The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [95]
“Oh, good Gad!” I exclaimed. He was upright and smiling, without so much as a drop of blood spotting the white fabric. On a bench against the wall Nefret and Emerson sat side by side, like spectators at a performance.
“Hallo, Peabody,” Emerson said. “Here, boys, let me have a go.”
He jumped up and began tugging at his shirt. A button popped off and fell to the ground. Emerson’s hasty method of removing his garments makes it necessary for me to spend far too much time sewing on buttons. When I fix them firmly, the fabric tears instead, ruining the shirt.
“Please, Emerson,” I said automatically. “Not another shirt. What the devil is going on here?”
I saw now that the knives had been blunted by strips of leather bound round the edge and sharp tip. Emerson said cheerfully, “Ramses wanted some practice at fighting left-handed. It is a useful skill, don’t you agree, Peabody?”
“Quite,” I said.
Emerson removed his shirt, losing only one more button in the process, and tossed it onto the bench. “Let me have your knife, Ramses.”
“Take David’s,” said my son. Perspiration beaded his face and trickled down his throat. He had discarded the sling, and I observed that the bandage on his hand was a peculiar shade of green. “He can’t even attack me as hard as he ought; sheer awe of you would paralyze him.”
“But not you, eh?” Emerson grinned. “Right! Have at you, my boy!”
Taking the knife from David’s limp grasp, he stood poised, his knees flexed and his arms outstretched.
I made my way to the bench and sat down next to Nefret. “Those leather strips . . . What if they came undone?”
“I fastened them on myself.” Nefret’s brow was slightly furrowed. “Ramses was keen on the idea, so . . . They look splendid, don’t they?”
I suppose they did. Emerson’s magnificent muscles slid smoothly under his bronzed skin as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Ramses matched him in height if not in bulk; he was breathing rather quickly, but he was as light on his feet as his father. They circled one another slowly. Ramses was the first to attack; his knife drove at Emerson’s ribs. Emerson twisted aside and struck Ramses’s arm away. Ramses jumped back, throwing out his other arm to maintain his balance, and his father slashed at his unguarded breast. It was not a hard blow, but Ramses dropped his knife and doubled over, clutching his side.
“Oh, curse it,” Emerson said, hurrying to him. “Forgive me, my boy. Come and sit down.”
Ramses pulled away from his father’s affectionate grasp and straightened. The blunted tip of Emerson’s knife had caught in the opening of his shirt and pulled it apart. The bruise over his rib cage was the size and color of a tarnished silver saucer. “It’s quite all right, sir. Shall we try again?”
Emerson began, “I will not take advantage—”
“The point of this exercise,” said Ramses, breathing hard, “is learning to deal with an opponent who is delighted to take any advantage he can. I daresay I have had more practice at this than you, Father. Don’t be afraid of hurting me again. I won’t let you.”
“That’s enough,” Nefret said, jumping up. “Curse you, Ramses, you bloody idiot!”
“More than enough,” said Emerson. “Ramses, my boy—”
“No harm done, sir, I assure you.” Ramses picked up his knife. “If you will excuse me, I will go and clean up.”
“If you will excuse me,” said Nefret to us, “I will go and deal with Ramses. I told him not to take those bandages off!”
Emerson cleared his throat. “Er—Nefret, my dear, I know you mean well, but don’t you think he might be more amenable if you—er—asked him nicely instead of—er—calling him names?”
“Hmph,” said Nefret—but she looked a little self-conscious. “All right, sir, I will try. Come and help me, David. If gentle persuasion doesn’t do the job, you will have to hold him down.”
“What’s wrong, Peabody?” Emerson inquired. “I am a confounded clumsy idiot, but I don’t believe he is much hurt.”
“I am sure he is not.”
My voice was not entirely steady. Emerson put a manly arm round my shoulders