The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [165]
He led the way into an open courtyard with a well in the center and a roofed arcade on the right side. It was a fortress, and a strong one. The walls were twelve feet high and eight feet thick. A small two-storied structure within the enclosure must be the living quarters.
“Go ahead into the house,” their host said, indicating this building. “Straight through and up the stairs to the saloon. I’m afraid you’ll find us ill-prepared for guests, but Mustafa and I will see what can be done in the way of food and drink.”
He drew the other man aside. Leaving his father to assist his mother, and Selim the girl, Ramses edged toward the pair. He caught only two words: “No message?” and saw Mustafa shake his head.
Mustafa looked like the sort of man who would be employed by Sethos—burly, black-bearded as a pirate, and wary. He shot a suspicious look at Ramses, and Sir Edward turned.
“This is the notorious—er—famous Brother of Demons, Mustafa,” he said in Arabic. “You have heard of him.”
“Ah!” Mustafa held out a hand. “We will shake hands as the English do, eh? It is an honor to meet you. And so the others are . . . ?”
“The even more notorious Father of Curses and his family,” Ramses said. “If you will forgive me for failing in courtesy, may I suggest that there are important matters to be dealt with before we exchange additional compliments? The horses, for instance. Their owners will want them back.”
Mustafa threw his head back and let out a bellow of laughter. “You stole them? Well done. They will fetch a good price.”
“Control your mercantile instincts, Mustafa,” said Sir Edward. “They must be returned eventually. We—er—borrowed them from the Australians.”
“Hmmm.” Mustafa stroked his beard. “A pity. But you are right, the Australians are fierce fighters and they love their horses.”
Ramses stroked the friendly muzzle that had come to rest on his shoulder. “Take care of them, will you, Mustafa? Rub them down and water them.”
“If you have handled that to your satisfaction,” said Sir Edward, “shall we go in? Your mother will be waiting in the saloon for us.”
“No, she won’t,” Ramses said.
The saloon was an elegantly appointed apartment at the front of the house. I recognized Sethos’s refined tastes in the furnishings—cushioned divans, carved screens, and low tables of brass and copper—but it was clear at a glance that this was a bachelor establishment. There was a bird’s nest in one of the window embrasures, and dust covered every flat surface.
“Dear me,” I said. “This won’t do. Let us see what the rest of the house is like.”
“He told us to wait here,” Nefret said. She was supporting Esin, who looked as if she was at the limit of her strength.
“I have no intention of waiting for a man to make the necessary arrangements,” I replied. “That girl should be in bed. Let us find one.”
Two of the small rooms behind the saloon had obviously been used as sleeping chambers. Various articles of masculine attire hung over chairs and chests. The beds were brass, in the European style, rather at odds with the rest of the furnishings, but with comfortable mattresses and sheets and pillows. Selim and I straightened the crumpled bedding and put Esin on the bed. I did not bother removing her clothing, since it did not appear that the sheets had been changed for several weeks.
Sir Edward and Ramses were in the saloon when we returned to that room.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” the former inquired politely.
“I found a bed—yours, I believe—and got Miss Sahin tucked in. The poor child was worn out. Now, where is the kitchen? A nice hot cup of tea would be just the thing.”
“Mustafa is making tea,” Sir Edward said.
“Does he know about boiling the water long enough? Perhaps I had better go and—”
Sir Edward took the liberty of seizing me by the arm. “He knows. He knows! Mrs. Emerson, please sit down. I can’t until you do, and I am dead on my feet.”
“Oh, very well.” I selected one of the divans that did not have evidence of avian activity. Sir Edward collapsed onto another