Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [16]
“Turn it off,” he repeated. “Here is light enough.”
He struck a match and lit a lamp—an earthenware bowl filled with oil with a floating wick. Carrying it, he came out from behind the counter, staying at a safe distance, and motioned them to one side.
“Now?” Ramses inquired in English.
“We may as well find out what this is all about. No sense in starting a row if we don’t have to.” Backing away, Emerson went on in Arabic. “Is it money you want?”
The leader spat on the floor. “We have been paid. We want information. No harm will come to you if you tell us.”
The fellow wasn’t a good strategist, Ramses thought. He and his father were in a better position with their backs against the wall—or rather, against the motley collection of goods that hung from hooks or filled various sacks. The six confronted them in a rough semicircle. No sign of a firearm, but all six had knives.
“How do I know I can trust you not to harm us?” Emerson asked. His voice quavered a little.
Ramses smiled to himself. The man must be a fool if he believed the Father of Curses could be so easily intimidated.
He wasn’t a fool, nor were the others. They stood their ground and the leader’s voice hardened.
“Do not play games with me. Where is he?”
“Who?” Emerson inquired curiously.
“You know! Speak or my knife will drink your heart’s blood.”
“Now that is nonsense,” Emerson declared. “What good would that do you?”
The leader’s laugh was probably meant to sound sinister. “He would come to avenge you, and then he would be at my mercy.”
Emerson let out a snort of amusement. Feet apart, hands in his pockets, he seemed perfectly at ease. “You sound like my wife. I might consider an exchange of information. Who paid you to lure us here?”
One of the men plucked urgently at the sleeve of the leader. Ramses, whose hearing was excellent, understood a few words of the whispered comment. “He will not…fool’s errand.”
The other henchmen shared his doubts. They began backing away. They were all now between the Emersons and the door.
“One last chance,” the leader said. “Will you speak?”
“Certainly not,” said Emerson, tiring of the game. He took his hands out of his pockets. They were empty—but nonetheless lethal for that, as all men in Egypt knew. Ramses drew his knife, prepared to get between his father and the leader; before he could move, the man flung the lamp onto the floor. The pottery shell smashed, spraying oil. Flames leaped up, feeding on the spilled oil and the scraps of paper and other debris. Their assailants piled out the door, yelling in alarm. The leader was the last to go.
“Burn then!” he shouted, melodramatic to the last. “If you change your mind, call out and we will free you.”
The door slammed.
CHAPTER TWO
FROM MANUSCRIPT H (CONTINUED)
RAMSES JUMPED BACK AWAY FROM THE FLAMES LICKING AT HIS FEET. The fire was between them and the door. He didn’t doubt it was locked or barred in some way and he didn’t believe for a moment that their attackers would hang about long enough to reply to a call for help.
“Shall we go?” he asked.
“Hmph,” said Emerson. His face was a devilish mask of black shadow and flickering red light. “Can’t let the place burn, can we? Your mother would not approve of such irresponsible behavior.”
As he spoke he picked up one of the half-filled sacks and upended its contents onto the fire. Ramses opened his mouth to protest, and then realized that—of course—Emerson had selected the one substance available that would smother the fire without feeding it. Salt.
A cloud of acrid-smelling smoke arose. A few last flickering flames awoke crystalline sparkles in the white heap. Coughing and swearing, Emerson stamped out the flames, leaving the room in darkness except for the beam of Ramses’s torch.
“We must make certain the shopkeeper and his family haven’t been harmed,