Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [24]
Nefret felt it too—or was it, she wondered, only her intense awareness of his mood? She let him lead the way; he knew the alleys of Cairo better than she, and if there was danger it could come from behind as well as before them. Her hand light on his shoulder, she stepped softly, every sense alert for a sound or movement.
He heard it before she did. He turned on his heel and pushed her behind him, pinning her against the wall with an arm as hard as a steel bar. Cursing breathlessly, she switched on the torch.
What she saw almost made her drop it. The face was that of a monster or a demon, the only visible features a pair of glittering eyes, inhuman and enormous as those of a magnified insect. The light shivered along the blade of a knife—it had to be a knife, though she could not see the hand that held it. She saw it descend, saw her husband’s arm lift to block the blow—but he moved without his usual quickness and he made no other move to defend or attack. The sleeve of his coat darkened. Blood ran down his hand and dripped onto the ground.
Nefret remained motionless and silent, though her vocal cords and every muscle in her body protested. It went against all her instincts to be a passive observer, but she was trying to control her impetuosity, which had led to considerable trouble in the past. Ramses could have easily stopped the attacker before he struck; she’d seen him do it with fighters much more skilled than this one appeared to be.
After a few interminable seconds, the apparition let out a strange moaning cry and vanished. Ramses went after it. Gritting her teeth, Nefret remained where she was, turning the beam of the torch so that it framed the two figures.
Ramses had the man in a firm grip. Only a man, after all; his dark clothing had made him virtually invisible, and the eerie eyes were glasses, reflecting the light of the torch.
“It’s all right,” her husband said, and although he spoke English she knew he wasn’t talking to her. “It’s all right. You’ve done the job. Give me the knife.”
The scarf that had masked the lower part of the man’s face had slipped, exposing a scanty beard and narrow jaw. He held up his hands. They were empty. He raised them to his face and began to cry.
• • •
Three
• • •
In the old days I had been in the habit of giving a little dinner party soon after our arrival in Egypt, to greet friends and catch up on the news. I had not the heart for it that year. Many of our friends were gone, into a better world or into retirement; many of the younger generation had gone to war; and for the first time in many seasons our closest friends, Cyrus and Katherine Vandergelt, were not in Egypt. Cyrus was American and too old for military service in any case (though I would not have cared to be the one who told him so), but Katherine was English by birth and her son Bertie had been one of the first to volunteer. After several minor injuries which had not prevented him from returning to the front, he had been wounded in the leg, arm, chest, and head by an exploding shell and was making a slow but steady recovery, nursed by his mother and sister and supplied by Cyrus with every comfort money could buy. The war was over for him, thank heaven, but at what a cost!
Indeed, a celebration would have been inappropriate. However, I felt it my duty to reestablish relations with various acquaintances who were still in the city. The phrase “idle gossip,” which Emerson employed, was just one of his little jokes. It is necessary to know what is going on. I had been out of touch for many months; nowhere was the press controlled as tightly as it was in Egypt, and even letters from friends were reduced to illegibility by zealous censors. I had asked Nefret if she and Ramses would like to join us, but I was not surprised when she politely declined. So we went alone to Cairo, my dear