The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [69]
“Go, then,” I said. “Close the door after you.”
With one last, flashing look at Emerson, she obeyed.
Then, at last, at last, I could go where I yearned to go. I rushed to his side and knelt beside him. Emotion stifled breath and speech.
He stared blankly at me, a faint frown furrowing his brow. “One female in trousers is confusing enough, but two is a bit much for a man in my condition. If you will excuse me, madam, I believe I will take advantage of my freedom from restraint to… Oh, damnation!”
It was his last word, a bitter acknowledgment of his inability to do as he had planned. He fell to his knees and collapsed face-down onto the floor.
I was too numbed by shock to prevent it. The pistol dropped from my nerveless hand. But I was holding it leveled at the door, and cradling Emerson’s unconscious head in the other arm, when Abdullah’s shout informed me that our saviors had arrived. He burst through the door and stopped short, horror replacing the triumph on his face.
“You weep, Sitt! Allah be merciful—he is not …”
“No, Abdullah, no. It is worse than that! Oh, Abdullah—he does not know me!”
CHAPTER 7
“Marriage should be a balanced stalemate between equal adversaries.”
OF course I did not mean what I said to Abdullah. There may be conditions worse than death, but there are few, if any, as irreversible. Gladly would I have searched the length and breadth of Egypt for my husband’s dismembered body, as Isis did for Osiris; cheerfully I would have taken up my Orphean lyre and descended into the nethermost pits of Hades to fetch him back—had such deeds been possible. Unfortunately they were not; fortunately they were not necessary. There was a light at the end of this Stygian tunnel. So long as he lived, anything was possible. And if a thing is possible, Amelia P. Emerson will tackle the job.
It took a while to sort things out. My first task was to comfort Abdullah; he sat down on the ground and blubbered like a child, with relief and with distress at seeing his hero laid so low. Then he wanted to rush out and kill a few more people, but there were none; our victory had been complete, and since our men had not been concerned with taking prisoners, the survivors of the battle had run or crawled or crept away. Among the fugitives, I was chagrined to learn, was the leader.
“But we will find him,” said Abdullah, grinding his teeth. “I saw him in the fight, before he ran away; it was a bullet from his weapon that wounded Daoud. I will remember him. And Emerson will know …”
He broke off, with a doubtful glance at me. “Yes,” I said firmly. “He will. Now, Abdullah, stop ranting and be sensible. Daoud is not seriously injured, I hope? And your other men?”
Miraculously, none of our defenders had been killed, though several had been wounded. Daoud, who soon joined us, bore his bloody sleeve like a badge of honor and insisted on helping to carry the litter on which Emerson was borne away. I hated to move him, but the alternatives would have been more dangerous; we could not remain there, and the village offered no accommodations in which I would have put a sick dog. Emerson was deeply unconscious and did not stir, not even when the cart Abdullah had commandeered jolted along the path to the riverbank.
It goes without saying that I did not leave his side for an instant. Though I had not brought my medical kit, my expertise (derided though it often had been by Emerson) assured me that his heart beat strong and steady and his breathing, though shallow, showed no evidence of distress. The drugs he had been given were enough to account for his present state, though I had reason to suspect he had been kept short of food and water as well. His injuries were superficial except for the wound on the back of his head. That concerned me most, for it must be connected with his loss of memory.
What I had taken to be a clever ruse to avoid questioning was the terrible truth. He had not been delirious or off his head; his remarks had been rational,