The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [159]
The ominous sound of approaching men broke into my dark imaginings. “Not again!” exclaimed Emerson, putting his pipe aside. “This is too much. I shall complain to the management.”
But this time we were not wanted. The soldiers had come for Reggie. He accepted his destiny with calm fortitude, remarking only, “I hope this means that they have found the lad and will bring him back to you, ma’am. Pray for me.”
“Oh, she will,” said Emerson. “Come along, Peabody, let us see him to the door.”
The guards made no objection to our following them. “Go back,” Reggie called. “Don’t risk yourselves, you cannot prevent them from taking me.”
“Touching concern,” remarked Emerson, strolling along with his hands in his pockets.
I knew his real intent and I was as curious as he to see how far we could go before we were stopped. We had actually passed through the great doors and stepped onto the terrace before the officer summoned up courage enough to order us to halt. Even then he did not touch Emerson or point his weapon, only held it in front of him like a barrier.
Night had fallen. The air had cleared, and a million sparks of diamond light brightened the dark canopy of the sky. Emerson turned aside and went to the edge of the terrace. “Look there, Peabody,” he said, pointing. “Something is going on in the village.”
Indeed, the area was alive with moving lights—not reflections of the pure brilliance of the stars, but ruddier, smokier, and more ominous. “Torches,” Emerson said. “They are searching the place.”
“For Ramses?”
“Tarek, rather. They must be getting desperate. He wouldn’t go to ground there.”
“I hope they won’t burn the huts,” I said uneasily. “Or hurt anyone. Do you think your performance today could have prompted this?”
“I would certainly like to think my performance, and other actions of ours, have stirred up trouble for Nastasen. Look at that poor devil of a guard trying to wave his spear and make magical protective gestures at the same time. He’ll trip over the cursed thing if he isn’t careful. We may as well go in.”
With a last glance at Reggie and his escort, who were descending the staircase, we returned to our quarters. “Now he’s out of the way, we can go about our business,” said Emerson briskly. “Have you any trinkets you can spare, Peabody? I think it’s time for my luck to turn.”
We had to search Ramses’s little bag to find something enticing, for I had of course abandoned most of my luggage and I was loath to give up any of my accoutrements. I was astonished at some of the odd things Ramses had clung to, even in the face of death in the desert. A few marbles, a broken bit of chalk, a mummified mouse (his greatest achievement in his study of that art), the stubs of two pencils, a mustache (bright red in color), a set of false teeth (very large and very yellow), and several pieces of India rubber were among them; I forget the rest. Several items I had expected to find were missing, including Ramses’s battered notebook and the spool of thread he had lent me. I could only speculate on what other bizarre objects he had taken with him, but I found their absence reassuring, particularly that of the notebook. Ramses never went anywhere without it. If he had had time enough and wits enough to collect such impedimenta before he was forced to take flight, his situation might not be as desperate as I had feared.
Taking the false teeth, the mustache (which proved, he later informed me, a great hit), the marbles, and the pencil stubs, Emerson went whistling off, leaving me to my task of winnowing information from Amenit’s replacement.
I decided a long, soothing bath would be just the thing. Women are more inclined to wax confidential during the ritual of the toilette, and I felt I deserved some pampering after the varied excitements of the day. The effect was certainly soothing, the women carried out their duties punctiliously; but it brought home to me more clearly than words how our position had changed. Formerly the