Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [27]
Abdullah stroked his beard. “Hmmm. You will soon have a visitor whom you expect and do not wish to see. And Emerson will be proved right when he hoped he would be wrong.”
It was a more informative answer than I usually got, even though it did sound as if Abdullah had been prompted by a spiritualist medium. I took it for granted that the unwanted visitor must be Sethos. The second tidbit could only refer to…
“Aha,” I exclaimed. “So there is a new royal tomb in the Valley of the Kings?”
“I told you there was.”
“You told me there were two.”
“I did,” said Abdullah agreeably.
“Where…Never mind, you won’t tell me, will you? What about the attack on Ramses and Emerson? Are they still in danger from those people?”
“They were never in danger. It was a foolish gesture, made by foolish men.”
“What men?”
“Their names would mean nothing to you. They have gone back whence they came.”
“Who sent them? Will there be others like them?”
“I have told you,” said Abdullah, with exaggerated patience, “that the future is not set in stone. Your actions affect events. The actions of others also do so.”
“Ah,” I said interestedly, “so we do have free will. That subject has been debated by philosophers down the ages.”
“I will not debate it, Sitt.”
“As I expected.” I turned to face him. “Is all well with you, my dear old friend?”
“How could it be otherwise?” His broad chest rose as he drew a deep breath of the fresh morning air. “May it be well with you and those we love till we next meet, Sitt.”
Without farewell he walked away, along the path that led to the Valley. It was always so.
Emerson was at the station when the train pulled into Luxor next morning. I did not see him at first, since he was sitting cross-legged on the platform engaged in animated conversation with several of the porters. Seeing me at the window, he hurried to help me down the steps.
“I came on the chance that you might be on this train,” he explained.
“Chance indeed. I told you I would be. Dust off your trousers, Emerson. Where is your hat?”
Emerson brushed vaguely at the oily stains on his trousers and ignored the question, to which he probably did not know the answer. I had sometimes wondered whether it was his habit of going about bareheaded in the noonday sun that had kept his handsome black hair so thick and untouched by gray, except for two picturesque white streaks at the temples. I knew he didn’t employ any variety of hair coloring, since I would have found it—and I kept my own little bottle well hidden.
Taking my arm, he said, “What luck?”
“Luck had nothing to do with it. Everything worked out as I anticipated.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson.
“What about you?”
Emerson took my valise from the porter and led me toward the carriages that waited for customers. “Carter starts work tomorrow.”
“Good Gad, Emerson, is that all you can think of?”
Evidently it was. He asked no further questions and did not even protest when I said I would wait to make my full report to the assembled group that evening.
Travel by train leaves one dusty and rumpled. After Emerson had gone off to the West Valley I enjoyed a nice long soak in my tub, washed my hair (and applied just a bit of coloring) and assumed comfortable garments. I spent the rest of the day on the veranda putting my notes in order and watching, without appearing to do so, for unfamiliar persons. We were accustomed to seeing the villagers around and about the house, for Fatima and the others of our household staff had kin all over the West Bank, and these individuals were in the habit of dropping in for gossip and a meal. I had no objection to this arrangement, nor to Fatima’s habit of feeding many of the local beggars. Like that of Islam, our faith tells us to share our bounty with those whom (for reasons of His own) the Almighty has not favored. And these individuals often possessed interesting information, which they passed on to Fatima and she passed on to me, thus verifying the undeniable fact that virtue has its rewards.
I had got to know most of the beggars, by sight at least;