The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [65]
For he had stiffened like a thoroughbred hound scenting an invisible prey. I sprang to my feet and stood beside him; but though I strained my sight to the utmost, I saw nothing in the direction in which he stared so intently.
“Something comes,” said Kemit.
He was fifty feet away before I could gather my wits and follow him. He could run like a deer. By the time I caught him up he was kneeling beside a prostrate figure. The brief twilight of the desert darkened the air as I too fell to my knees beside the body, but I saw immediately that the fallen form was, for once, not Reggie’s. The dark robe and turban were those of an Arab.
Kemit’s eyes were better than mine. “It is the servant of the fire-haired one,” he said.
“Daoud, the Nubian? Help me to turn him over. Is he… ?
“He breathes,” said Kemit briefly.
I unhooked the canteen from my belt and unscrewed the top. In my agitation I spilled more water on his face than into his parted lips, but no doubt the result was all to the good; almost at once the man stirred and moaned and licked his lips. “More,” he gasped. “Water, for the love of Allah…”
I allowed him only a sip. “Not too much, it will make you ill. Rest easy, you are safe. Where is your master?”
The only answer was a tremulous whisper, in which I caught only the word “water.” In my agitation I actually shook the poor fellow. “You have had enough for now. Does your master follow? Where are the others?”
“They…” Black night covered his face and form, but his voice was stronger. I dribbled a little more water into his mouth, and he went on, “They found us. The wild men of the desert. We fought… they were too many.”
Kemit’s breath caught in a startled hiss. “Wild men?” he repeated.
“Too many,” I repeated. “Yet you escaped, leaving your master to die?”
“He sent me,” the man protested. “For help. They were too many. Some they killed… but not the master. He is a prisoner of the wild men of the desert!”
CHAPTER 7
Lost in the Sea of Sand
“SLAVERS,” said Slatin Pasha.
The buzzing of a chorus of flies droned a dismal accompaniment to his words as he went on. “We have done our best to stop that vile trade, but our efforts have only driven the ghouls who trade in human flesh farther from their customary routes. It must have been some such group who attacked Mr. Forthright.”
“What does it matter who they were?” I demanded. “The question is, what are the authorities going to do about it?”
We were in Slatin Pasha’s tukhul at the military camp. Outside a crowd of people squatted patiently on the mats, waiting for his attention, but he had given our problem precedence.
The distinguished soldier coughed and looked away. “We will, of course, mention the matter to any patrols that go into that region.”
“I told you this was a waste of time, Peabody,” said Emerson, rising.
“Wait, Professor,” Slatin Pasha begged. “Don’t misjudge me; I would do anything within my power to assist this unfortunate young man. But you of all people should understand the difficulties. We are preparing for a major campaign, and we need every man. Mr. Forthright was warned that his search was both dangerous and futile, yet he persisted in going. I would not, even if I could, persuade the Sirdar to endanger more lives.”
I administered a gentle kick to the shins of my spouse in order to forestall the contemptuous response I saw hovering upon his lips. Slatin Pasha did not deserve our contempt. No man knew better than he the tortures of slavery among savage people. His distress and his helplessness were equally plain to see.
Once outside the tukhul, we turned toward the market. The flies were particularly bad that day; they clustered like patches of black rot on every piece of fruit and formed a whining cloud around the food stalls.
“I will leave you to make the necessary purchases,” I said to Emerson, “while I beg an additional supply of camel ointment and other medications from Captain Griffith.