The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [135]
He gave us no time to ask further questions, but hastened on. After we had squeezed through the hole in the hillside he increased his pace. The moon was down. The breeze that cooled our perspiring faces had the fresh smell of morning.
When Tarek stopped we were still some distance from our abode, but I could see its outlines; the sky had lightened that much. “I talked too long, the hour is late,” he whispered urgently. “Can you find your way from here? You must be in your rooms before the sun lifts over the mountain, and so must I.”
“Yes,” I answered. “But what about Amenit? She is—”
“My brother’s spy,” said Tarek. “But the wine she and her lover drank tonight was drugged. Tell him nothing of this! He believes the lies she told him, and he… There is no time! Begone!”
He followed his own advice, melting into the darkness like a shadow. The sound of his passage was no louder than the rustle of dry grass in the wind.
We were not as skilled as he; it sounded to me as if we made enough noise for an army as we scrambled along the path. Speed seemed more important than silence, however. The stench from the rotting trash guided us to the gate, which we found open, and as we trotted across the courtyard, a path miraculously opened for us, as bodies turned, as a sleeper may turn, away from our feet. Emerson’s men were at their posts, but as we ran down the passage toward our sitting room I heard in the distance the sound of marching men.
“That was a near thing,” muttered Emerson, mopping his brow. “Quick, Ramses.”
Ramses did not utter a word or break stride, even when Emerson snatched his kilt off him and thrust it at me. “What did you do with the other clothing?” he snapped, stripping off his dusty, wrinkled robe.
“Under the bed. But I hardly think it would be wise—”
“Quite right. Here—” He caught hold of the edge of my garment and gave it a sharp tug, sending me twirling in a circle as it unwound. Emerson bundled up the clothing, pitched them into one of the baskets, pushed me onto the bed, and dropped down next to me.
“Whew,” he said, on a long expiration of breath.
“I could not agree more, my dear. What a revelation—what an astonishing development! Confess, Emerson; you were as amazed as I, weren’t you?”
“Thunderstruck, my dear Peabody. Mrs. Forth must have been already in the family way when I met her, but of course no such idea entered my head—nor, I would hope, that of her husband. No man worthy of the name would take a lady in her delicate condition on such a journey.”
“It must have entered her head, though,” I said. “Why on earth didn’t she tell him?”
“Would you have told me, Peabody?” Having recovered his breath, Emerson proceeded to squeeze mine out of me.
“Well… I hope I would have had sense enough. But she was very young and, I suppose, madly in love. Poor girl, she paid a terrible price for her misplaced loyalty, but at least she was spared the knowledge of the fate that threatens her child.”
“We’ll get the girl safely away, Peabody.”
“Of course. We… good Gad, Emerson! We are supposed to make our escape tomorrow—no, by heaven, tonight! With the treacherous Amenit!”
“Curse it, that’s right. I had forgotten.” Emerson rolled over onto his back. “We’ll have to invent some excuse, Peabody. If we told Forthright that his ladylove was a liar and a spy he wouldn’t believe us.”
“He would insist on confronting her,” I agreed. “I am beginning to share your opinion of young lovers, Emerson; they can be a frightful nuisance. It is a pity we had not time to ask Tarek’s advice.”
Emerson yawned. “It is a pity we had not time to ask him a good many things. I must say he has a confoundedly longwinded, literary way of talking. It reminded me of those—”
“Perhaps he knows about Amenit’s plan, Emerson, and will take steps to prevent it.”
“Perhaps. Everybody spying on everybody else.…” Another great yawn interrupted him. “I refuse to worry about it now. We’ll think of some way out; we always do.”
“Certainly, my dear. I am not at all concerned.”
“Good night, my dear Peabody.”
“Good night, my dear Emerson. Or rather,