The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [153]
“Have tea then, or a narghileh.” David snapped his fingers.
“Or a little hashish. It’s quite tasty when it’s made into sweetmeats. What you do is, you take a quantity of honey—”
“Stop it!” David’s voice was soft but it cracked like a whip. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what? Wardani covered a number of subjects in a remarkably short period of time. He’s usually more verbose. I am going to be sick,” he added, and lowered his head onto his folded arms.
“Drink your tea,” David said. “Then I’ll take you home to Lia and we’ll put you to bed.”
“Yes, fine,” Ramses said vaguely. A hand slipped under his forehead and lifted his head.
“You’re not drunk,” David said, inspecting him. “Or feverish. You’re dead-tired, that’s all that’s wrong with you. No wonder, working all day and prowling the streets all night—or is it the wharves or the desert roads? Talk about arrogance! How long did you think you could keep this up? Here, drink it.”
The tea was so hot he could feel blisters rising on his tongue, but he choked some of it down. “That’s better,” he said in mild surprise.
“Let’s get out of here.” David put a hand under his arm and hauled him to his feet. “Maybe what you need is a drink. We’ll stop at Shepheard’s and get a cab from there. And on the way back to the Amelia you will tell me exactly what you’ve done so that we can decide what we are going to do next.”
The night life of Cairo went on till all hours, and the streets of the European section were bright and busy. Lights twinkled in the dark groves of the Ezbekieh Gardens.
“I don’t want a drink,” Ramses said. “Let’s go home.”
“All right.” David hailed one of the open barouches and they got in. “Well?” “Well what?”
David slapped him across the face, just hard enough to sting. “Wake up! I’m not angry yet, Ramses, but I soon will be if you continue to hide things from me. Why did you agree to work for Russell? A girl has been murdered, your mother has been attacked, the family may be in danger, and you are killing yourself trying to track down a man who has nothing to do with … Oh, good Lord! He does, doesn’t he? I ought to have known. Talk to me, damn it!”
“Don’t hit me again,” Ramses mumbled. “I’ll talk. I was going to, but you kept yelling at me. Yes. I mean, yes, he does. It’s the same man, David. The ’sahib’ is using your name too.”
TWELVE
In the East an Englishman must be willing to die rather than show a streak of yellow. The courage of a single individual raises the prestige of all; the cowardice of one man reflects on all his peers. I endeavored, in my own humble way, to live up to this standard …
I sat in the little room I had fitted up as an office, looking out over the garden, now being brought back to its former beauty; and I could not help thinking, with pardonable complacency, of how well our new living arrangements were working. Initially Emerson had objected to the size of the house, but as it turned out we needed all the space at our disposal. Our infantile charge required (in my expert opinion) several rooms, including one for her nurse. The lower areas, which I used for storage of artifacts, were rapidly filling up—not, alas, with statues and stelae like the ones Mr. Reisner had been finding, but with bones and broken vessels of stone and pottery.
Nefret and Geoffrey occupied the entire wing that had once been the harem. They had all the privacy they desired, and so did the other young couple—though Ramses had taken to spending a great deal of time with them. Lately he had spent more nights on the dahabeeyah than at the house. It was none of my business, of course, if they preferred it that way.
I had left my door ajar, and since the room opened onto the main corridor, I heard the tap of heels and was thus able to call out to Nefret when she came along. She had not meant to stop, I believe. Looking in, she began, “I don’t want to disturb you, Aunt Amelia.”
“Come in.” I leaned back in my chair.
“It is