The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [83]
“I can ride,” Bertie said, trying to push himself to his feet.
“Take Risha,” Ramses said, before any of us could voice an objection. “Jamad can go with you and bring him back. Here, let me give you a hand.”
“Don’t put your weight on that foot,” Nefret called, as they left the room, Bertie hopping and leaning on Ramses’s arm. Neither of them replied. Closing ranks, I thought. Closing ranks!
“A word of advice, if I may, Cyrus,” I said.
He had been about to go after them. He stopped and turned to me. From his expression and that of my husband I suspected one of them was about to make a sarcastic comment, so I went on before either could do so. “Don’t treat him like a child. He is a grown man and must make his own decisions. He did it for you, you know.”
“I know.” Cyrus tugged at his goatee. He turned a challenging look on Emerson. “So, old buddy, where are we going tomorrow?”
Emerson mumbled something.
“Hey?” said Cyrus, cupping his hand round his ear.
“Not,” I said, “to the Cemetery of the Monkeys. We will meet you at Deir el Medina tomorrow, Cyrus. All of us.”
As soon as Cyrus had taken his departure, Emerson fled to the bath chamber. He was well aware that this was only a temporary refuge; after arranging a few domestic matters, I followed him. I had intended to sit on the edge of the bath but he was splashing the water all about, so I leaned against the wall instead. Emerson gave me a cheerful smile.
“Did you have a pleasant day, my love?” he inquired.
“Quite pleasant. Emerson, why do you do this sort of thing? You know I will find out in the end.”
“Certainly I know. I enjoy stirring you up, Peabody. And you enjoy ferreting out my evil schemes and scolding me.” He got to his feet.
I always say there is nothing like a vigorous out-of-door life to keep a person in excellent physical condition. Emerson had changed very little since the days when I had first known him—except of course for the absence of the beard that had hidden his firm chin and strong jaw. His stalwart form was as trim, the pull of muscle across his broad shoulders just as distracting.
“I will not be distracted, Emerson,” I informed him.
“No?” He stepped out of the bath and reached for me. He has very long arms.
After a time I said, “Turn round and let me dry your back.”
“I can think of another way of—”
“No, Emerson! I am soaking wet already and we have a great deal to do if we are to get everything ready for tomorrow. I sent a message to Selim, inviting him to dinner.”
“Good thought,” said Emerson, sufficiently distracted by this reminder to release me. “I wonder what he will say about the latest development.”
Seated next to me—a delicate attention I always paid him when he condescended to favor us with his company—Selim listened in frowning silence to Emerson’s account of the day’s adventure. Then he shook his head.
“I am surprised, Emerson, that you should have been so thoughtless,” he said severely. “The temples and the workmen’s village are more important than searching for tombs in that dangerous place. And you, Ramses, ought not have let him go.”
Emerson had become accustomed to Selim’s occasional criticisms, but having his own words quoted back at him silenced him momentarily. Ramses said meekly, “You are absolutely right, Selim, but when the Father of Curses speaks, the whole world obeys.”
“Huh,” said Selim, just as Abdullah might have done. A thought occurred to him, and he said in a milder voice, “Well, perhaps it was meant to be. Had you not gone there, Mr. Bertie and that foolish girl might have come to harm.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Emerson agreed, as Jumana glared at her cousin.
“As for Jamil,” Selim continued, returning Jumana’s glare with interest, “he has caused us enough trouble and kept us from our work. Leave him to me.”
Even Emerson was silenced by that flat demand, which had been delivered with a dignity and authority as great as Abdullah’s had been. Selim was becoming more and more