Guardian of the Horizon (7 page)

her hat to one side, frowned, and tipped it to the other side. "We don't really need him." Ramses was sprawled on the sofa. "We have the map. Maps, rather. It was a good idea of yours, Mother, that each of us should carry a copy." "Good heavens, you aren't proposing we abandon Merasen, are you?" Nefret demanded. "He may be ill--injured--lost." "He can't find his way back without us," Emerson said, his brow furrowing. "Striking the Nile without a map is one thing; finding a single isolated spot in the middle of the desert . . ." "He will turn up," I said firmly. "A message might easily have been mislaid. If we do not hear from him by the time we reach Haifa, I will--er--take steps." In fact I was at something of a loss as to how to proceed without involving the police or Emerson's network of Egyptian gossips. Nefret turned from the mirror. "Ramses, if you are coming with me, kindly assume proper attire. I want to make a good impression." "You are impressive enough already; you don't need me decked out in a stiff collar and tie," Ramses retorted. "Please?" She knelt by him and looked up into his face, dimpling and fluttering her lashes. "Practicing, are you?" Ramses inquired. "Oh, all right. Be back in a minute." When he returned he was wearing a new tweed suit I had forced him to purchase in England, a collar that reached clear to his chin, and a nice straw boater. "Will this do?" he inquired. Nefret studied the effect. Her lips twitched. "You look absurd." "It's the latest thing," Ramses protested. "I know. It just doesn't suit you, somehow." She removed the hat and ran her hand over his head, smoothing his ruffled black hair. "That's better." "Thank you. Can I leave off the collar? It's choking me." Nefret shook her head, laughing. "I appreciate the effort, dear. What you do suffer for me!" "You haven't the least idea," said Ramses.

"The lady doesn't dwell in a very elegant neighborhood," Ramses remarked, as Nefret led him deeper into the old city. "She can't afford better," Nefret said. "It's perfectly respectable. I don't see why you and Selim insisted on coming with me." She glanced over her shoulder at Selim. The lane was too narrow for all three to walk abreast, especially with donkeys and camels contesting the right of way. Ramses had to admit she was right, though. Unlike the infamous Red Blind districts, this part of Cairo was safe enough; it was just poor and overcrowded and dirty. Every foot of ground was built upon, the old buildings rising two or three stories high and nudging one another on both sides. There was no place to bury trash and no one to carry it off, so it was simply left to lie until an occasional rain washed the worst of it away. Piles of donkey and camel dung added their pungent odors to the sour-sweet smell of rotting fruit. Skirts raised, Nefret picked a path through the mess, and since she had declined to take his arm he fell a little behind so he could stare at her--her walk, the tilt of herhead, the knot of golden hair at the nape of her neck--without making her self-conscious. David believed he had changed his mind about avoiding Nefret. Avoidance had been a selfish and cowardly way out of a situation that was no one's fault; he had always known this, so when he told David he had decided to stick it out, cultivate patience, and enjoy the friendship that meant so much without demanding more, he had been partially sincere. The series of noble-sounding cliches had gone over well with David, innocent that he was, and they had succeeded in convincing him that Ramses was not making a sacrifice on his account. He couldn't have said what warned him--a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, a fleeting impression of a face. He gave Nefret a hard shove and twisted aside, not quite in time to avoid a stinging slash across the arm he had raised to protect his face. Turning in the same movement, he saw the boy crouched, facing him, white teeth bared. The weapon he held had a wicked shine, and it was considerably longer than a typical Arab knife. Pedestrians backed off, leaving a clear space for the combatants. Selim forced his way past a donkey loaded with pots and reached Nefret, who had been flung with considerable force against a shop front. She had breath enough left to swear, though. "Don't get in his way," Selim warned, catching hold of her. Merasen's smile broadened. "I give you time to take out your knife." "I don't need a knife," Ramses said in exasperation. A hard kick sent the weapon flying out of Merasen's hand. It squelched onto the muck of the roadway and Ramses slammed his foot down on it. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded. Merasen cradled his bruised fingers tenderly in his left hand and looked up at Ramses with reproachful black eyes. "It was only a game. To see if you are as good with a knife as with your hands. I did not mean to cut you. It was an accident!" Nefret pushed Selim away. "Are you hurt, Ramses?" "The greatest damage is to my expensive new coat," Ramses said sourly. "Mother will have a few words to say about that." Nefret took his word for it; there wasn't much blood visible against the brown tweed of his sleeve. Ramses caught Merasen by the neck of his galabeeyah and hauled him to his feet. "My finger is broken," Merasen complained, extending a rigid digit. "Try that again, my fine young friend, and I'll break all ten of them," Ramses said. "I am sorry," Merasen said earnestly. "It was only a--" "Game be damned," Nefret snapped. "Let me see your finger . . . It's not broken, only bruised. I want you to go straightaway to the dahabeeyah and report yourself to the Father of Curses. Can I trust you to do that?" "Oh, yes." Merasen's smile was seraphic. "Not on your life," Ramses said, tightening his grip. "I will deliver you personally, my lad. Nefret, do you go on with Selim." Selim had retrieved Merasen's weapon, just in time to prevent a hopeful scavenger from making off with it. It would have fetched a fair price; the blade shone steely gray, and the hilt was decorated with strips of gold. Merasen made a grab for it. Ramses knocked his arm down. "Goddamn it," he said. "How long have you been carrying that around with you? If it fell into the wrong hands . . ." He feared it already had. Selim had wiped the blade clean and was examining it curiously. "I have never seen one like it, Ramses. Too long for a knife, too short for a sword, and too richly decorated. Who is this man and where does he come from?" "I'll introduce you properly at a later time," Ramses said. "Go with Nefret." "Perhaps we should help you take Merasen to the dahabeeyah," Nefret said uncertainly. "Doctor Sophia is expecting you. I assure you, Nefret, I can manage him all by my little self. Merasen, I'll break your arm if you give me any trouble." Merasen made no attempt to wrench away from Ramses's grip. He was as cheerful and unrepentant as a little boy who has smacked someone with a snowball. Maybe rough-and-tumble wrestling wasa custom of the Holy Mountain I missed, Ramses thought. But in most of the cultures with which he was familiar, you didn't attack without warning and with a sharp blade unless you meant to damage the other fellow. He had directed Selim to take charge of the sword-knife and keep it out of sight, a galabeeyah being more appropriate for such concealment than European trousers. "Be careful you don't slash your leg," he had added, and Nefret had said, laughing, "Or something else. I'll rig up some sort of scabbard for it when we're at Doctor Sophia's, Selim." She had inspected Merasen's finger but she hadn't even bothered to look at Ramses's arm. What did you expect, Ramses asked himself--that she would rush to you, all aquiver at the sight of your blood? The answer was no--not Nefret--it wasn't the first time-- but she might have been a little less nonchalant and a little harder on Merasen. "Where have you been staying?" he asked, cutting into a vivacious description of Merasen's opinion of Cairo (too big, very dirty, and the women all hiding behind veils). "We may as well collect your luggage before we go on." Ramses knew the place; it was one of the better-quality lodging houses for "natives." Merasen swaggered off to get his suitcase and the proprietor greeted Ramses obsequiously but without surprise. "He said you would come--you or the Father of Curses," he explained. "Did he indeed?" "He said the Father of Curses would pay." Merasen came back carrying a heavy case which Emerson must have bought for him in London. His unrepentant smile made Ramses want to shout at him, but this was not the time nor the place to ask what Merasen had done with the generous funds Emerson had given him. Nor was there any use berating him for the damage he had done with his boasts and his extravagance. It was too late now. THREE

Emerson claimed the boots were too tight. They were certainly tighter than the old pair, which had been battered into shapelessness by several seasons of hard usage. The bootmaker assured him the fit was perfect and I reminded him that new boots are always a trifle stiff, and we had a little discussion. We then proceeded to the umbrella maker (Emerson limping ostentatiously). I always purchase my parasols at the same shop; the manager has become accustomed to my requirements, which were, I admit, somewhat unusual: a heavy steel shaft and a sharpened tip. For all-round utility, nothing beats a good stout parasol. It serves as a sunshade, a walking stick, and if necessary a weapon. Persons bent on mischief do not expect to be struck by a lady with a parasol. This, as I hardly need point out, gives the lady the advantage of surprise. An additional advantage was the superstitious awe with which some Egyptians regarded the implement. Daoud's tales (a few of them true) had woven an aura of magic about the parasol, and in some quarters it was only necessary for me to brandish it in order to cow an adversary. That afternoon the parasol served a more conventional purpose, for the sun was hot. Emerson refused its shade and removed himself to a little distance to avoid being prodded by the spokes, so we were forced to converse in shouts to be heard over the bustle of the street. A good deal of the noise was occasioned by animals. There were afew motorcars in Cairo, but most of the traffic was four-footed-- horses pulling cabs, donkeys pulling carts, camels heavily laden with everything from sacks of grain to packing cases, and complaining bitterly, as is a camel's wont. Choked by dust, and miserably warm in the proper garments I had assumed, I finally furled the parasol and poked Emerson, who had stopped to chat with one of the dirtiest individuals I had ever beheld and who had slung round his neck a tray of the most dubious scarabs I had ever seen. "Let us take a cab, Emerson." "What for?" Emerson demanded. The dirty peddler salaamed and handed me one of the scarabs. It appeared to have been chipped out of a chunk of limestone by a person whose artistic taste was as impaired as his eyesight. I handed it back to him. Emerson, who had removed his coat and lost his hat, studied me more closely. "A bit warm, are you? Why are you wearing those confounded tight-fitting clothes?" "Because I chose to do so." "Ah," said Emerson, recognizing a certain tone in my voice. "In that case. . . ." He handed over a few coins--in exchange for information received, I supposed, since he refused to accept a scarab--bade the peddler an effusive farewell, and hailed a cab. "What did your unwashed friend have to say that was so interesting?" I asked. Emerson pushed the parasol out of his way and settled himself on the seat next to me. "He asked why we were going to the Sudan instead of remaining in a civilized country." "Good Gad, does every beggar in Cairo know?" "We made no secret of that part of our plan," Emerson reminded me. "Even if we had, the supplies we've been collecting would tell the tale. Especially the money. One doesn't carry that amount of coinage about unless one is going into a remote region." He hesitated for a moment. "However, he also inquired whether we were looking for gold." "Oh dear," I said in dismay. "I don't like that at all, Emerson. What put such a notion into his head?" Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin. "People. 'People are saying.' The usual sort of vague speculation. It may not mean anything, Peabody. 'People' have lurid imaginations, especially where we are concerned. Archaeologists have always been suspect, my dear. It is difficult for 'people' to understand why they waste time looking for broken scraps instead of treasure." Upon reaching the Amelia I would have hastened to change had not Mahmud the steward intercepted us and informed us that Ramses requested that we join him in the saloon immediately. "He's back already, is he?" Emerson inquired. "Is Nur Misur with him?" ("Light of Egypt" was Nefret's beautiful Arabic name.) "No, Father of Curses." Mahmud rolled his eyes. "But someone else is." Two others were, in fact. Daoud had dropped by; he had become fond of the English custom of tea and appreciated Fatima's sandwiches and biscuits. In his courteous fashion he was attempting to carry on a conversation with Merasen, while Ramses watched them both in silence. Emerson let out an exclamation of surprise and relief when he saw Merasen. The boy at once got to his feet and began bowing. Ramses was somewhat slower to rise. "Good afternoon, Mother. Good afternoon--" "Where did you find him?" Emerson demanded. "He did not find me. I found him," said Merasen complacently. Ramses's lips tightened infinitesimally I had observed he was still wearing his coat, which he generally removed as soon as he was in private. The clues were sufficient. "Very well, Ramses," I said. "Take off your coat. I see you have already damaged it. What happened? And where is Nefret?" "Gone on with Selim to her appointment." Ramses shrugged out of the garment. "We--er--ran into Merasen along the way, and I brought him back with me. Sorry about the coat, Mother. Perhaps it can be mended." "Not your shirt, though." The left sleeve was stiff with dried blood. "What happened?" "I did it," Merasen admitted. "I did not mean to. It was only a game. He put his arm in the way." "Careless of me," said Ramses. Daoud's broad brow wrinkled. "We do not use knives here unless we mean to kill," he said severely. "Be careful, boy, or I will show you how we play such games." "It's all right, Daoud," Ramses said. Merasen gave Daoud a hostile stare. The cut was shallow. I cleaned and bandaged it while Ramses gave us a brief account of the encounter. Emerson listened in silence, his gaze moving from one young face to the other. Merasen began to squirm under that keen regard. "It was the wrong thing to do? In the city of the Holy Mountain--" "We don't do that sort of thing here," said Emerson mildly. "Why are you still in Cairo?" "I have no more money, Father of Curses. The ticket for the train costs much money." He gave Emerson a broad, innocent smile. "You had ample funds for the entire journey to Wadi Haifa," said Emerson, in the same quiet voice. "What did you spend it on?" "I did not spend it! I was robbed. Here, in Cairo. There are many thieves here." He was certainly right about that. However, this statement was in the same category as others he had made: reasonable, but not susceptible to proof. Under interrogation he said that he had just recently discovered that we were on the Amelia and had been about to present himself when he saw Ramses and Nefret leave the boat. He followed them--meaning, as he explained earnestly, to give them a little surprise. While he was explaining, Nefret and Selim came in. She acknowledged Merasen's bows with a rather curt nod and Daoud's greeting with a hug, then took the pins from her hat and tossed it onto a chair. "I deduce there was no trouble, or Merasen wouldn't be waving his arms so energetically," she said. "I told Mahmud to serve tea. Ramses, are you all right?" "Flaunting my bandages for the purpose of inspiring sympathy,"said Ramses. "It was my fault, for getting my arm in the way." "Huh," said Selim. Modestly turning his back, he flipped up the skirts of his robe and removed an object which he handed to Emerson. Someone, presumably Nefret, had wound bandages round the blade, but the shape and design of the hilt were familiar to me. As they were to Emerson. "Why didn't you tell me you had this, Merasen?" he inquired. "It was not your affair, Father of Curses," said Merasen, repeating a phrase he had probably heard from me (addressed to Gargery). Emerson ignored this bit of impertinence. "How did it escape the attention of the slavers who robbed you?" "I stole it back before I escaped. It is sacred to me." Mahmud came in with the tea tray, which he placed on the table in front of me. He stared curiously at Merasen. I could understand why. On the surface, Merasen could have passed as an Egyptian; Egypt is a country of mixed races, and Cairo has examples of all of them, from fair-skinned Berbers to the darker tribes of the south. The young man was wearing ordinary Egyptian dress and red leather slippers, but there was something about him . . . Perhaps the word was arrogance. He was a prince in his own land, and although he had undoubtedly met with contempt and ill-treatment since he left it, his self-esteem had not been damaged. He had demonstrated increasing resentment of our questions and implicit criticisms. Rising, he fixed us with a frown. "I will go to my room now," he announced, and stalked out. "My room, in point of fact," remarked Ramses. "The lad has got a bit above himself, hasn't he?" "He reminds me of you," I said, pouring tea. "Good Lord, Mother, I was never that rude!" "No," I conceded. "But there were times when you looked down your nose at me and curled your lip in precisely that fashion. He is young and a stranger in a strange land, and arrogance is sometimes a way of disguising an underlying sense of insecurity." "Don't talk psychology, Peabody," Emerson muttered. "Arrogance is one thing; attacking a friend without warning is--" "A custom of the Holy Mountain," Nefret said. We all looked at her in surprise. She flushed a little. "I'd forgotten. The youngermen used to challenge one another, with daggers and short swords. Rather like a duel, to prove their manhood and test their alertness." "Hmph," said Emerson. "I suppose they also boasted of their scars, like German university students. Damn fools." He stripped off the makeshift sheath and examined the blade. "Steel. They had only iron when we were last there." "A good many things have changed, I expect," I began, and almost swallowed my tongue when I caught the eye of Selim, who was poised on the edge of his chair, holding his cup like an offensive weapon. "Where is there?" he inquired. "Have you told me the truth, Father of Curses?" Daoud let out a rumble of protest. "The Father of Curses does not lie." Emerson might have blustered with Selim but the trusting gaze of Daoud brought a faint blush to his tanned cheeks. "Er," he said. "That is ... Peabody?" He did not want to lie to Daoud. He wanted me to do it. The best I could do was resort to the tale Emerson had told David--that Merasen was the son of a sheikh who ruled a remote village in the southern Sudan. It had passed muster with David, but David had never set eyes on Merasen or on that unusual, distinctive sword. "So it is not to Meroe that you go, but to this . . . village?" Selim persisted. "It must be remote indeed, for never have I seen a weapon like that one. Do all the people of this . . . village attack a friend without warning?" Emerson felt it incumbent on him to say something, and this question he could answer without being guilty of more than a bit of fudging. "No, no," he said heartily. "The sheikh is an old friend and a man of honor." "There will be no danger," said Daoud calmly. "We will be with them, Selim." He and Selim were staying with relatives, since there was no room on the dahabeeyah. After they had taken their leave I reached for a cucumber sandwich, but Daoud had eaten them all. "Curse it," I remarked. "That wretched boy has already causedtrouble. How many other persons, do you suppose, have seen thatbl------blooming sword? We had better send him on his way at once,before someone familiar with the remote villages of the Sudan gets a look at him. I presume he will need to be resupplied with clothing and other necessities; Ramses, can you--" "He doesn't need anything more," Ramses replied. "At my suggestion we stopped by the house where he has been lodging and collected a handsome calfskin suitcase filled with clothes." "I purchased them for him in London," Emerson muttered. "So it wasn't the people with whom he lodged who robbed him. They would have taken the lot and probably knocked him over the head. What sort of place was this lodging house?" Ramses glanced at me. "Respectable enough. They wouldn't have dared rob him. He had announced he was a friend of the Father ofCurses." "And that information will spread too," I said with a sigh. "The sooner we get him on his way, the better. I wonder who else knows about the Emersons' interesting protege?"