Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [85]
“She held up well,” Ramses said in a low voice. “It’s a pity I can’t dismiss Jamil, he’s more of a nuisance than a help, but I’m afraid Yusuf would be offended.”
“Yes, I suppose. Ramses, what makes you think Sethos is—”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“But—”
“Later.”
It was at this point, Nefret thought, that her mother-in-law would have expressed her annoyance—firmly—and insisted on continuing the discussion, and then she and Emerson would have shouted happily at one another and the air would have been cleared. There was no hope of any such thing with Ramses. She bowed her head and said nothing more.
She had finished bathing and changing when he joined her in their room.
“I had to wait for Jamil,” he explained unnecessarily. “Do you mind if I clean up a bit before we talk? I’ll be as quick as I can.”
He finished unbuttoning his shirt and tossed it in the general direction of a chair, then sat down to unlace his boots. When he bent over she saw the faint scars that ran across his shoulders and down his back. Thanks to the use of a “magical” ointment supplied by Kadija, the wounds had healed well and were not visible except in certain lights, but Nefret knew they were there. It was morbid and self-indulgent to blame herself for those injuries; her inadvertent blunders would not have affected the outcome of that awful business. She kept telling herself that. One day she might be able to believe it.
“I’ll have tea ready,” she said, and fled, before he could see the tears in her eyes.
She took it out on poor young Nasir, spurring him into a flurry of activity that actually got the tea-things on the table before Ramses came upstairs.
“Cucumber sandwiches again?” he inquired, settling into a chair.
“It seems to be an unalterable law. Your mother started it and I can’t get Maaman to stop. He won’t even do cheese.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
She poured the tea. When she handed him his cup she saw he was watching her, his eyes bright and steady, his lips slightly curved.
“You do it on purpose, don’t you?” she demanded.
“You’re adorable when you’re in a temper.” He began to laugh, raising one hand in a mock posture of defense. “I thought that would stir you up. No, honestly, I don’t do it on purpose. I thought we ought to conduct the discussion of what is unquestionably a complex and controversial subject—”
“When we are comfortable and not likely to be interrupted,” Nefret broke in. “All right, I’ve had all afternoon to think about it, so you can let me talk first. You think Sethos is back, don’t you? Ramses, he can’t be. I saw the wound. It must have penetrated his lung.”
“People have survived such wounds, haven’t they?”
“People have survived worse,” Nefret admitted. “Miracles, they’re called, but they do happen. So let’s grant that he had a good surgeon, and a miracle. I’ll also grant that it would make excellent sense to let everyone believe he had died. You wouldn’t dare make an exception for fear word would get back to his counterparts in the intelligence services of Turkey and Germany. They must have known of his existence, if not his real identity, and he’d have been high on their list of people to be eliminated. They’d write him off if they thought he was dead.”
“I agree.” He watched her, his eyebrows tilted and a smile curving his lips. “Anything else you want to say?”
“Yes. That peculiar mark you pointed out to me—the one like a yin-and-yang symbol. He’d find that appropriate, wouldn’t he—the light and the dark sides of his nature, his criminal past and his most recent role as an agent of British intelligence. And the wavering line looks like a flattened S! The sign is meant to warn thieves away from places that are under his protection, and they include sites in which we—especially Mother—take a personal interest. That occurred to you earlier, didn’t it? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I hoped you’d arrive at the same conclusion without my prompting. It was such a far-fetched idea.”
“Not so far-fetched now,” Nefret said thoughtfully.