The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [130]
It was that simple, Ramses thought. The fool tourists could damn well make the ascent on foot and the dragoman would be content to remain with the horses. He urged his horse to a gallop.
The Pethericks were nowhere in sight when they came up to Ibrahim Mohammed, who was squatting on the ground smoking. “They have gone on,” he said in answer to Ramses’s question. “Up the path to the top. I saw you coming and told them they should wait for you, but they would not. Are they friends of yours?”
“Yes,” Ramses said. His heart was hammering.
It was a steep climb to the top of the rise where once the king’s pyramid had stood looking out across the fertile valley toward the tombs of his predecessors. Only a few courses of stone remained at the base of a natural mound that had formed the core of the pyramid. The ruins of the mortuary temple and other subsidiary structures littered the ground with obstacles ranging from pebbles to fallen blocks several feet high.
“Slow down,” David panted, vaulting one of the blocks and catching Ramses by the arm. “The fellow has a gun. God damn it, Ramses, wait. Nefret warned you not to go charging at him.”
“Right.” Ramses stood still, trying to catch his breath. In the silence he heard voices. They came from the north side of the pyramid mound, where the entrance was located. Harriet’s voice, sharpened from contralto to soprano by strong emotion, rose over that of her brother.
“Give it to me, Adrian. Please.”
The sound of scuffling feet and a sharp cry from Harriet propelled Ramses forward. He didn’t need David’s grasp on his arm to proceed slowly. The wrong move now could precipitate the very thing he feared.
Brother and sister were standing on a cleared space in front of the great pit that dropped at a steep angle toward the burial chamber. It gaped wide behind them, more than sixty feet deep. Harriet leaned against a fallen stone, her hand raised to her cheek. Her magnificent hair had been cut short and was now a dreadful shade of mahogany streaked with orange—henna, hastily and inexpertly applied. It altered her appearance dramatically. Adrian was several feet away, square in front of the shaft. He held a rifle, which was pointed at Ramses.
“Don’t come any closer,” he said coolly.
“Whatever you say.” Ramses stopped. “Why don’t you put that down and we’ll talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. This is the end.”
“It needn’t be,” Ramses said quietly. He could feel David beside and a little behind him, taut as a coiled spring. “We want to help you, Adrian, that’s why we’re here. Come with us.”
“To what, a madhouse? Or to the gallows? I killed her. I deserve to be punished, but I’ll choose my death, thank you. I wanted Harriet to come with me, but she wouldn’t, and then I got to thinking…Is she in love with you?”
The pathetic, childlike curiosity in his voice raised the hairs on Ramses’s neck. Harriet was crying. The tears ran down her face, over the marks of her brother’s fingers that reddened her cheek.
“She loves you,” Ramses said, praying he had found the right answer. “You can’t do this to her, Adrian. Not after all she’s done for you.”
“She means well,” Adrian conceded. “But she won’t leave me alone. That can get on a fellow’s nerves, you know.”
Adrian swung round toward Harriet, and the rifle swung with him. She held out her hands in appeal. “Forgive me, Adrian. From now on we’ll do everything your way. I promise.”
“Why are you crying?” Adrian asked curiously. “I wouldn’t hurt you, Harriet, you know that.”
Ramses never knew what pushed Adrian over the line—his own loud catch of breath, the movement of David’s arm hard against him, ready to push him aside, or Harriet’s step forward. The gun went off. Harriet dropped to the ground, her arms covering her head. She hadn’t been hit; the bullet had gone high. Adrian let the rifle fall to his side, his eyes wild, and Ramses jumped. He was in no mood to take chances. He hit Adrian hard and low, caught him by the collar, and dropped him onto the ground a safe distance