The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [110]
He had said very little the night before, and he applied himself to his food in thoughtful silence.
“You have said very little, Sir Edward,” I remarked. “I have the impression you do not approve of this.”
He looked up, his brow furrowed. “I have a number of reservations, Mrs. Emerson. I cannot believe one of those women would venture to communicate with you, or be able to do so in writing. What Miss Forth said to them must be known by now to most of the residents of Luxor. A resourceful enemy could make use of it to lure you into a trap.”
“We went over all that last night,” I reminded him. “And agreed that the chance must be taken.”
“Then there is no use in my trying to dissuade you.”
“None at all,” said Nefret.
He bowed his head in silent acquiescence, but as we proceeded to mount the horses I saw he was fingering something in his pocket. A pistol? I rather hoped it was. I myself was armed “to the teeth,” as Emerson caustically remarked: my little pistol in one pocket, my knife in the other, my parasol in my hand. My belt I had left behind, but most of its useful accoutrements had been distributed among my other pockets. One never knows when a sip of brandy will be needed, or the means of striking a light.
The first faint blush of dawn outlined the eastern mountains when we disembarked on the quay in Luxor. We were not the only early risers; lighted windows in the hotels indicated that the tourists were up and dressing, and shadowy forms in long galabeeyahs moved along the street on their way to work or to prayers. We were in good time, for our destination was not far distant.
“Wait,” Ramses said suddenly.
“Why? What?” I cried, raising my parasol and darting suspicious looks all round.
“Wait until it is light enough to see where we are going,” Ramses elaborated. “Confound it, this is dangerous enough by daylight.”
In another ten minutes Emerson decreed it was safe to go on. Though it had fewer than twelve thousand inhabitants, Luxor boasted eight or nine mosques, none particularly distinguished for antiquity or architectural distinction. That of Sheikh el Guibri was less than half a mile from the riverbank. The street on which it was located was no more than a country road, unpaved and dusty. We had not quite reached it when the first call to prayer rose into the clear morning air. The muezzins are individualists, defining the exact moment of sunrise according to their own notions. This earliest call came from one of the mosques farther south, but Nefret quickened her pace and was only restrained from drawing ahead of the boys by Emerson, who held her hand tightly in his. We had her safely surrounded, since Sir Edward and I brought up the rear, but I doubted she would accept this state of things for long.
The mosque stood back a little from the road. Through the open arch of the entrance we could see into the courtyard with its fountain and surrounding libans. An adjoining structure with a domed roof presumably housed the tomb of the holy man after whom the mosque was named. From the minaret, the muezzin added his voice—baritone, cracked with age—to the chorus.
There were a number of people abroad, walking or riding donkeys, or driving carts loaded with produce. A woman balancing a load of reeds on her head gave us a curious look as she passed. We were certainly conspicuous; few tourists came this way.
“I am going into the courtyard,” Nefret said in a low voice. “She wouldn’t approach me here on the road.”
“Not a good idea,” said Ramses. “She would be even more conspicuous inside. Women are not encouraged to pray in public. The rest of you go on, toward the tomb. We will wait here.”
“We? Curse it, Ramses, you agreed—”
“I lied,” Ramses said coolly. “We can’t take the chance, there are too many people about. She’s seen me and David with you, and if her intentions are honorable she wouldn’t expect you to be alone.”
We waited for another quarter hour, until the last dilatory notes