The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [113]
“You mean by their mortal representatives, Pesaker and Murtek—for the High Priestess of Isis undoubtedly spoke for the latter. It is the same old humdrum power struggle, Emerson; do we assume that Amon supports one of the princes and Osiris the other?”
“I wish it were that simple. Both princes must want the support of Amon; it is his priests who determine the choice of the god. Both priests want a prince they can control. I expect there is a good deal of bargaining, bribery, blackmail, and intimidation going on behind the scenes. But that was not the most interesting information I gained today, Peabody. Murtek is a sly old fox—he would not have survived in this hotbed of intrigue if he were not—but as he walked me to the door he dropped a remark that went through me like a jolt of electric current.”
“Well?” I demanded.
The curtain of green vines behind us rustled. It was only a breeze, which caressed my cheeks gently, but Emerson took my hand and raised me to my feet. “Let us stroll, Peabody.”
“It is unworthy of you to prolong the suspense this way, Emerson!”
“I don’t want to be overheard.” Emerson put his arm around my waist and drew me closer. “Peabody—there is another white man here!”
Emerson had to stifle my questions by drawing me behind a flowering shrub and placing his lips firmly on mine. It was a refreshing interlude in every sense, and when at last I was free to speak I was able to appreciate why he had acted as he had.
“You didn’t pursue the matter—ask who the man was, and where he lives?” I whispered.
Emerson shook his head. “Murtek went on talking, with scarcely a pause, and the cursed courtiers gathered around us. It was very craftily done, a casual reference to something the ‘other white man’ had told him recently; even if it had been overheard, it might have been no more than a slip of the tongue.”
“Could it be Willoughby Forth after all? If they lied about his death—”
Emerson cut off my voice by squeezing the breath out of me. “Keep calm, Peabody, I beg you. I believe that to be highly unlikely. You have forgotten another candidate.”
“Of course,” I breathed.
I had not forgotten poor Reggie Forthright, and I trust the Reader has not. We had discussed his sad fate on several occasions, but had been forced to trust in Fate, the Good Lord, and the military (not necessarily in that order) for his deliverance, since there was nothing we could do. Now the truth burst upon me like a blinding revelation and I wondered why the possibility had not occurred to me earlier.
“The wild men of the desert,” I said. “The same ‘wild men’ who succored us, perhaps? But we saw no trace of him along the way.”
“He could have been off course by as little as fifty yards and we would have missed those traces. Inept as he was in all other ways, I would not be surprised to learn that he could not read a compass. Don’t count on its being your friend, though, Peabody. Many people were reported killed or missing during the Mandist rebellion.”
“No matter who it is, we must see him. I think you are right, Emerson; dear old Murtek meant us to know this, and to act upon it. But how?”
One of the ladies appeared at the entrance to the garden. Emerson directed such a hideous scowl at her that she squealed and retreated. “Thus far fortune seems to favor the bold. In other words, I shall simply demand to be taken to ‘the other white man.’ We’ll see what comes of it.”
The lady had come to tell us Ramses had been found—or rather, had returned of his own accord. He was seated at the table finishing off the food left from luncheon and feeding scraps to the cat. The cat was sleek and clean as ever; the boy was covered with dust and cobwebs. When I ordered him to go and wash, he protested that he had washed—his hands. Upon inspection they proved to be several degrees cleaner than the rest of him, so I did not insist.
“Where have you been?” I asked. “We have been looking all over for you.”
Ramses stuffed