The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [162]
We made what preparations we could. I made certain my little revolver was loaded and my knife readily accessible, and prepared myself for the physical exertion that might be necessary by exercising my limbs vigorously. This procedure had an unexpected advantage, for as soon as I began jumping, skipping, and swinging my arms, the attendants incontinently fled. I suppose they mistook my actions for magical gestures.
Finding ourselves alone, Emerson and I made the best possible use of our time. Indeed, our enjoyment of one another’s company was the only thing that made that long day endurable. The cat did not come back, though I stood by the garden wall for some time calling it. There was no word from Reggie or from Amenit. No one came to threaten or reassure us.
Fortunately we were not called upon to endure another such day. It was mid-morning when they came for us, and as the curtain was thrust aside Emerson heaved a mighty sigh of relief. “As I hoped and expected. High noon is the time.”
We were forced to sit around for an hour or more, since we flatly refused to go through any ceremonies of purification or put on the handsome robes that had been supplied. “If we go down, we will go down fighting, and attired like an English lady and gentleman,” I decreed.
Emerson looked me over from head to foot, his lips twitching. “A proper English lady would faint dead away seeing you attired like that, Peabody.”
Alas, he was correct. I had done the best I could to press and brush our travel-stained garments, but I could not mend the rents or sew on missing buttons. I had searched in vain for the grubby spool of thread Ramses had lent me. It required no great stretch of the imagination to understand why he had taken it with him, but it was deuced inconvenient. Emerson’s shirt was beyond repair; he was wearing one of the locally produced substitutes and I must admit it was unexpectedly becoming to him, especially since it had been made for a much slighter individual.
“I hate to think what a proper English lady would do on seeing you, Emerson,” I riposted with a smile. “Are you sure you don’t want to borrow my knife?”
“No, thank you, my dear.” Absently Emerson flexed his arms. One of the attendants, who had timidly advanced toward him waving a pleated kilt like a parlormaid shaking a rug, jumped back with a squeak.
“Your costume requires something, though,” I said, frowning. “Why don’t you put on that beaded collar? And some of the bracelets.”
“I will be cursed—” Emerson began loudly.
“Some of the beautiful heavy gold bracelets,” I said.
“Oh,” said Emerson. “Excellent idea, Peabody.”
Once this had been done—and the effect, let me add, was very fine—we were ready. However, our escort was not. I don’t know how they knew the time, having no clocks or watches, but apparently we were early. A debate ensued; it ended with the decision that it would be better to be too early than too late.
“Have we everything, Peabody?” Emerson asked, knocking out his pipe and putting it carefully in his trouser pocket.
“I think so. Notebooks”—I felt the front of my blouse— “my belt and accoutrements, my weapons, your pipe and tobacco… I am ready.”
As the guards closed around us I cast one final look at the room where we had spent so many painful and yet fascinating hours. Whatever ensued, it seemed unlikely that we would return. We had decided that Tarek probably intended to wage an attack upon his brother’s forces during the ceremony. We would of course support our friend to the uttermost; but if he went down and his cause with him, we would make a break for it. The details of that action were necessarily vague, for they depended on too many unknown factors, the most important of which was whether Ramses and Nefret would be present. If we could scoop them up and take them along, we would try to get over or through the cliffs, steal camels and supplies, and ride hell-for-leather (if the Reader will excuse the vulgarity) for the Nile.