The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [172]
“Too clever, perhaps? I’d hate to think my mind works along the same lines as his.”
“Whatever his original intentions, they have almost certainly had the effect you described. Goodness, but this is a dreary place. There doesn’t seem to be a soul about. Mustafa?”
“He’s probably with the horses,” Ramses said.
Mustafa heard our voices and emerged from the shed. “I was talking to the horses,” he said. “They are fine animals. Is there something you lack, Sitt Hakim?”
“Not at the moment. I want to talk to you, Mustafa. And treat your sore . . . Where is it?”
Mustafa sat down on a bench and held out his foot. It was bare and callused and very dirty.
“You will have to wash it first,” I said.
“Wash?” Mustafa repeated in astonishment.
Ramses, who appeared to be enjoying himself very much, fetched a bucket of water and we persuaded Mustafa to put his foot into it. I had brought a bar of Pear’s soap with me, since I knew that commodity is not common in houses of the region. After a vigorous scrubbing the sore was apparent—an infected big toe, which he must have stubbed and then neglected. The alcohol made Mustafa’s eyes pop.
“I am going to bandage your foot,” I said, applying gauze and sticking plaster liberally. “But you must keep it clean. Change the bandage every day and wash it.”
“Is that all?” Mustafa asked.
“That should—”
Ramses coughed loudly. “Will you say the proper words, Mother, or shall I?”
“Incantations are more in your line than mine,” I replied in English. “Proceed.”
Once that essential part of the treatment was completed, Mustafa was satisfied, and I got down to business.
“Did Sir Edward tell you where he was going?”
“No.” Mustafa held up his foot and studied the bandage. “He took the mule.”
“You have a mule?”
“Two. He took one.”
“Did he say when he would be back?”
“No.” Mustafa cogitated, his brow furrowing. “He said . . . what was it? Something about whiskey. That he would bring it to the Father of Curses.”
“He’s gone to Khan Yunus,” Ramses said, as we left Mustafa admiring his bandaged foot.
“Not to Gaza?”
“Father is right, he wouldn’t be such a fool. Not unless he had proof that Sethos was still there.” He took hold of my arm and stopped me. “I don’t believe we want to discuss Sahin Pasha in front of the girl, do we?”
“It would be wiser not to, I believe. The feelings of young persons are notoriously changeable. She is angry with him now, but if she believed he was in danger—”
“Yes, Mother, that is precisely what I had in mind.”
When we returned to the saloon Nefret looked up from the paper on which she was drawing. “Esin wanted to know about the latest fashions,” she explained. “How is Mustafa’s sore . . . whatever?”
“His toe,” I replied. “A slight infection. Where is Emerson?”
“He said he was going to sit with Sethos.” She chuckled. “I think he’s looking for tobacco. He’s run out.”
Emerson did not find any tobacco. He came back looking even more perturbed than deprivation of that unhealthy substance could explain.
“Is he still sleeping?” I asked.
“Yes. He—er—doesn’t look well.”
“He isn’t well.”
“Is someone sick?” Esin asked.
I realized she was unaware of the latest arrival. “A—er—friend of ours. You know him as Ismail Pasha.”
“He is here?” She jumped up and clapped her hands to her cheeks. “Why? Did my father send him? Has he come to take me back?”
“Goodness, but you have a one-track mind,” I said. “He is a fugitive too. Your father became suspicious of him and he ran away.”
“Oh.” She thought it over and her face brightened. “Then I must thank him. He risked himself for me!”
“He is, after all, a gallant Englishman,” Ramses drawled. “Much braver and more chivalrous than I.”
“But you are younger and more beautiful,” said Esin.
That took care of Ramses. He said no more.
The rest of us kept up a desultory conversation and the minutes dragged slowly by. There was much we could not say in Esin’s presence, and I couldn’t think of a reasonable excuse for getting rid of her. Sending her off