The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [144]
“You have to push . . . here . . .” A shaking finger indicated the spot. “And pull this at the same time. They’re rusty, stiff . . .”
The chains clinked and he swore under his breath. They were making too much noise and taking too much time. It was too damned quiet. Hadn’t Sahin left a guard? Maybe it wasn’t a trick after all. If her father had set it up, she was putting on a very convincing show of fear. As soon as he stood, she thrust a bundle at him.
“Put it on. Hurry!”
The caftan was probably one of Sahin’s. It was of fine wool and far too costly for someone who wanted to be inconspicuous, but since he had no choice in the matter, he put it on, and wound the woolen scarf over his head and face. The last item in the bundle was a knife. She’d thought of everything—except a belt. He slashed a strip off the bottom of the caftan, tied it round his waist, and slipped the knife through the makeshift sash.
She let him precede her to the door but stayed so close behind him he could hear her agitated breathing. She’d left the door ajar. Ramses swept the torch in a hasty circuit, half expecting to see Sahin’s grin and a heavily armed guard; but the corridor was empty.
“That way.” She extended a shaking arm over his shoulder.
“I know. Is there anyone in the other cells?”
“What does it matter? Hurry!”
She pushed at him, but he stood firm. “Is there?”
“No!”
The light of the torch showed that the doors were not barred or bolted, but he couldn’t leave without making certain. He eased them open, one after the other, just far enough to look inside. Despite his care, the hinges gave off a series of groans, echoed, on a higher note, by the girl. She tugged at his arm.
Ramses let himself be drawn away. The cells had been unoccupied except by a family of rats that had set up housekeeping in a pile of moldy straw. She led the way now, tiptoeing, her black skirts raised. Ramses followed her up the stone steps and through a mazelike series of narrow passages and small storerooms. She certainly knew her way around the cellars. He doubted very much that she had explored them herself.
But they had met no one and seen no one when she finally stopped by a wooden door and tugged at the handle. Somehow Ramses was not surprised when the portal swung silently open. Stars shone bright overhead, illumining a walled courtyard. It was strictly utilitarian; no fountain, no flowers, only weeds and piles of trash. They were at the back of the villa, near the kitchens. He looked up, scanning the night sky, and found the Dipper and the North Star. It would be light in a few hours. Time was definitely of the essence, but there was one question he had to ask.
He turned to the girl. “Who helped you?”
“No one helped me! I did it myself, all of it. I saw you today when they brought you in, and I . . . There is no time for this. You must hurry.”
“But how did you know—”
“No questions! It won’t be easy to find your way out of the city. I must show you where—”
“No, go back to your rooms before you are missed. I know where I am now.”
She put her hands on his arms. “A horse. I will get one for you.”
“Why don’t you just paint a target on my back?” Ramses inquired, and immediately felt guilty when her mouth quivered pathetically. Her face was so close he could see the kohl lining her eyes. She’d made herself up as if for an assignation, and that absurd pink frock was probably one of her best.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and although every moment counted now, he racked his brain to remember a few pleasing platitudes. “You have saved my life. I will never forget—”
His breath came out in a grunt as she threw herself against him. “We will meet again one day,” she gasped. “You can never be mine, but your image will be enshrined in my heart!”
“I forgot that one,” Ramses muttered. She was a well-rounded armful, soft and warm and heavy, and there seemed to be only one way of getting her to stop talking.
So