The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [166]
“Confound it!” said David, who had been about to make an exposure.
Emerson cast a malevolent look at the cloud bank. Rimmed by the rays of the sun it had concealed, it hung like a gold-trimmed purple curtain across the western sky. “Confound it,” he repeated.
It was not the increased difficulty of photography that concerned him, but the possible consequences of a heavy rain. He began bawling out orders.
“Nefret, stop sorting those bones and pile them into baskets. Selim—Daoud—get the tarpaulin from the shelter and stretch it over the excavation. We’ll need heavy stones to anchor the corners. David, pack up the cameras. Peabody—Lia—”
I was already on my way to the shelter, to gather up our notes and papers and pack the remains of the food. It was inspiring to see how quickly everyone scattered, each to his appointed task, all moving with the efficiency long experience had taught us. The rain held off, but the skies darkened and a brisk wind arose, tugging at the canvas so that we had the devil of a time getting it into place and keeping it there. The hired laborers had scampered away toward their village; only our loyal men remained, working as assiduously as we.
I lay flat across one section of canvas, holding it down until Daoud could fetch another stone, and admiring the unusual atmospheric manifestations. The eastern sky was clear, but the uncanny shadow cast an eerie light across the cultivation. Toward the north the shapes of the pyramids stood out black against an encrimsoned rent in the clouds. Another shape became apparent; it was that of a horse and rider, approaching at an easy pace. There was no mistaking the elegant outline of Risha, or, come to that, the outline of Ramses. Someone had once said Ramses rode like a centaur, and he looked like one just then, for the forms of man and horse blended into a featureless silhouette.
He was still some little distance away when a sharp cracking sound made me start and look up. A repetition of the sound told me what I ought to have known from the first. It was not thunder I had heard, it was a rifle shot. I jumped up in time to hear a third shot and see Ramses fall forward over the horse’s neck.
He held on, though, and when Risha came to a stop he straightened and looked down with a particularly supercilious expression at the agitated group surrounding him and the horse. We had all run like fury, and so had Risha, straight to us. Having delivered his rider, he turned his head and snuffled inquiringly at Ramses’s arm. The latter raised both eyebrows at me.
“Put your pistol away, Mother. May I ask what you intended to shoot at?”
Unaware of having removed the weapon from my pocket, I looked at it in surprise. Emerson snatched at my hand. “Don’t point it at your face, Peabody, curse it! Ramses, are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Then why did you appear to collapse?” I demanded angrily, as Emerson took the pistol from me.
“It seemed advisable to present a smaller target.”
“There is blood on your shirt,” said Nefret.
“Jam,” said Ramses. “I took tea with Sennia.”
THIRTEEN
My wounds were negligible, but the maiden insisted upon binding them up with strips torn from her diaphanous garments…
My suggestion, that we fan out in search of the hidden assassin, was unanimously rejected. Ramses claimed he could not tell from which direction the shots had come; Nefret declared that such a procedure would be foolhardy in the extreme; Lia pointed out that the increasing darkness would render a search futile.