The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [117]
“Now you can speak freely,” I said. “You were right to be careful; I believe we have become so accustomed to the servants we forget they are here.”
“Yes, I observed that,” said Reggie, avoiding my eyes. “You seem quite at home here. Quite comfortable.”
Emerson, always sensitive to possible insult, caught the implication before I did. Dropping his carved horn spoon with a clatter, he snarled, “What are you getting at, Forthright?”
“You wish me to speak candidly?” A flush warmed the young man’s cheeks. “I will do so; I have never learned the arts of trickery and deception. In the flush of relief at my release and the joy of seeing you alive and well, I forgot caution; but now I have had time to think things over, and I tell you frankly, Professor, that there are a number of things you have not explained to my satisfaction. My map was faulty; yours was accurate. I was captured and beaten; you were rescued and nursed. I have spent the past weeks in a dank, dark cell while you have enjoyed these handsome rooms, with food and wine and splendid raiment, servants obeying your every command—”
“Say no more,” I exclaimed. “I understand your doubts,
Reggie. You suspect our motives. But, poor boy, you are wrong. I cannot account for the difference in the treatment we have received, but we would never betray a fellow Englishman or -woman. If your aunt and uncle still live, we will never leave this place without them.”
“I—I beg your pardon?” said Reggie, gaping.
“It is given,” I replied graciously.
“Just a moment,” said Emerson, grasping his hair with both hands and tugging at it. “I believe I have lost the thread of the discussion. Am I to understand, Mr. Forthright, that you believe your aunt and uncle have survived after all? We too were told they had died—though not in the grisly fashion you mentioned.”
“I don’t believe they are alive,” said Reggie. “I only meant to ask—to suggest… I don’t know what I meant.”
“That often happens in the course of conversations with Mrs. Emerson,” said my husband soothingly. “Get a grip on yourself, Forthright, and try to use a little common sense. I see your difficulty, but you surely cannot believe we want to spend the rest of our lives lolling around this palace.”
“Then—then you do mean to escape?”
“We mean to leave, yes. Sooner or later, by one means or another. It may be,” Emerson said thoughtfully, “that we have only to ask. We haven’t tried that.”
Reggie shook his head. “No one leaves the Holy Mountain. How do you suppose it has remained hidden all these years? We are not the first wanderers to stumble upon the city, or be captured by the patrols that guard the approaches to it. The penalty for attempted escape, by stranger or citizen, is death.”
“Ah.” Emerson pushed his chair back and bent a penetrating look upon the young man. “You have learned more than you told us earlier.”
“Of course. We were interrupted, if you remember.”
“Then please continue, from the point where we were interrupted. If you have decided to trust us, that is.”
“I don’t know what came over me,” Reggie muttered. “I apologize. But if you knew what I have been through…”
“We will take your sufferings as given,” said Emerson dryly. “Go on.”
“Well, then. You must understand that we have fallen into the midst of a struggle for power.…”
Most of what he told us was already known to us—the death of the king, the conflict between the two heirs to the throne. I would have said so, had not a peremptory gesture from Emerson forbidden speech; and indeed Reggie presented us with a new and quite different interpretation of those facts. “Kemit, or Tarek, as I