utensils, and slung carelessly over the back of a chair, a man’s shirt. A European shirt. The pieces weren’t hard to put together. It was Alain, then. She had liked him, she had hoped they were wrong. He had killed at least three people. And Ramses had gone alone to face him and his accomplices, and Margaret might be dead, and the ropes weren’t any looser. Please, God.
Mubashir came back carrying a bottle of water and a glass smeared with greasy fingerprints. He sat down beside her, too close, his hip against her thigh, and in spite of herself she cringed away. He smiled again.
“Are you afraid? I could hurt you. I would like to. But my master has said not, unless someone comes looking for you. You are hoping it will be your husband, yes? You should hope he will not come. I have heard of the Brother of Demons, but he cannot get the better of me.” His fingers fumbled at her face, pulling the gag down. “Do you want water? The Master said you could have it, and food, if you wish.”
“No.” She was dry-mouthed with fear and her throat hurt, but she couldn’t bear the thought of his arm raising her, the filthy glass against her lips. “Untie me. The ropes are too tight. The Master said not to hurt me.”
“Ah, but then I would have to hurt you, because you would try to get away.” His callused fingers stroked her cheek. “You fought hard for a woman. I liked that. Do you want the water?”
Nefret shook her head.
“If you change your mind, you will have to ask,” he said, with another of his grotesque smiles. He filled the glass and drank, and then he began talking—stories of all the men he had killed and how he had killed them, in loving detail. He doesn’t realize he is speaking to a woman who has probably disemboweled more people than he has, Nefret thought. A lot more neatly, though . . .
She would have to persuade him to untie her feet, at least. Knees up while he was bending over her, catching him under his chin, hoping she had strength enough to knock him out or even down, then a dash for the door. Had he left it open in order to tantalize her with a glimpse of freedom?
He must be safe, she told herself. I always know when he isn’t. The agonizing, irrational terror had faded, but cold reason told her there was more than sufficient cause for worry. He wouldn’t rest until he had found her and she did not doubt he would—someway—somehow. But what could he or anyone else do?
The hateful voice droned on. The sunlight paled. It was midday or later. She would have to beg. She hated the idea, but she had to do it, soon, before her legs were too numb to function.
Then she heard the hoofbeats. That was why the door had been left open; the Syrian was taking no chances on being caught by surprise. She knew who it was even before she heard his voice. He had come alone, had not even tried to conceal his presence. She tugged at the ropes binding her wrists, and the Syrian grinned at her and drew his knife.
Ramses stopped in the doorway, his feet slightly apart, his own knife held low and loose. When he saw her, some of the color came back to his face, and he let out a long, controlled breath.
“I’m all right,” she said. The blade of the Syrian’s knife was cold against her skin.
“Yes.” His mouth softened into a smile.
“Marhaba, Brother of Demons,” Mubashir said. “Come in and drop your knife, or I will cut her face open before I kill you.”
Ramses glanced at his weapon, and tossed it carelessly away. It struck the floor point down and quivering, ten feet from him. “Are the odds more to your liking now?” he asked. “Or do you only fight with women?