The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [52]
The weight shifted, and Emerson, cursing sleepily, rose to hands and knees. He was gone before I could stop him, but I took comfort in the fact that he was wrapped in one of the loose native robes, the sudden drop in temperature during the night having apparently prompted this departure from custom. My own nightgown was voluminous enough to be modest, if not exactly suitable for walking abroad; I paused only long enough to slip my feet into my boots and snatch up my parasol before rushing in pursuit of my husband.
The source of the disturbance was, as I might have expected, near the tent of Ramses, where I saw a singular tableau. One body lay prone upon the ground. Another stood over it, fists on its hips. A third, smaller form sat, pallid and immobile as a limestone statue, several feet away.
“Peabody!” Emerson bellowed.
I put my hands over my ears. “I am just behind you, Emerson, you needn’t shout. What has happened?”
“The most extraordinary thing, Peabody. Look here. He’s done it again! This is ridiculous. It’s one thing to collapse at the slightest provocation, or none at all, I was becoming accustomed to that; but to wake people up in the middle of the night—”
“It is not a faint this time, Emerson. He is wounded—bleeding.”
It was not until my fingers actually touched the sticky wetness that I realized the truth. Like Emerson, Reggie wore a native robe, but his was dark blue in color. “Light, Emerson,” I exclaimed. “I must have light. Ramses, fetch the lantern. Ramses? Did you hear me?”
“I will light the lantern,” Emerson said. “The poor lad is a trifle dazed still, after having been wakened so abruptly.”
I went to Ramses. Even when I bent over him he seemed to be unaware of my presence. I took him by the shoulders and shook him, insisting that he speak to me. (And I must say it made rather a change for me to ask Ramses to talk instead of trying to get him to stop.)
He blinked at me then, and said slowly, “I think I was dreaming, Mama. But I came when you called.”
The chill that seized my limbs was not the product of the cold night air. “I did not call you, Ramses. Not until just now. You called me.”
“How very odd.” Ramses stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Hmmm. We must discuss this situation, Mama, and compare our impressions of what occurred. Is that Mr. Forthright lying there on the ground?”
“Yes, and he is more in need of my attentions than you seem to be,” I replied, considerably relieved to find that Ramses was himself again. “Bring the lantern here, Emerson.”
Emerson let out a startled exclamation when the lamplight illumined the fallen man. “I beg your pardon, Peabody, I thought you were up to your usual… Ahem. He does seem to have bled rather profusely. Is he dead?”
“No, nor likely to die, unless the wound becomes infected.” I turned Reggie onto his back and opened the robe to expose an arm and shoulder more admirably muscled than one might have expected. “It is not so bad as I feared. The bleeding seems to have stopped. And—good heavens! Here is the weapon that wounded him. It was under his body.”
I picked it up by the haft and handed it to Emerson. “Curiouser and curiouser,” he muttered. “This is no native knife, Peabody; it is good Sheffield steel and bears the mark of an English maker. Could he have fallen on it?”
“Never mind that now, Emerson. He ought to be carried to his tent, where I can attend to him properly. Where the dev——the deuce are his servants? How could they sleep through such a racket?”
“Drunk, perhaps,” Emerson began. Then a voice from the darkness said quietly, “I am here, Lady. I carry him.”
So it happened that the first sight to meet Reggie’s eyes was the tall form of Kemit, advancing into the circle of lamplight. A sharp cry burst from the lips of the wounded man. “Murderer! Assassin! Have you returned to finish me off?”
“Mr. Forthright, you are becoming a bore,