The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [188]
“Shall I read a bit aloud?” Nefret asked. “You have both been working so diligently a hearty laugh will be good for you, and David isn’t listening to a word I am saying. He is daydreaming about Lia.”
The mention of his name roused David from his romantic reverie. “I am listening,” he protested, blushing a little.
“Don’t tease him, Nefret,” I said, though I did not think he minded; they were as close as brother and sister, and she was Lia’s greatest friend. “Read a little, if you like. My fingers are somewhat cramped.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. Taking this for consent, which it was, Nefret cleared her throat and began.
“They attacked at dawn. I woke instantly at the sound of pounding hoofs, for I knew what it meant. The Beduin were on the warpath!
“I had been warned that the tribes were restless. My affectionate aunt and uncle, whom I had been assisting that winter with their archaeological excavations, had attempted to dissuade me from braving alone the perils of the desert but I was determined to seek a nobler, simpler life, far from the artificiality of civilization—”
“Good Gad,” I exclaimed. “He was of no assistance whatever, and we could hardly wait to be rid of him!”
“He spent most of his time in the civilized artificiality of the cafes and clubs of Cairo,” said Emerson. “And he was a bloody nuisance.”
“Don’t swear,” I said. Not that I supposed the admonition would have the least effect. I have been trying for years to stop Emerson from using bad language, and with equally poor success to prevent the children from imitating him.
“Do you want me to go on?” Nefret inquired.
“I beg your pardon, my dear. Indignation overcame me.”
“I’ll skip over a few paragraphs,” Nefret said. “He blathers on at some length about how he hated Cairo and yearned for the austere silences of the desert waste. Now back to the Beduin:
“Snatching up my pistol, which I kept ready by my cot, I ran out of the tent and fired pointblank at the dark shape rushing toward me. A piercing scream told me I had hit my target. I brought another down, but there were too many of them; sheer numbers overwhelmed me. Two men seized me and a third wrenched my pistol from my hand. In the strengthening light I saw the body of my faithful servant. The hilt of a great knife protruded from the torn, bloodstained breast of Ali’s robe; poor boy, he had died trying to defend me. The leader, a swarthy, black bearded villain, strode up to me.
“So, Inglizi,” he snarled. “You have killed five of my men. You will pay for that.”
“Kill me, then,” I replied. “Do not expect me to beg for mercy. That is not the way of the English.”
“An evil smile distorted his hideously scarred face.
“A quick death would be too good for you,” he sneered. “Bring him along.”
Emerson flung up his hands. “Stop! No more! Percy’s prose is as paralyzing as his profound ignorance but not as bad as his appalling conceit. May I pitch that copy onto the fire, Nefret?”
Nefret chuckled and clutched the imperilled volume to her breast. “No, sir, it’s mine and you cannot have it. I look forward to hearing what Ramses has to say about it.”
“What do you have against Percy, sir?” David inquired. “Perhaps I should not call him that—”
“Call him anything you like,” growled Emerson.
“Hasn’t Ramses told you about his encounters with Percy?” I asked. I felt sure he had; David was my son’s best friend and confidante.
“I saw several of them,” David reminded me. “When—er—Percy was in Egypt three years ago. I could tell Ramses was not—er—overly fond of his cousin, but he didn’t say much. You know how he is.”
“Yes,” I said. “I do. He keeps things too much to himself. He always has done. There has been bad blood between him and Percy since the summer Percy and his sister Violet spent several months with us. Percy was only ten years of age, but he was already a sneak