The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [87]
“It was good of you to take the risk of coming here,” Ramses said.
Wardani grinned and daintily removed a bit of tobacco from his lower lip. “Could I allow you to surpass me in daring? You took the risk last time. You knew, I think, how great a risk it was. Listen, then. I have connections in every corner of this city and in every trade. There have always been forgers of antiquities; I know their names and their work, and so do you. None of them can be the man you want. No dealer in this city or in Luxor has handled objects that belonged to your reis. Most of them know David by sight; all of them know him by name. None have bought antiquities from him. I would not say this if it were not true.”
“I believe you,” Ramses said.
Wardani wasn’t as much at ease as he wanted them to believe. He kept shooting glances at the door. “So. I have given you your Christmas gift, yes? Your forger is not David. He is not an Egyptian. He is one of you—a sahib.” His upper lip curled back when he spoke the word. It gave his face quite a different aspect; one saw the ruthlessness behind the charm. “So that is it, yes? If I learn more I will find a way of informing you.”
It was a dismissal. Nefret rose and offered him her hand. “Thank you. If there is anything I can do in return …”
He took her hand; folding back the cuff of her glove, he pressed his lips to her wrist. The intimate gesture was another test; like a naughty child he was trying to see how far he could go without provoking an angry response.
Not much further, Ramses thought.
Nefret’s response was perfect—a soft laugh and a measureable pause before she withdrew her hand from his grasp. Wardani grinned appreciatively.
“One more thing. It has nothing to do with your business, but it may be of interest. I offer it as another gift to a charming lady. There is a rumor that one of yours has invested heavily in that other trade of which we spoke. He is an Inglizi, but no one knows his name.”
“I see.”
“I am sure you do. I go that way, through the back. You will wait two minutes and then unbolt the door. And I think”—another flashing white smile—“it would be kind to purchase something from poor Aslimi, yes?”
“We’ll have to buy something,” Nefret said, after the curtain at the back of the room had fallen into place, “in case Aunt Amelia asks why we went to Cairo.”
“I thought you had learned the futility of trying to keep things from Mother. However, so long as we’re here, I may as well see if Aslimi has something rare and beautiful and very expensive.”
Aslimi started and squealed when they came out of the back room. Ramses noticed his nails were bitten to the quick. The prospect of a sale revived him, and by the time they left with their purchases—none of which met Nefret’s criteria—he was a much happier man.
“You did believe him, didn’t you?” Nefret asked. “You weren’t just being polite?”
“I do believe him, actually. What a mountebank the fellow is!”
“I rather like him.”
“So do I. You understood the point of that so very casual final comment, I suppose.” “It was the drug trade he meant?”
“Yes.”
“So it was his oblique way of telling you you owe him a favor in return. Payment, in other words.”
“You’re getting the hang of it.”
“I’ve always had the hang of it.” Nefret took his arm and gave a little skip, reminding Ramses he was setting too rapid a pace. He was anxious to get out of the suk. Crowds made him nervous, especially when Nefret was with him.
“A simple business transaction,” she went on cheerfully. “Information in exchange for information.”
“He wants rather more than information,” Ramses said thoughtfully. “He can’t lay an accusation against an Englishman; coming from him, it would be ignored or dismissed. He knows I would do it, though, and I’d be hard to ignore if Father backed me up. Which he would.”
“I hate to think an Englishman would become involved with such a dirty trade.”
“My dear girl,