The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [115]
Questions poured from my lips, only to be met by an equal flood of questions from Reggie. It was some time before we could attain a degree of calm that permitted coherent statements.
Reggie insisted that first I describe our journey and what had befallen us since. Emerson showed signs of increasing impatience as my narrative proceeded; after I had described our visit to the village, and the rescue of the woman and child, he cut me off. “You are getting hoarse, Peabody. Let Mr. Forthright tell us his story.”
Reggie admitted, in his engaging way, that he had promptly got lost. “At least I must have done, Mrs. Amelia, for I never saw the landmarks you described. I thought nothing of it at the time, for like the professor here I always doubted the accuracy of my poor uncle’s map. But after hearing of your journey… It is unaccountable! I am not so stupid as to misread a compass.”
“Not so unaccountable, perhaps,” I said thoughtfully. “Your copy of the map may have been in error.”
“I assure you,” Reggie began.
“Never mind that,” said Emerson. “If you failed to find the first of the landmarks, why didn’t you turn back?”
“Well, you see, we did find water on the fourth day out, at which time we still had ample supplies for the return trip. It was only an abandoned well, which required considerable clearing before it was usable; but it gave us more time, you see. We had none of the misadventures you experienced, the camels were healthy and the men cheerful and willing. I determined, therefore, to continue for another day or two. I felt I could leave no stone unturned.”
“Very admirable,” I said warmly. “So when was it that you were attacked?”
Reggie shook his head. “It is all a blur, Mrs. Amelia. I was ill afterward.… They struck at dawn. I remember only being roused from sleep by shouts and groans, and rushing out of my tent to see my men in full flight. I can’t blame them; they were armed only with knives, and the fiends who pursued them had great iron spears, and bows and arrows.”
“You had a rifle, I believe,” said Emerson, chewing on his pipe.
“Yes, and I managed to dispatch a few of the devils before they overwhelmed me,” said Reggie, a look of grim satisfaction hardening his affable face. “I fought all the more fiercely when I realized they were bent on capturing rather than killing me. A quick death would have been preferable to slavery. But ‘twas in vain. A blow on the head struck me down, and I must have been unconscious for days. I remember nothing of the journey here.”
“Nor what happened to your men?” Emerson asked.
Reggie shrugged. “Some of them may have got away—only to die miserably of thirst, I suppose. But now it is your turn again, Mrs. Amelia—how long have you been captives here? What plans have you made for escape? For knowing you and the professor, I cannot believe that you would accept imprisonment meekly.”
“You have a rather theatrical way of putting things, Mr. Forthright,” said Emerson. “This place is an archaeologist’s dream; I would be reluctant to tear myself away before I had made a thorough study of the fascinating survivals of Meroitic culture. We have not been treated like prisoners, but like honored guests. And then, you see, there is the little matter of our primary reason for coming—to discover the fate of your uncle and his wife.”
“They are dead,” said Reggie quietly. “God rest them.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me.” Reggie tried to control his voice, but anger and grief distorted his face. “Laughing like the fiend he is as he described their lingering, painful deaths by torture.…”
“Nastasen?” I cried.
“Who?” Reggie stared at me. “No. It was your friend Kemit—who is known here as Prince Tarekenidal, and in whose dungeons I have been imprisoned all these long terrible weeks.”
The interruption of Reggie’s story was not occasioned by his overwhelming emotions or by any literary