Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [75]
It wasn’t a question, so Ramses did not answer. MacKay’s replies to his tactful inquiries about theft and vandalism were curt and unhelpful. He might be resentful of anything that smacked of criticism, but that comment about slackers had suggested another reason for his hostile attitude.
Nefret had said very little. When they left the Valley, Ramses could tell she was seething.
“You can’t blame him, you know,” he said.
“I can if I like! What business has he sitting in judgment over you? I wish you couldn’t read my mind as easily as you do a—a line of hieroglyphs.”
“Your face is a good deal more expressive.” At the moment it bore a scowl that almost matched Emerson’s for pure temper. He took her hand in his.
“Nefret, all he knows about me is the story we were at such pains to cultivate last year. We can hardly complain if it succeeded in convincing people I was—well, what I pretended to be.”
“Coward, slacker, pacifist.” She spat the words out. “It’s not fair!”
“If refusing to engage in the indiscriminate slaughter of people who’ve never done me any harm is being a pacifist, that’s what I am.” Her fingers curled into a fist, and he said quickly, “Darling, it’s not important. Forget it. I think we can eliminate the East Valley from our inquiries. MacKay said there’d been no signs of illicit digging or intrusion.”
“That’s what he would say,” Nefret muttered.
She wasn’t easy to distract once she had got her mind fixed on a grievance. He tried again. “Shall we go to the Asasif tomorrow? Winlock is in the States, but Lansing is holding the fort for the Metropolitan Museum people.”
“Whatever you like.”
“I’ll send word to Yusuf. And we might have your little protégée along.”
Even that concession failed to win a smile from her. The Valley was almost deserted. The more energetic tourists had followed the path over the gebel to Deir el Bahri, where they would lunch at Cook’s Rest House, and the others had returned to the donkeys and carriages that would take them to the river and their hotels. They passed the entrance to the tomb of the sons of Ramses II—the last excavation they had carried out in the Valley, before Emerson’s explosive temper had caused Maspero to ban them from the area.
“It’s a pity we never got a chance to finish in Number Five,” Ramses said.
“We’d still be at it,” Nefret said. She stopped and turned to look up at him. “Ramses . . .”
“Yes?”
“I didn’t lose my temper with him.” She sounded like a little girl who is afraid she has behaved badly. “I wanted to, but I didn’t. It’s just that I love you so much.”
“You were wonderful.”
“Yes, I was, wasn’t I?” She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned toward him. Her lips were parted and her eyes were blue as cornflowers.
A pair of belated tourists hurried past; they were complaining in shrill voices about the heat and the dust.
“Come on,” Ramses said, taking her hand.
“Where are we going?”
“Back to the Amelia. I promised you a beating, remember?”
And that took care of the remainder of the day.
Jamil was early next morning and pouting like Sennia in one of her moods. The reason for his ill humor was with him. She was riding astride, her skirts hitched up to show nicely turned ankles and small feet. The only incongruous note was her headgear. By some means or other she had got her hands on a pith helmet. It was an old one, which had been made for a larger head, and it came clear down to her eyebrows, but it had been carefully cleaned and painstakingly patched with bits of cloth.
“Good morning!” she shouted. “How are you? It is a beautiful day. We should have a pleasant time. I have brought my notebook and a pencil.”
She was showing off her English and showing up her brother, who gave her a sour look. Nefret grinned. Jamil had only a few words of the language, and she doubted he could read and write. If he had had those skills, he and/or his father would have mentioned