The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [70]
Jumana was with them, looking very pretty in a pale yellow frock that set off her brown skin and sleek black hair. Ramses wondered how she felt about gatherings like this one. Even her superb self-confidence must be slightly daunted by so many strangers, many of whom, uncertain about her precise status, ignored or snubbed her. They wouldn’t dare be rude to another of Cyrus’s guests, but she was obviously Egyptian and they were not accustomed to mingling socially with “natives.”
His eyes returned, as they had a habit of doing, to his wife. She saw him; one eyelid lowered in a discreet but unmistakable wink before she returned her attention to the woman with whom she was conversing. She was tall and stately and glittering with jewels; when she turned her head, pointing out something or someone to Nefret, he knew he’d seen her somewhere, but couldn’t remember where.
He was rather enjoying his role as detached observer when someone touched him on the shoulder and he turned. The face beaming up at him looked vaguely familiar, but he was unable to identify it until the fellow spoke.
“Albion. Joe Albion. We met on the boat coming over.”
Ramses did not contradict him. “I remember you, sir, of course,” he said politely.
The little man burst out laughing. “No, you don’t, young fella. Tried to meet you folks, but you managed to avoid us. Did your ma and pa tell you we met the other day on the path to the Valley of the Kings?”
“Er—no, sir.”
“I asked your pa if he’d introduce me to a few tomb robbers,” Albion went on. “He said no. Seemed a little put out.”
“Ma” and “Pa” had been bad enough; this bland statement made Ramses choke on his champagne. Albion smacked him on the back.
“Shouldn’t try to talk and drink at the same time, young fella. Don’t need your advice anyhow; there’s plenty of the rascals hereabouts, especially in that village—Gurneh. Talked to a couple of them the other day.”
“Who?” Ramses demanded.
“Fella named Mohammed.” Albion chortled. “Seems like everybody’s named Mohammed.”
Ramses had recovered himself, though he still couldn’t believe the man was serious. “I think I know which Mohammed you mean. You can get in serious trouble dealing with him and his friends, Mr. Albion.”
“Just let me worry about that.” The smile was as broad, but for an instant there was a look in the deep-set eyes that made Ramses wonder if Albion was as naive and harmless as he seemed.
“Come meet my son,” the little man went on. His pudgy hand gripped Ramses’s arm with unexpected strength, and Ramses allowed himself to be towed toward a young man who stood apart from the rest, slouching a little, a glass of champagne in his hand and an aloof expression on his face. Probably the same expression that is on my face, Ramses thought. Either young Mr. Albion found the other people present not worth his notice, or he was shy.
He straightened to his full height, a little under six feet, when his father came up with Ramses. His thin reserved face and eyeglasses were those of a scholar, but he looked to be in good physical trim, except for being a bit thick around the middle. His sharply chiseled features warmed a trifle when his father introduced Ramses.
“Figure you two young fellas have a lot in common,” the older man went on breezily. “Get to know each other, right? Don’t stand on ceremony. Folks call you Ramses, don’t they? Some sort of private joke, I guess. Ramses—Sebastian. Sebastian—Ramses.” He chortled. “Never could understand the British sense of humor.”
He trotted off, and Sebastian said, “Glad to meet you. I glanced at your book on Egyptian grammar; seemed quite adequate, but I don’t pretend to be an expert on the language. Egyptian art is my specialty.”
Not shy. “Where did you study?” Ramses asked.
“Harvard.”
Of course, Ramses thought. The accent was unmistakable, and completely different from his father’s. Albion was what his mother would call a “common little man.” Ramses rather liked “common” people, but he wondered how the jolly, uninhibited Albion had produced such a supercilious,