The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [158]
“Ramses’s cat,” I said. “Is it angry with us because we have lost him, do you think?”
“Don’t be fanciful, Peabody,” said Emerson in the gruff voice he uses when he is trying to hide a softer emotion.
“Do you want to hear my plan or not?” Reggie demanded.
“May as well,” said Emerson. “Have a seat, Peabody.”
Seated upon a carved bench with the scent of the lotuses perfuming the air and the sleepy chirp of birds as background, we listened to Reggie. His plan had some merit—or would have done, had we not known a few things he did not.
As soon as Amenit had arranged for camels, supplies, and guides, we would, that same night, drug or distract the guards and descend into the subterranean maze in search of Ramses. Reggie was convinced the lad would come out of hiding when he heard me and his father assure him it was safe to do so. When we had found him we would all proceed by secret ways Amenit knew to the tunnel leading to the outside world and the waiting caravan.
“Not bad,” said Emerson judicially, after Reggie had finished. “I see a few potential stumbling blocks, however. Suppose we fail to find the boy? Mrs. Emerson and I would never leave here without him.”
“I tell you, Amenit knows every inch of the way. She will find him, even if he is unconscious or—or—”
“I suppose if he were—’or’—we would have no reason to remain,” mused Emerson, stamping heavily on my foot to prevent me from expressing my indignation. “But it sounds a formidable undertaking, Forthright. There must be miles of those passages. How can we search them all in a single night? Less, in fact, for unless we are far away from here by daybreak, we have no hope of avoiding recapture. We will certainly be pursued—”
“Why should we be?”
“Oh, good Gad,” Emerson muttered. “What have I done to be afflicted with idiots? Because, Mr. Forthright, the age-old laws of the Holy Mountain forbid people from leaving. You told us that yourself.”
“We have already been condemned to death,” Reggie said angrily. “We could be no worse off.”
“You are missing the point, Reggie,” I said. “Which is, that we cannot expect to complete the search and get well away in a single night. If we are lucky we will find Ramses right away, but luck, my young friend, is not a commodity on which successful plotters count.”
Reggie considered this, his expression both sulky and bewildered. Finally his face cleared. “I see. Yes, I understand. Then we must find the lad first—is that what you are saying?”
I nodded. Reggie nodded. Emerson snorted. “Fair enough,” Reggie went on. “It is a pity Amenit is ill; we could have begun searching tonight. I will have to consult with her.”
“Naturally,” said Emerson. “Now I believe we are being called to dinner; I suggest you refrain from continuing this discussion in front of the others.”
The prohibition was sensible, but it put a damper on conversation. Reggie brooded over his food and spoke hardly a word. Having finished, he jumped up and left the room with a mumbled apology.
“Alone at last,” said Emerson whimsically.
“Except for…” I indicated the veiled form of the handmaiden, and the servants.
“They don’t annoy me as much as Forthright. He is trying my nerves outrageously, Peabody. I wish he would go away.”
He got his wish, and in a way I daresay not even he had expected. Reggie returned only too soon, and we passed the next hour or so in dismal silence. Reggie paced the floor, Emerson smoked furiously, the servants stood around trying not to look directly at us, and I… I tried to think, to plan, but my thoughts kept returning to Ramses. Reggie might be correct in assuming that he had remained close to the stairs and would respond to my call, but it seemed equally likely to me that he had gone off on some harebrained search for another exit. He might be hopelessly lost; he might have blundered into the hands of the priests; he might have tumbled into a pit or