The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [101]
“Come away, Emerson,” I begged, seizing him by the arm. “Don’t lower your dignity by screaming. They are only obeying orders.”
“Curse it,” said Emerson; but the force of my argument prevailed, and he allowed me to lead him away. “I was not screaming, Peabody,” he added, mopping his perspiring brow.
“The word was ill-chosen, Emerson. What were you trying to do?”
“Why, go out, of course. I don’t understand why we have had no official reaction to our unorthodox activities in the village. Murtek’s consternation made it obvious that we must have committed a gross social error, if nothing worse. I cannot believe it will be passed over without so much as a reprimand. The suspense is preying on my mind. Better a confrontation, even of a physical nature, than this uncertainty.”
“I would much prefer uncertainty to a physical confrontation, my dear. These people are not so unsophisticated as to be unaware of the effect of delay on characters such as ours. They may take several days to respond.”
“They are already responding,” Emerson said grimly. “The guards refused even to answer me when I demanded they take a message to Murtek. And look here”—his gesture took in the reception room and the garden beyond—“they have all disappeared. Not a soul around. Not even the handmaiden.”
He was quite correct. Absorbed in my writing, I had not observed the servants leave. We were alone.
It is difficult to defend oneself against the unknown, but we did what we could. Emerson had already changed into his civilized garments and I followed suit, buckling the belt around my waist and placing my parasol conveniently at hand. At my insistence Emerson put my little pistol and a box of ammunition in his coat pocket. He dislikes firearms—and indeed manages quite well without them—but on this occasion he did not argue, and the grim look on his face assured me that in the final extremity I could count on him to use the last bullet as I would myself.
In addition to my useful parasol, I had my knife and a pair of scissors. Not a great armament with which to combat an entire city; but it was comforting to realize that express rifles or even Gatling guns would have been little more use, with only two of us to wield them.
So we sat waiting as the shadows lengthened and the blue dusk crept in. I occupied the time by bringing my journal up to date. I had just reached the line “only two of us” when a sudden recollection made me drop my pen. “Where the devil is Ramses?” I asked.
“Language, Peabody, language,” said Emerson, grinning. “He is in the garden with the cat.”
“Well, get him in here at once. We must stand together.”
Ramses, sans cat, came into the room. “I am here, Mama. But I do not believe—”
“Never mind what you believe. Go and change into your suit.”
“There is not time,” said Ramses calmly.
“What do you—”
“Peabody.” Emerson held up his hand. “Listen.”
Ramses had heard them first, of course. The murmur of sound quickly grew into a full-fledged… chorus? They were singing, certainly, and the twang and tootle of musical instruments accompanied the voices. Before I could decide whether this was a good omen or the reverse, the curtains were drawn aside and the musicians trotted in, singing or wailing at the tops of their voices and strumming enthusiastically. They were followed by a band of officials—I recognized two who had attended the banquet—and three women. I stared at the latter with unabashed curiosity, for they were the first females I had seen who were neither handmaidens nor slaves.
I was given no time to study them, for the whole group advanced upon us, waving various objects. I took them to be weapons of assault and reached for my belt. A flame wavered and brightened, followed by others. Mentarit—one of the handmaidens, at any rate—was gliding around the room lighting the lamps. In their glow I saw that the faces of the newcomers were friendly and smiling, and that they held not weapons but combs, brushes, pots and vases, and piles of linen.
The women gathered around