The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [63]
Daoud’s face broadened in a smile. “Ah! It is a good thought. We will have a grand fantasia when they come, with gifts and music and much to eat.”
“We will.” She squeezed his arm affectionately. “I’ll wait for you here.”
After he had edged his large frame through the doorway, Nefret reached into her bag and took out a few coins. Jingling them in her hand, she went to the fakir, who had subsided into a shapeless lump, his hair over his face.
“If that is the odor of sanctity, I’d prefer damnation,” she said in a low voice. “Why are your disguises so repulsive?”
“Filth keeps fastidious persons at a distance” was the barely audible reply. “Obviously you aren’t one of them. Ruhi min hina, ya bint Shaitan. (Get away from here, daughter of Satan.)”
He dared not look up, but he heard her soft chuckle and her louder response. “How rude!” She dropped the coins at his feet and moved away.
Peering through the matted tangle of hair, Ramses saw Daoud emerge from the shop. Neither of them looked in his direction, but he waited until they had gone a little way before scrambling to his feet and following.
“Hmph,” I said, when Nefret had finished describing Ramses’s costume. “Very picturesque, upon my word. Why were you following Daoud and Nefret? He is large enough and faithful enough to protect her.”
Slouching upon the divan, with his feet on the rim of the fountain, my son replied, “He would gladly lay down his life for her, but by the time that regrettable event occurred it might be too late for Nefret. After what happened to you this morning we cannot take too many precautions.”
“I don’t need to be protected,” Nefret said predictably. “I had my knife.”
For the first time we were enjoying the amenities of the courtyard of our new abode. Consciousness of a task well done filled me with satisfaction as I contemplated it. Wicker settees and chairs, small tables and hassocks had been arranged around the fountain, where a jet of water tinkled musically. The plants Geoffrey had brought were the finishing touch; selected with the taste of an artist and planted with loving care, they had turned a bare courtyard into a garden. The pots containing orange and lemon trees, hibiscus and roses, were local products; their simple lines and softly burnished surfaces suited the ambience and were reminiscent of their ancient counterparts. Certain styles of pottery have not changed in general appearance for thousands of years.
“My adventure today has one positive aspect,” I remarked. “If any of you entertained lingering doubts about David’s guilt, they have surely been dispelled.”
“You are assuming that the attack on you is related to the other business,” Emerson said. The lamp on a nearby table illumined his scowling countenance.
“Surely it would be too much of a coincidence if they were unrelated,” said Ramses.
“Not at all. Your mother is always getting into unpleasant situations. She goes looking for them. She attracts them. She revels in them.”
“What nonsense!” I exclaimed.
“All the same,” said Ramses, while Nefret hid her amusement behind her hand, “there are only two possibilities. Either Mother’s recent—er—misadventure is not related to the inquiries we have been making, or it is. The second alternative seems most likely. Mother doesn’t have that many old enemies lurking about. At least … Do you, Mother?”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Let me think. No, not really. Alberto passed on a few years ago, quite peacefully, I was told by his cellmate, and it seems most unlikely that Matilda—”
“Don’t go down the list, it would take too long,” said Emerson. “We will accept the second alternative as a working theory. Do you have more to say, Ramses?”
It was a foolish question. Ramses always has more to say.
“Yes, Father. We may derive from that alternative certain other likely possibilities. First, the man we are after is somewhere in the Cairo