The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [174]
“SHE,” Ramses began, ”SHE…”
I was tempted to kick him, as I have seen exasperated owners of motor cars kick the engine when it won’t start. Fortunately Emerson changed the subject.
“Well, my boy, I am proud of you, and I know your mama is too. That you should have pursued your archaeological research under those conditions is really splendid. Where are your notebooks?”
“Tarek has them,” said Ramses, who was glib enough on every subject but one. “I hope he will remember to return them before we go.”
“We can trust Tarek to do whatever is necessary,” I declared. “He is willing to trust us in an equally important matter, and I think we must give him our word that we will never speak or write of what we found here.”
Ruefully, Emerson nodded in agreement. “Tarek is right. Treasure hunters and adventurers, not to mention the soldiers of the European powers, would descend on this place and wreak havoc. We must and will keep silent. But curse it, Peabody, what a lost opportunity for research! It would make us the most famous archaeologists of all time!”
“We are already that, Emerson. And even if we were not, we could not build our reputations on the destruction of an innocent people.”
“Very true, my dear. And,” Emerson added, brightening, “we have seen enough and taken enough notes to throw a very useful light on ancient Meroitic culture. So we are agreed, eh? Let’s drink to that.”
So we did—Ramses in water, despite his objections—and it will now be clear to the Reader why the map that accompanies this text, and the description of our route, have been deliberately designed to mislead. The day will come, no doubt, when new inventions will allow the exploration of the western desert, and the hidden valley will be opened to the outside world; but never will this come about through the breaking of his or her word by an Emerson.
Though I urged my valiant spouse to snatch a few hours of needed sleep, he insisted he did not need it. “We must be ready to leave as soon as Tarek comes for us. We aren’t in the clear yet, Peabody, and Tarek knows it—that’s why he is waiting until night to get us away. Not only will Nastasen’s disappointed allies be burning for revenge, but there is probably a party, composed of people like Murtek, who would love to keep us here, picking our brains and using our prestige to enhance their authority.”
“You are right, Papa,” said Ramses. “I heard Murtek arguing with Tarek—most deferentially, of course—on that very topic. Not even Murtek knows that—SHE—is going with us. The priests believe—HER—to be the incarnation of Isis, and would not willingly give—HER—up.”
I had a feeling that Ramses’s capitals were going to get on my nerves, but this was not the time to raise the issue. “Poor child,” I said, “she has had a terrible time and I am afraid she will find it difficult to adjust to a new life. We must do all we can to help her. Ramses, you must never ever mention that her mother—”
“Please, Mama,” said Ramses in tones of freezing dignity. “I am deeply hurt that such a thought should enter your mind. The happiness of—of”—he choked, but managed to get the words out—“of Miss Nefret is as vital to me as my own. I would—I would—er—do anything to ensure it.”
“I beg your pardon, Ramses. I believe you.” It would have been impossible not to; his eyes had the fearful shine of a religious fanatic’s. Deliberately I went on, “But it won’t be necessary for you to do anything more. She has a loving home awaiting her, and a great fortune as well. When I think of the joy of her dear old grandfather—”
“Hmph,” said Emerson, clearing his throat. “Ramses, my boy, why don’t you go and have a nice wash?”
“It seems a waste of time,” objected Ramses. “I will be dirty again almost immediately. The desert journey—”
“At least you can start out clean,” I said. “You don’t want—HER—curse it, I mean Nefret—to see you so grubby and disheveled, do you?”
Ramses had opened his mouth to protest. He closed it again, looked thoughtful, and left.
“Oh, dear,” I said, sighing. “Emerson,