The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [69]
“I gave Kadija a supply and told her what to watch out for. She’ll make certain he takes it.”
“She has the strength to do it,” Ramses said. “But has she the will?”
“Of course. She is a very intelligent woman. She told me the most amusing story, about . . .” Nefret laughed. “Well, perhaps it is not suitable for delicate masculine ears.”
It was still early, so at David’s suggestion they took a stroll through the village—“revisiting the scenes of my youth,” as he put it with uncharacteristic irony. The house where he had spent so many miserable years as the apprentice of a forger of antiquities had passed into the hands of Abd el Hamed’s cousin, who was carrying on the same trade. In theory the workshop turned out copies which were sold as such, but everyone knew that business was only a cover for the production of fakes.
“He’s not as good as my late and unlamented master,” David said. “I’ve seen some of his fakes in the antiquities shops, and they are so poor only the most gullible tourist would buy them. I’ll wager half the great museums of the world have Abd el Hamed’s reproductions.”
“You sound as if you regret his death,” Nefret exclaimed. “After the way he treated you!”
“It’s a pity talent and moral worth don’t go together,” David said. A shiver passed through his tall frame and he turned abruptly away from the house. “Abd el Hamed was a sadistic swine, but he was also a genius. And it was through him that I met you. Come, let’s go. I’ve had enough of nostalgia.”
They had left the horses at the bottom of the slope. As they made their way down the path single file, Ramses fell behind. The rays of the setting sun did remarkable things to Nefret’s hair.
Something dropped onto the path in front of him with a soft plop. Startled out of his dreamy state, he jumped back and then relaxed when he saw it was only a flower—a hibiscus blossom, velvety-petaled and bright orange red. He heard a soft laugh. The door of the house he was passing had opened. A woman stood there, leaning against the frame. He knew her at once for what she was; her face was unveiled and she wore only a vest and a pair of diaphanous trousers. Such clothing was worn in the privacy of the harem, but no respectable woman would have appeared in public without an enveloping robe.
Over one ear she had pinned a matching blossom; the vivid color set off her dark hair. It was difficult to judge her age. She had the body of a young woman but there were threads of silver in her hair and a certain tightness around her full lips.
Ramses stooped and picked up the flower. It seemed rude not to do so, though he suspected the gesture might have another significance. “Thank you, Sitt. May you be well.”
“An offering,” she said, in a low, intimate voice. “Did not the ancients offer flowers to the king?”
“Alas, Sitt, I am no king.”
“But you bear a royal name. It is not for a humble servant like myself to use it; shall I call you ‘my lord?’ ”
Her eyes were not brown or black but an unusual shade between green and hazel. She had framed them with powdered malachite.
Ramses was rather enjoying the banter—it was a different approach, at least—but Nefret and David had stopped to wait for him, and he was reasonably certain that Nefret would not wait long. He saluted the woman and started to turn away.
“You are very like your father.”
She had spoken English. That, and the astonishing statement, roused his curiosity. “Not many people think so,” he said.
She struck a match against the doorframe and lit the cigarette she had taken from somewhere in the folds of the voluminous trousers. Her eyes moved slowly from his face to his feet and then back, even more deliberately. “Your body is not so heavy as his, but it is strong and tall, and you move in the same way, light as a panther. Your eyes and skin are darker; in that you might