The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [89]
“Then you think—”
“I think Nastasen and Tarek both want to be king,” Emerson said. “And that the High Priest of Aminreh—” He broke off with a muttered curse as the handmaiden appeared in the open doorway. “Confound it, what does she want? Tell her to go away.”
“She wants to put me to bed, I think,” I said, stifling a yawn. “You tell her to go away.”
“Never mind.” Emerson rose with a sigh. “You must be tired, Peabody. It has been an interesting day.”
“I am not that tired,” I said, meeting his eyes.
“Oh? Yes, but…” Emerson cleared his throat. “Well. Er. Come, Ramses. Good night, Peabody.”
“Au revoir, my dear Emerson.”
I was a trifle tired, but I was not at all sleepy. My busy brain teemed with questions I yearned to discuss with Emerson. As the handmaiden bustled about the room, dimming the lamps, straightening the bedclothes, and helping me into my night robe, I wished Kemit had been more direct instead of so confounded literary. It was all very well to warn us not to open our hearts to strangers—but they were all strangers here, even Kemit. What did he want from us—whom could we trust?
After tucking me into bed, the handmaiden proceeded to “listen to the voice of the heart.” I looked at the slender fingers resting on my breast, and suspicion blossomed into certainty. “You are not Amenit,” I said. “Your fingers are longer than hers and you move quite differently. Who are you?”
I was prepared to repeat the question in Meroitic, but there was no need. Drawing my robe into place, she said softly, “My name is Mentarit.”
Her voice was higher in pitch than Amenit’s—soprano rather than contralto. “May I see your face?” I asked; and, as she hesitated, I went on, “Amenit unveiled for me. We were friends.”
“Friends,” she repeated.
“That means—”
“I know.” With a sudden movement she flung back the veil.
It was a lovely face, rounder and softer than that of her fellow-priestess, with great dark eyes and a delicate mouth. In outline the last-named feature strongly resembled that of Nastasen. It suited the girl far better than it did the prince, but it rather prejudiced me against her.
“You are very pretty,” I said.
She ducked her head shyly, like any modest English maiden, but she watched me from under her long lashes and her eyes were bright and wary. “You must sleep now,” she said. “You have been very ill.”
“But I am not ill now. Thanks to your excellent nursing, I am fully recovered. Didn’t Amenit tell you I was better?”
Her smooth forehead crinkled in a frown, and I repeated the question in my stumbling Meroitic. Unlike Amenit she did not smile at my mistakes. “I did not speak with my sister,” she said, speaking slowly and clearly. “Her time of —— was over, my time began(?) today.”
I questioned her about the words I had not understood; she explained that the first meant “service” or “duty,” and that my interpretation of the second had been correct. When I attempted to continue the conversation, however, she placed her fingers on my lips. “You sleep now,” she repeated. “It is not good to talk.”
She retreated to a corner of the room, where she sat down on a low stool. A few moments later the curtain to the next chamber was drawn aside. Emerson stood there. He was attired in a particularly handsome robe woven with stripes of bright blue and saffron, and he carried one of the pottery lamps. It may have been the light that cast a rosy flush upon his face, but I suspected not.
“Go, Handmaiden,” he said in stumbling Meroitic. “Tonight I am with my woman. It is the time—er—I wish—er…” Here his native modesty overcame him, and his speech failed, for his study of the language had not gone so far as to include euphemisms for the activity he had in mind. Resorting instead to sign language, he blew out the lamp and advanced on Mentarit, pointing toward the door and flapping his hand at her.
I think she caught his meaning. A muffled sound that might have been a gasp or a giggle came from her, and she backed toward the door. I watched, choking with laughter and another emotion