The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [118]
“Ah, yes, the old illegitimacy rumor,” said Emerson. “Very popular with European usurpers. Tarek admitted it was true?”
“Oh, not in so many words; in fact, he denounced it as a vile slander. He protested a bit too much, though. And if he were the true heir, why would he need help from strangers?”
“Was it your help he wanted?” Emerson asked. “A peculiar way of winning a man’s allegiance, shutting him up in… a dank, dark cell, I believe you said?”
“The cell came about after I had refused,” Reggie said wryly. “He wanted me to assassinate his brother. What else could I have said but no?”
“You could have said yes, and then warned Nastasen,” said Emerson. “Forthright in name and forthright in manner, eh?”
“Why you?” I inquired. “With so many methods of murder to choose from and so many loyal men about him—”
“Ah, but his brother has loyal supporters too. Assassination is an old custom here, the nobles all employ food tasters and bodyguards. But they don’t have firearms. I am a crack shot, and could pick Nastasen off at a distance.”
I was loath to abandon my favorable opinion of Tarek, but this story made terrible sense. “What are we to do?” I murmured. “It is impossible to know whom to trust.”
Reggie pulled his chair close to mine and spoke in a whisper. “We must escape, and soon. The festival of the god is approaching. Tarek must kill his brother before then if he is to win the kingship, for the god will choose the rightful heir. If we do not get away, we will be faced with the horrible choice of killing or being killed.”
“Not much of a choice,” muttered Emerson. “I doubt the assassin would enjoy a long life span. You are very well informed, Forthright, and Tarek is incredibly indiscreet. Did he tell you all this?”
The sun was sinking in the west; a mellow dusky light warmed the chamber. Reggie’s lips parted in a smile. “No. My informant was quite another person. Had it not been for her tender nursing, I would have died of my wounds. When we escape, she will go with us, for I will never love another.”
Emerson’s fist came down on the table with a crash that made the crockery rattle. “Damnation! I knew it! Another pair of confounded young lovers!”
After Emerson had calmed himself, Reggie went on with his story—and quite a touching tale it was. It seems that initially his treatment had been similar to ours. Waking, in a fresh, airy, sunlit chamber, he had found himself tended by one of the white-robed maidens, who, as I have said, acted as physicians in this society. Women are very susceptible to handsome, wounded young men; it was not long before the lady was prevailed upon to unveil, and, as Reggie expressed it (rather tritely, I thought), to see her was to love her. The absence of a common language is never a barrier to love and the handmaiden spoke some English—enough to warn him of his danger and enlighten him as to the desperate situation he faced. “She risked her life in telling me,” Reggie whispered, tears suffusing his eyes. “And she would have done more, but soon afterward I had my final confrontation with the prince, and he ordered me thrown into the dungeon. Now that I am free—” He broke off with a hiss of breath as a white-veiled form materialized in the shadows.
“Not your ladyfriend?” Emerson inquired, turning to inspect the girl curiously.
Reggie shook his head. “Cursed if I know how you can tell,” Emerson said. “Swaddled to the eyebrows as they all are.”
“The eyes of love can pierce the thickest veil, Emerson,” I remarked.
“I don’t know about that, Peabody. I can think of at least one occasion when your eyes failed to pierce the mask I wore.” *
“I was too intent upon avoiding recognition myself,” I replied. “You knew me, though, in spite of my own mask.”
“My dear Peabody, you are unmistakable.”
Reggie made agitated gestures for silence. “Watch what you say in the presence of the handmaiden. Many of them understand English, and if they discovered