The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [166]
Throughout the courtyard other men were stripping off their disguises, drawing their weapons, taking red feathers from hidden folds in their garments and thrusting them into their headbands.
“Bravo!” exclaimed Emerson. “What a strategist! I couldn’t have done better myself!”
It was a masterstroke, and for a moment I thought Tarek would bring it off, winning his crown without violence and civil war. But the red feathers were outnumbered by the leather helmets of Nastasen’s guardsmen, and the High Priest of Aminreh was not the man to let power slip through his fingers.
“Treason!” he bellowed. “Blasphemy! This criminal has no name. He is not the chosen of Aminreh but a traitor condemned to die. Seize him!”
Pandemonium broke out. Nastasen’s men sought to carry out the command of the high priest and the rebels sprang to defend their leader. Neither bow and arrow nor the long-shafted spears could be used in such close quarters; it was hand-to-hand fighting with sword and knife. Emerson was stamping with excitement. “Curse it, Peabody, let go my arm! I need a sword! I need a feather!”
I had to scream to be heard over the battle cries and the clash of weapons. “Emerson—look!”
Above the heads of the struggling men the bark of the god swayed like a real boat in a stormy sea. One by one the bearers lost their footing and went down under the press of bodies. The ship dipped at the prow and fell with a crash. The brittle, ancient wood snapped into a hundred pieces. The shrine collapsed like a matchstick toy. The statue cracked and broke apart, disgorging, like a butterfly from its chrysalis, a small body that rolled helplessly under the very feet of the combatants. With a mighty roar Emerson plunged into the maelstrom and emerged with Ramses clutched in his arms.
I drew my pistol and fired point-blank at the soldier who was about to bring his blade down on Emerson’s head. Emerson leapt to my side and dropped Ramses unceremoniously at my feet. “Good Gad, Peabody, watch where you’re shooting! That cursed bullet came so close it parted my hair.”
“Better than having it parted by a sword,” I replied. Another of the leather helmets was bearing down upon us. I aimed at his arm but I must have missed, for he kept on coming, and I decided I could not, under those circumstances, afford to be discriminating. The second shot dropped him, practically on top of Ramses. Emerson snatched up his fallen sword just in time to parry a vicious cut from another attacker. Others were rushing toward us but several of our guards now displayed the red feather, and they leapt to our defense. I felt I could spare a moment to address my son.
The interior of the statue must not have been cleaned in years. Cobwebs festooned Ramses’s hair (what there was of it) and his kilt was filthy. I saw the distinct print of someone’s sandal on his stomach, which probably helped to explain his silence. I shook him. “Are you injured, Ramses?”
“Whoop,” said Ramses, trying to catch his breath.
Pistol at the ready, I turned to see if Emerson was in need of my assistance, and found he was managing nicely. He must have been taking fencing lessons on the sly, for his skill had improved considerably since that never-to-be-forgotten day when he had fought the Master Criminal for my humble self. * In fact, I felt sure he could have put an end to his opponent quite handily if he had not been trying to incapacitate rather than kill the man.
One of our defenders fell, splashing my boots with his blood. Another bullet from my trusty little pistol put his killer hors de combat. Hastily I reloaded. The battle was waxing hot. I saw Tarek, his diadem bristling with red feathers, trying to fight his way toward his brother,