The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [177]
“Go on,” Sahin said, gesturing with the pistol. “You first, Mrs. Emerson.”
“No,” I exclaimed. “Emerson, do you see what—”
“It’s all right, Mother,” Ramses said quietly. “I think he’s bluffing. I wonder how many bullets are left in that pistol? Enough to stop all of us?”
“A good point.” Emerson nodded. “I call your bluff, sir. We are not sheep, to be herded into a pen. The girl stays with us, but we will give you . . . oh, let us say an hour . . . to get away.”
They measured one another, two men of commanding presence and stature. The Turk said slowly, “You would do that?”
“As the lesser of two evils. Your usefulness to your government has been destroyed. This way no one will be injured. You can trust us to look after the child, and when the war is over you may be reunited with her.”
“The word of an Englishman?” Sahin Pasha murmured.
“Don’t be foolish,” Ramses said urgently. “There are two—four, I mean—of us. Hand over the gun.”
Sahin smiled wryly. “Four? Ah well, it seems I have no choice. You were correct. The gun isn’t loaded. I had to fight my way out of Gaza.”
“Drop it, then,” Ramses said. He took a step forward and held out his hand. “Or give it to me.”
His eyes were fixed on the pistol. It might be a double bluff; we could not be certain, with a man so crafty. Sahin held it out—and then the knife flashed and Ramses stumbled back and fell, blood spurting from his side. Nefret flung herself down beside him.
“You never learn, do you?” Sahin shook his head regretfully. “You really ought to give up this line of work, my boy.”
Emerson had not stirred. “Nefret?” he asked softly.
Her quick surgeon’s hands had slowed the flow of blood. “It’s . . . not too bad,” she said.
“But now, you see, there are only three of you,” Sahin said. “And I lied when I said the gun was not loaded. Do I take the ladies on next?”
“Yes,” I said, and swung my parasol. It was one of my better efforts, if I do say so. The gun flew out of Sahin’s hand and fell with a clatter onto the tiled floor.
“Ah,” Emerson breathed. “Well done, Peabody. Get the gun.”
“Take my parasol, then.” I pulled out the little sword and forced the weapon into Emerson’s hand. Sahin Pasha let out a guffaw. Emerson swore, but he got the blade up just in time to parry a wicked cut at his good arm.
“I lied again,” said the Turk, grinning. “The gun is empty.”
“We will see about that,” I replied. I pointed the weapon out the window and squeezed the trigger. There was no explosion, only a click. “Curse it,” I remarked.
“This is so entertaining I hate to end it,” said Sahin Pasha. “Professor, I admire you, I respect you, and I do not want to injure you. Anyhow, my reputation would never be the same if I overcame a man armed with a parasol who has only one serviceable arm. I accept your offer. Put down the . . .” A gurgle of amusement escaped him. “The umbrella.”
“Oh, come, don’t insult my intelligence,” said Emerson in exasperation. “You have no intention of giving yourself up, and I have no intention of allowing you to take my son prisoner again. I cannot imagine how you could accomplish it, but I do not underestimate you. En garde.”
Ramses pulled himself to a sitting position. “Be careful, Father. He doesn’t—”
“Fight like a gentleman? Well, well. Neither do I.”
He bent his knee and lunged. A cry of alarm escaped me. It was almost certainly the most ineffective move he could have made. The blade of the sword was only three inches longer than that of Sahin’s knife. The Turk didn’t even bother to parry it. One quick step backward took him out of range, and as Emerson straightened, staggering a little, the Turk’s knife drove at his side.
It sank with a crunch into the plaster encasing Emerson’s raised forearm and stuck, just long enough. Emerson dropped the parasol and hit the other man in the stomach. Rather below the stomach, to be accurate.
“Oh, Emerson,” I gasped. “Oh, my dear! That was magnificent!”
“Most ungentlemanly,” said my husband, contemplating the writhing, wheezing form of his foe. “But