The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [53]
Reggie’s head fell back against Emerson’s shoulder. He had lost consciousness again. I had to agree with my husband; Reggie was becoming a bit of a bore, especially on the subject of Kemit. What had he been doing so far from his own camp in the middle of the night?
On hands and knees, his nose so close to the ground that he resembled a hunting dog on the trail of a rabbit, Ramses was examining the spot, hideously stained with blood, where Reggie had lain.
“Get up from there, Ramses,” I said in disgust. “Your morbid curiosity is repugnant. Either return to your cot or come with me.”
As I had expected, Ramses chose to come with me. When we reached Reggie’s tent, Ahmed was there, rubbing his eyes in an ostentatious and unconvincing fashion. “Did you call, Effendi?” he asked.
“I certainly did,” said Emerson, who certainly had, his shouts having made the welkin ring. “Confound you, Ahmed, are you blind as well as deaf? Can’t you see your master is injured?”
Ahmed gave a theatrical start. “Wallahi-el-azem! It is the young effendi. What has happened, Oh Father of Curses?”
Emerson proceeded to prove his claim to that title, to such effect that Ahmed soon had the lamps lit and his master’s couch prepared. Reggie had brought a well-equipped medical kit. It did not take long for me to clean the wound and bandage it. It was hardly more than a shallow cut and did not even require stitching.
A little brandy soon restored Reggie to his senses, and his first words were an apology for having caused me such trouble.
“What the devil were you doing outside my son’s tent in the middle of the night?” Emerson demanded.
“Taking a walk,” Reggie replied faintly. “I could not sleep, I know not why; I thought some exercise might do me good. As I drew near the boy’s tent, I saw… I saw…”
“Don’t talk anymore,” I said. “You need to rest.”
“No, I must tell you.” His hand groped for mine. “You must believe me. I saw the tent flap open and a pale, ghostly form appear. It gave me quite a start until I realized it must be Master Ramses. Naturally I assumed he was—he felt the need…”
“Yes, go on,” I said.
“I was about to withdraw when I saw another form, dark as a shadow, tall as a young tree, glide toward the boy. Ramses went slowly toward it. They met—and the dark shape stretched out its arms to grasp the boy. The gesture broke through my paralysis of surprise; realizing that danger threatened Ramses, I rushed to his aid. Needless to say, I had no weapon. I grappled with the man—for a man it was, with muscles like bands of rope, who fought with the ferocity of a wild beast.” The effort of speech had exhausted him; his voice faltered, and he said feebly, “I remember nothing more. Guard the boy. He…”
I put my finger on his lips. “No more, Reggie. You are exhausted by shock and loss of blood. Have no fear, we will watch over Ramses. May the grateful thanks of his devoted parents console you for your injuries, and may you sleep in peace, knowing that you—”
“Harrumph,” said Emerson forcibly. “If you want him to rest, Amelia, why don’t you stop talking?”
It seemed a reasonable suggestion. I instructed Ahmed to watch over his master and call me at once if any change in his condition occurred. As we retraced our steps I suggested to Emerson that Ramses had better spend the rest of the night with us.
“He may as well,” said Emerson. “There is not enough of the night left for… Ramses, what have you got to say for yourself?”
“Quite a good deal, Papa,” said Ramses.
“I thought as much. Well?”
Ramses took a deep breath. “To begin with, I have no recollection whatever of leaving my tent. I saw no mysterious dark form; I saw no struggle.”
“Ha,” Emerson exclaimed. “Then Forthright lied.”
“Not necessarily, Papa. He may have exaggerated the ferocity of the struggle; I have observed that men do when they are attempting to prove their valor. What woke me was a summons, as I thought—a voice calling my name, with considerable urgency. I took it to be