The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [107]
There was no sound from behind that door; the curtains remained closed. The ladies settled down by my couch and stared expectantly at me.
It had all been rather amusing, but something had to be done; my poor Emerson would never come out while they were present. I raised myself up and called to the white-veiled figure that sat in its accustomed place by the wall. “Mentarit. Tell them to go away.”
It broke their hearts to obey, but obey they did. Mentarit left with them. After a moment the curtain quivered and was drawn aside just enough to allow Emerson’s head to emerge. His eyes moved on a slow, suspicious survey of the entire room; then, pausing only to extinguish the one remaining lamp, he came to my side.
“How did you get rid of them, Peabody?”
“I asked Mentarit to send them away. She is also one who must be obeyed, it seems. How did you—”
“I sent them away myself,” said Emerson with an evil chuckle.
“They are a nuisance, I agree, but I believe they are a sign of our improved status. It’s astonishing, isn’t it? I thought we would be punished, or at least reprimanded for interfering with the discipline of the rekkit; instead we are even more respected.”
“Or feared,” said Emerson. “Though that seems unlikely. Fascinating ceremony, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, indeed, I believe it is safe to assume this was one of the religious rituals performed at set intervals to honor the gods. We were privileged to be able to observe it.”
“Privileged in more than one way,” Emerson replied thoughtfully. “Professionally it was a remarkable experience, but even more remarkable, in my opinion, is the fact that we were invited to attend.”
“Oh, I imagine there were sinister undercurrents of which we were unaware,” I said cheerfully. “Perhaps the High Priest of Amon hoped by this means to get his hands on us and subject us to imprisonment and hideous tortures. Or perhaps the High Priestess of Isis had similar designs on our humble persons. Who was that other female, the richly dressed individual who made such—such unladylike advances to the statue of Amon?”
“Obviously she represented the god’s concubine,” Emerson said. “I couldn’t quite make out her title, though Pesaker addressed her by it several times.” He took me in his arms and kissed the top of my head.
“High Priestess of Amon?” I tilted my head back. Emerson’s lips moved to my temple.
“It didn’t sound like it. The other lady, the one with all the swaddling, was certainly the High Priestess of Isis. Both may be king’s daughters, which raises the question of how much real political power, as opposed to religious rank, they actually have. I mean to do a paper on that subject one day.…”
“I have already begun a paper on that subject,” I murmured.
“Mama! Papa!”
It was not a cry for help from the adjoining room. It was a penetrating whisper from only too close at hand.
Every muscle in Emerson’s body convulsed. Every muscle in mine cracked painfully as his arms contracted like bands of steel. I let out a gasp of protest.
“I beg your pardon, Peabody,” said Emerson, relaxing his grip, but not his teeth. I could feel most of them, clenched and grinding, against my cheek.
I was unable to reply. Emerson patted my back and rolled over. “Ramses,” he said very softly. “Where are you?”
“Under the bed. I am very sorry, Mama and Papa, but you would not listen to me before and it is absolutely imperative that you—”
The bedsprings (straps of woven leather) creaked as Emerson