The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [172]
I had intended to throw my arms around him, not only because it is a favorite habit of mine, but because he was swaying on his feet. Something held me motionless, however, and that something was the face of the unfortunate woman who called herself the God’s Wife of Amon. No longer was it pale as snow. Dark blood suffused it. No longer was she screaming in outrage. A dreadful bubbling, gabbling gurgle issued from her gaping mouth.
She toppled, like a great boulder pushed from the top of a cliff, slowly at first, then with gathering momentum, striking the floor with a hideous, sodden thud.
The magnitude of that fall had about it an air of heroic tragedy that held us all frozen for several seconds. Then Emerson whispered, “Oh, good Gad. Is she… is she…”
I went through the motions, kneeling by the body and trying to find a pulse, but I had seen death take her even as she stood. Amid the bloated, purple congestion of her face her blue eyes stared emptily into mine. In medical terms her demise could be attributed to the effect of frustrated fury—for since she had assumed her exalted station her will, I suppose, had never been thwarted—upon a body worn out by excessive eating and lack of healthful exercise; but I was inclined to give credit to Another, more Beneficent Source. “She is gone,” I said solemnly. “A merciful end, Emerson—all things considered.”
“As always, the Lady speaks well,” said Tarek. “It is the only possible end to her troubles and ours, for you would have tried to take her away and she would have fought to stay. Now Nefret need never know the truth.”
I drew a fold of her robe across that terrible face. “You lied to Nefret, Tarek, as you lied to us?”
“It was not a lie, Lady. She went to the god of her own will, denying her former self. Nefret was only an infant. Why should I tell her her mother had turned away from her, after trying twice to kill her?”
“I have heard of such things,” I said sadly. “There is a sickness that afflicts women sometimes after the birth of a child.”
Murtek squatted beside the great still bulk and began intoning prayers.
“Come away, Lady,” Tarek said. “You can do no more for her.”
“You have done quite enough already,” said Emerson. I looked sharply at him, suspecting sarcasm, but his face was grave and sympathetic. It was also ghastly pale. The sooner he received my medical attention the better, and yet I lingered, unwilling to leave the unhappy woman without some final word of farewell. But what word? The noble phrases of the Christian burial service seemed somehow inappropriate.
As he so often does, Emerson came to my rescue. Softly and sonorously he intoned, “Sleep, Servant of God, in the protection of God.”
So speak the angelic judges of the Moslem faith to the newborn souls of true believers who have passed the test and are destined to breath the sweet air of Paradise.
“Very nice, my dear,” I said. “Whatever their origin, the words are beautiful and comforting.”
“And general enough to cover all the contingencies, Pea-body.”
“You don’t deceive me, Emerson,” I said, taking his arm—and quickly releasing it, as he yelped with pain. “Your cynicism is only a mask.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson.
Tarek led us to a handsome suite of rooms which must have been the living quarters of one of the high-ranking priests.
“Rest and restore your strength, my friends. Whatever you wish shall be given unto you; you have only to ask. Forgive me if I leave you now; there is much to do. After night has fallen I will return, to lead you to the caravan and bid you farewell.”
He hastened out before I could ask even one of the many questions that were bursting for utterance. “Don’t bother him now, Peabody,” said Emerson, sinking gratefully onto a soft couch. “A successful usurper has his hands full.”
“He is not a usurper, but the rightful king, my dear.”
“Pretender, usurper, rightful heir