The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [93]
The sun was about to set. The rosy light warmed the white limestone of the walls, and from a mosque in a neighboring village came the first musical notes of the evening call to prayer.
“It will be dark shortly.” Ramses spoke for the first time since we had left the house. “We mustn’t stay long.”
“No. I only want—”
I broke off with a catch of breath. It was somewhat uncanny to see any movement in that deserted place, and this figure, emerging from the dimness under the cupola, was human. We were still some distance away; I could not make out details, only the long galabeeyah and white turban, before it scuttled into concealment behind the walls of the mosque.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Did you bring a torch?”
“Certainly. I have all my accoutrements. Shall we follow him?”
“That wasn’t Jamil. I don’t see any point in chasing after the fellow. Let’s just make certain he hasn’t done any damage.”
The disturbance of the sandy dust was the only sign that anyone other than we had come there. “There are a number of footprints,” Ramses muttered, shining the torch around. “Overlapping. That’s odd.”
“Perhaps members of the family have come to pay their respects, or to pray,” I suggested.
“Perhaps. Are you ready to go?”
I had intended to say a few words—think them, rather—but he was obviously uneasy, and really, what more was there to say when I had just had a long conversation with Abdullah? I acquiesced and let Ramses take my arm, since the dusk had thickened.
“I like the design,” Ramses said as, with the aid of the torch, we picked a path around the standing monuments. “I hope Abdullah is pleased with it.”
“Oh, yes. He was only annoyed because he had to ask. He implied that I ought to have thought of it myself.”
“Ah,” said Ramses noncommittally.
On the Thursday we were in the midst of our preparations for departure—complicated these days by Sennia and the Great Cat of Re—when a messenger arrived. Jumana had left for Deir el Medina, Ramses was explaining to the cat that he would prefer it did not accompany him, I was dealing with the customary delaying tactics from Sennia, and Emerson was stamping up and down demanding that we hurry. He took the note from Fatima.
“Well, what do you think of this?” he inquired. “Yusuf wants to see us.”
“Us?” I echoed. “Who? Sennia, get your books together and go.”
“You and me. He says it’s urgent. I wonder who wrote it for him?”
Ramses finished his conversation with the cat and put it down. “A public letter writer, perhaps. Shall Nefret and I come?”
Emerson stroked the cleft in his chin. “No, he said for us to come alone. Run along, we’ll join you shortly.”
“Unless something interesting develops,” I amended.
“Something about Jamil, perhaps,” Nefret said. “Do you suppose Yusuf knows where he’s been hiding?”
“Let us hope so. It would be a relief to have that business over and done with. I ought to have made more of an effort to question Yusuf,” I admitted.
“Don’t be unkind to the poor old fellow,” Nefret said. “He must have been suffering horribly, torn between his love for his son and his loyalty to you.”
“It could be another trick,” said Ramses. “Remember your warning, Father, not to go after the boy alone, even if he is wearing—”
“I won’t be alone,” Emerson said. “Your mother will be with me.”
Ramses’s heavy dark eyebrows tilted. “Don’t forget your parasol, Mother.”
“Certainly not. However, I expect Yusuf only wants sympathy and some medicine. It is the least I can do, and I ought to have done it before this.”
I put together a little parcel for Yusuf, some of his favorite tobacco and a freshly baked assortment of Fatima’s honey cakes, of which he was fond. I also took my medical kit. The others had gone by the time I had collected everything I needed. Emerson and I were soon on our way; but as we turned the horses onto the path that led by the tombs on the lower part of the hill of