Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [198]
The arrogant challenge had the desired effect. The Syrian’s nostrils flared. He leaped up and lunged.
Later, when Nefret tried to describe the encounter to a fascinated audience she failed. They were both so quick, the Syrian’s bulky body almost as agile as her husband’s taller, slimmer frame. Ramses moved with the efficiency of a machine and the grace of a cat, twisting and dodging and turning so that time after time the long blade slipped past his body or left only a superficial cut, using his hands and knees for defense since attack was impossible. He kept retreating, but gradually he maneuvered the heavier man around until he was between him and Nefret. Both were breathing quickly but Mubashir was livid with mounting fury. He hadn’t expected any trouble with an unarmed opponent. “Stand and fight,” he shouted, adding an unprintable epithet.
Ramses planted his feet. Both hands locked round the other man’s wrist, halting the descent of the knife inches from his face. For an instant they stood braced in matching strength. There was a blur of movement, so fast she couldn’t make it out; Ramses’s left hand lost its grip and he dropped to one knee, ducking his head to avoid the wild swing of the Syrian’s fist.
Then Nefret understood that every move, even the last, had been part of a deliberate and desperate plan, calculated as precisely as the steps of an intricate dance. Ramses’s free hand closed over the hilt of the knife that stood upright and ready, as he had placed it. His long arm swung under and up and around, in a close, deadly embrace, and the blade entered Mubashir’s back, under the left shoulder blade. The wound was not mortal, the penetration not deep enough to kill; the Syrian jerked away, breaking Ramses’s hold, and Ramses, on his feet, lashed out with his fist. The Syrian’s blade slashed his sleeve from shoulder to elbow, but the blow landed square on Mubashir’s face, toppling him over backward. The impact and the man’s own weight plunged the knife home.
Ramses stood staring down at the twitching body. “Second time today,” he said obscurely, and stooped to take the Syrian’s knife from his lax hand.
Knowing that the slightest sound or movement might break his concentration, Nefret had forced herself to remain mute and rigid. Now that it was over she was too short of breath to speak. As he came toward her she turned, offering her bound wrists. He cut the ropes, and then he caught her to him in a grip that made her ribs ache. She lay still, content to be in his arms, to feel under her cheek the rapid beat of his heart. It was some time before it slowed to normal and he relaxed his hold.
“Sorry,” Nefret said, trying to speak steadily. “I was careless.”
“Pure bad luck. Happens to me all the time,” he added, with a smile that faded into a frown of concern as his eyes examined her. “Did he hurt you? There’s blood on your dress.”
“It’s your blood.” The sleeves and breast of his shirt were slashed into strips and stained red from a dozen cuts. She couldn’t control her voice any longer. “Tell me again that you’re a coward!”
“What? Oh. But—”
“No one else could have done it, not even Father! I’ve never seen anything so—so wonderful and so brave and so—so breathtaking! I was absolutely terrified.”
“So was I. Don’t look at me like that, or I’ll lose what is left of my wits and kiss you, and . . . and this isn’t an appropriate venue.”
“I can’t walk when my feet are tied,” she pointed out. “Is Margaret safe? And Sethos?”
“Yes, but God knows what the rest of them have got themselves into by now.” He freed her ankles, but when she started to stand he picked her up and carried her toward the door, stepping unconcernedly over the fallen man’s sprawled legs. The Syrian looked as formidable in death as he had in life; his eyes were open and staring, his scarred face distorted in a snarl.
“My beloved coward,” she said softly.
It was unbelievable, preposterous, incredible. No cult statue had ever been found, in situ or anywhere else, and this one had to have come from one of the great temples. Seated, it was over three