The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [150]
“Abdullah and the other men, as well as my faithful follower Vandergelt,” I replied smartly. “Now come back to the fire. Don’t sit here in the dark inviting someone to stab you in the back.”
“I will sit where I like, MISS Peabody, for as long as I choose. Good evening to you.”
No one tried to stab Emerson in the back, much to his disappointment, I felt certain. It was not long before he joined us at the fire. I waited for him before making my announcement, since it is not my habit to undermine his authority behind his back. Direct confrontation, and a brisk argument, saves time in the long run, I had found.
The argument did not ensue, nor did the news of our departure produce the surprise and pleasure I had expected. It appeared that everyone had taken it for granted.
“Friday is the Moslem holy day, after all,” Charlie pointed out. “We figured an enlightened employer like Mr. Vandergelt would be sympathetic to the rights of the laboring man and agree we were entitled to the same.” He gave his employer a cheeky grin.
Cyrus grunted, quite as Emerson might have done. Emerson did not even grunt.
I wondered what he was up to. A few moments of cogitation gave me an answer, however. He had hoped to entice our enemy out into the open. So far that enemy had declined to take the challenge, as any sensible person would. He had sent hired bullies and spies to do the dirty work, and if he had been on the scene it had been under cover of darkness. I doubted that he had. His modus operandi, if I may employ a technical term, was based on the principle of leading his regiment from behind. He had not dared face Emerson until the latter was chained and helpless.
Impatience is one of Emerson’s most conspicuous failings, and although “stubborn” is too mild a word for him, he does not refuse to accept a conclusion when it is forced upon him. His stratagem had not succeeded, nor was it likely to. Of course I had realized this from the first, and if Emerson had been willing to listen to reason I would have told him so. He had not been willing to listen; the conclusion had now been forced upon him; and he was getting bored with fighting off attentions that distracted him from his archaeological work and yielded no effective results. The time had come to shift his ground.
At least, I reflected, it had not been a complete waste of time. The removal of Mohammed was a dubious blessing; I did not doubt Sethos could find as many scurvy assassins as he wanted. But we (I use the word editorially) had done some good work in the royal tomb, and gotten some ideas about promising sites for future excavation. Kevin was firmly in hand, not wandering around the country causing trouble; and whether Cyrus admitted it or not, which he did not, I knew that Charlie was the man to be watched. I was glad I had not yielded to my first unthinking impulse and put him under arrest. Secret surveillence of his movements might lead us to his master.
Most consoling of all—dare I admit it?—was the fact that we had survived two of the frightful fates mentioned in the antique tale. I did not dare admit it to anyone else, for fear of being laughed at, but as you will see, dear Reader, a woman’s instincts are keener to discern the mysterious workings of Fate than is cold logic.
We were all in good spirits when we set out next morning. We were on foot; since we were leaving the tents and much of our equipment behind, there was no need for donkeys. Bertha’s musical laugh echoed frequently from the rocky walls; it held a note of anticipation that made me realize she was, after all, very young. Inured as I am to the hardships of desert travel, I found myself looking forward with great anticipation to a bath and a change of clothing. I had brought three of my working suits with me; all were in a frightful state of dust and muss,