The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [168]
The announcement was greeted with a universal sigh of thankfulness. Hands on his hips, fresh as ever, Emerson swept scornful eyes over his sweating subordinates and scowled at Kevin, who was reclining gracefully at Bertha’s feet.
“Tomorrow you can employ your detectival talents elsewhere,” he announced. “You are a nuisance, Mr. O’Connell; listening to you groan and complain distracts me, and unless I miss my guess, you are on the verge of heat prostration. The rest of you aren’t much better. We may as well go back.”
Ordinarily the dry baking heat of my beloved Egypt is much more to my taste than the climate of my native heath. I may have had a little temperature that afternoon. However, I am more inclined to believe that it was nervousness—for Emerson, not myself—that made me feel so warm and miserable. That sensation lessened as we started on the homeward path. I had for once been in error; the danger I expected had not materialized. I reminded myself that it was perfectly in character for Emerson to be distracted from threats to life and limb by an archaeological discovery, but I felt sure he had not abandoned, only postponed, whatever underhanded scheme he had in mind. I would have to watch him closely that night.
Musing thus, endeavoring to anticipate Emerson’s next move, lethargic from heat, lulled by the ambling pace of the donkey, I fell into a kind of waking doze. I was not asleep. The donkey must have stumbled, or I would not have come close to pitching head-foremost off its back.
A hand at once steadied me; blinking, I saw Cyrus’s face beside me. “Hang on a little longer, my dear,” he said. “We are halfway home.”
I looked around. To my right the village of El Til huddled among the palm trees. A faint breeze from the river carried the scent of the cooking fires. The swollen molten orb of the sun hung low over the western cliffs; Akhenaton’s god, the living Aton, was about to leave the world to darkness and a sleep like death. But he would rise again as he had risen thousands upon thousands of times, to fill every land with his love and waken every living creature to praise his coming.
I am often given to poetic fancies. I could have wished they had not come upon me at that particular time, however. They cost me several precious seconds.
Bertha rode beside me, silent as a statue. The donkeys had drawn ahead of the weary men. I saw them coming along behind us in a ragged procession. Kevin was among the last stragglers; his fiery hair blazed in the rays of the declining sun. Charlie walked beside him, slowing his steps to those of his limping friend. Rene…
I snatched the reins from Cyrus and brought the poor donkey to a sudden halt. “Where is he?” I cried. “Where is Emerson?”
“He is coming,” Cyrus answered. “Just behind. He and Abdullah stopped to—”
“Abdullah. I don’t see him either. Or your two guards. Or the cat!” The truth, the terrible truth, struck like a bolt of electricity. “Curse you, Cyrus,” I cried. “How dare you? I will never forgive you for this!”
I much regretted having to knock him down, but I would never have got away from him otherwise. He was trying to pull the reins from my hand when my parasol struck his arm away. In avoiding a second blow he tripped over his feet and fell. I dug my heels into the donkey’s side.
I think it was my scream of pain that inspired the donkey to rapid motion; I had forgotten I was wearing only a slipper on the injured foot. Since no one but the donkey could hear me I allowed myself to use a few expressions I had learned from Emerson. They helped to relieve my feelings, but not a great deal.
They had all conspired against me—Cyrus, Abdullah, and of course Emerson. It was small consolation to know that it had taken all three to get the better of me. How long had they been planning this? Since the previous night, at least; the expedition today