The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [98]
Her low voice, sweet with sympathy, reproached the others and reassured Yusuf. “I am better, Nur Misur,” he croaked.
Ramses gestured Selim to remain silent. He couldn’t bully a pathetic specimen like Yusuf. Anyhow, Nefret’s methods were more likely to win him over. He looked around for Jumana. She was behind Daoud, whose large form hid all of her but her little boots.
“Was it the Sitt Hakim who made you better, Uncle Yusuf?” Nefret asked. “What did she give you?”
“The Sitt Hakim? She has not been here. No one has been here.” Self-pity and resentment gave new life to his feeble voice. “None of you came to ask about me.”
“We are sorry, Uncle,” Nefret said. “But the Sitt Hakim did come, this morning. You sent her a message asking her to come.”
“I sent no message,” Yusuf said sullenly. “Why should I? You should have come without my asking.”
Selim moved slightly, and again Ramses motioned him to be quiet. Yusuf’s resentment—justifiable resentment, Ramses had to admit—was genuine. There was no reason for him to lie, since he knew there were dozens of witnesses who would have seen the elder Emersons had they been there.
From the doorway a harsh voice said, “He speaks the truth, Brother of Demons. The Sitt has not been here.”
It was Yusuf’s eldest wife, her voice accusatory, her face crumpled into innumerable wrinkles by age and indignation. She shoved at Daoud. “Get out, Daoud, and take her with you, the shameless creature. Why have you all come, like accusers, to trouble a sick old man?”
Daoud turned, in his ponderous fashion, and Jumana let out a little squeak. Her father’s eyes rested briefly on her and shifted away.
“I’m sorry,” Ramses said. “We are looking for my father and mother, who may be in trouble. It is true that Yusuf sent no message—that they did not come here?”
“It is true,” the old woman snapped. “Ask anyone.”
“Shall we go now?” Daoud asked nervously. According to Selim, his giant uncle feared only two things: the displeasure of the Father of Curses, and an angry old woman.
“We may as well,” Ramses said.
Daoud was the first to go. Jumana followed, so closely she was treading on his heels. Ramses hesitated. He had meant to ask Yusuf about Jamil, but this disclosure had altered everything. His parents must have been intercepted or distracted before they reached Yusuf, lured away by a false message. There was no time to waste; the afternoon was passing.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“I’ll come back,” Nefret promised the old man. “As soon as I can.”
Yusuf did not reply. His eyes were closed.
The usual crowd had gathered outside. Selim, who had been talking with several of the men, turned to Ramses. “It is true, they did not come to this house. But Ahmed says Mahmud says his cousin Mohammed saw them this morning. They left their horses with him and gave him money.”
“Which Mohammed?” Ramses demanded.
“His house is at the bottom of the hill, near the tomb of Ramose.”
“Oh, that Mohammed. All right, let’s find him.”
They led the horses; the slope on this side was steep. Mohammed, who was stretched out in the shade peacefully sleeping, did not wake until Ramses shook him. “Ah,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “you have come for the horses. I took good care of them, you see.”
They were in the courtyard of an ancient tomb, shaded and well supplied with water. Ramses handed over baksheesh. “Yes, you did. When did the Father of Curses and the Sitt Hakim leave the horses?”
“Many hours ago.” Mohammed yawned.
“They’d have come straight here,” Nefret interposed, knowing, as did Ramses, that Mohammed’s notions of time were vague.
“Probably. It’s been at least six hours, then. Where did they go, Mohammed?”
“That way.” A gesture indicated the direction—not up the hill, toward Yusuf’s house, but northward.
“On foot?”
“How could they ride when they left the horses with me?”
Selim lost patience. “Don’t try to be clever, Mohammed, because you are not. Why did they leave the horses and go on foot? What did they say to each other?”
“How should I know? They spoke in English, very fast.” Another gigantic