Guardian of the Horizon (8 page)

Ramses wondered too. Their carefully crafted plot was beginning to leak like a sieve, and Merasen was the one poking holes in it. He had searched Merasen's suitcase, over the latter's furious objections, and had found several items which, according to Merasen, had also been retrieved from the slavers, including the scabbard for Merasen's sword--an object even more remarkable than the sword itself, with inlaid gold foil over thin strips of wood. He didn't doubt the proprietor of the hotel had also searched the boy's luggage, and he hated to think what the fellow had made of that little item, and how many people he had told of it. Ramses wasn't surprised that Merasen should boast of his acquaintance with the famed and feared Father of Curses, despite the fact that Emerson had emphatically ordered him not to do so, except in a dire emergency. But it was theone thing they had hoped to avoid--their connection with a mysterious youth from an unknown place. There had been no emergency, just Merasen being his normal, boastful self. The fact was that he didn't like Merasen much, and not only because he had got tired of being jumped on. He knew the real reason for his antipathy: Nefret. She and Merasen had spent a lot of time alone together, conversing in the language that she spoke with increasing fluency. Ramses hadn't been invited to join them. From the first, Merasen's behavior toward her had a quality that set Ramses's teeth on edge, though he would have been hard-pressed to define it. Deferential, verging on gallant at times, friendly verging on familiar at others . . . He wondered if he would ever get over being jealous of every man she talked to. Emerson and he took Merasen (and the suitcase) to the station next day and put him on the train to Aswan with his ticket in his hand and his ears ringing with Emerson's instructions. Emerson was no fool; he too had had his doubts about the purported theft of Merasen's money. "You have more than enough to get you to Wadi Haifa in comfort," he said sternly. "Go to the house of my friend Sheikh Nur ed Din and await us there. If you fail me in this, Merasen . . ." "I will not fail you, Father of Curses, I swear!" Merasen had got over his fit of pique and was his smiling, self-confident self. He was wearing European clothes and a tarboosh, and might have been a young clerk or minor official--if one didn't look closely at him. He patted his flat belly. "I have the money belt. If they wish to rob me they will have to take it from my dead hand!" "Very well, very well," said Emerson. "Maasalemeh. A good journey." Merasen turned to Ramses and held out his hand. "It is the English custom, yes? To show goodwill. To show you have no ... what are the words?" "Hard feelings?" Ramses shook his hand. It would have been rude not to, though his feelings were far from soft. "Good luck, Merasen." They stood in silence, waiting, until the train left. "Almost teatime," said Emerson, consulting his watch. "Let us go, eh?" "Go on without me, Father. I have an errand." "Ah," said Emerson. His heavy brows drew together. "I trust you are not planning anything foolish." "Not at all, sir. I'll be back in time for dinner." His "errand" took him to the Gezira Sporting Club. His father refused to go near the place, since it was an aggressively British institution in the heart of Cairo, complete with golf course, tennis courts, and beautifully landscaped grounds. Ramses maintained his membership at the Gezira and the even more exclusive Turf Club for purely practical reasons; the foreign community, especially the male half of it, frequented both, and they were good places to pick up the sort of gossip his mother probably wouldn't hear from her lady friends. The Gezira admitted some foreigners, including "upper-class" Egyptians, and Ramses knew that when his unquestionably upper-class friend was in Cairo, he generally played golf or tennis at the club before taking tea there--habits he had acquired when he was up at Oxford. He wasn't on the terrace when Ramses arrived, so Ramses settled himself at a table and surveyed his surroundings. He might have been at an English country house, for the lawn was emerald green and the flower beds were bright with the flowers his mother grew in England--roses and zinnias, petunias and marigolds. A mixed group was playing croquet, the men stripped daringly to shirtsleeves and braces, the ladies in long white dresses and corseted to within an inch of their lives. Ramses wondered idly how they could walk, much less swing a croquet mallet. There was no doubt about it, the female was a lot tougher than the male. Girlish shrieks of laughter arose; apparently some women had to giggle over every stroke, successful or missed. Nefret's laughter was low-pitched and full-throated, and when she missed a stroke or a target, she didn't laugh; she swore. Finally he saw Feisal coming toward the terrace. Strictly speaking, he was entitled to be called Prince Feisal, since his father was Sheikh Bahsoor, the honored and influential leader of an important Bedouin tribe, and an old friend of Emerson's. Emerson's "old friends" had become something of a joke in thefamily; they were scattered up and down the Nile, from Cairo to Khartoum, and after meeting some of the more disreputable of them Ramses had wondered about the kind of life his father had led during his bachelor years. Emerson didn't talk much about it--at least not to his wife and son. Feisal was a handsome, hawk-faced young man, and his clothes had obviously come from Bond Street. He carried a tennis racket, and he hailed Ramses with genuine pleasure. "I heard you were back," he remarked. "How are your distinguished father, and your honored mother, and your beautiful sister?" They finished the formal exchange of compliments and queries and ordered tea. Ramses wouldn't have minded something stronger, but Feisal was as well known for his piety as for his athletic prowess. He was the unofficial tennis champion of the club and a first-rate shot. "So it's the Sudan, is it?" Feisal inquired. "Why there? I thought you were all settled at Thebes." Ramses shrugged. "My father had a falling-out with Maspero." "And he's punishing the rest of you by dragging you off to Meroe? Or are you looking for Zerzura?" Ramses managed to conceal his surprise. "It's a myth," he said negligently. "The white city where the king and queen sit sleeping on their thrones, and the key to boundless treasure is in the beak of a carved bird. I thought you'd have abandoned that fantasy by now." "The fabled city of the little bird is a fairy tale, no doubt." Feisal's long, aristocratic fingers stroked the side of his cup. "But there is an unknown oasis out there, Ramses; Wilkinson mentions it, and Gerhard Rolfe got as far as the edge of the Great Sand Sea before he had to retreat to Siwa, and--" He broke off, smiling. "Did I bore you senseless talking about it last time we met?" "Idee fixe does come to mind," said Ramses, returning his smile. "Perhaps. But I'll find it one day, Ramses, wait and see. If it weren't for my father, I'd start out tomorrow. He'll give me permission one day, so don't you go finding it first." "Wouldn't dream of it. Whatever gave you the idea we were planning such a thing?" "Him." Feisal indicated a man sitting alone at a nearby table. He was bareheaded, his hair and beard grizzled, his face brown as a nut and seamed with scars. "Newbold. Calls himself Hunter Newbold. D'you know him?" "Slightly." "You don't like him?" "Not much." The man's wandering gaze met that of Ramses's. His lips drew back in what was probably intended to be a friendly smile, and he rose and came toward them, limping a little. He was of short stature, but powerfully built, with arms so disproportionately long they looked like a gorilla's. "Mind if I join you gentlemen?" he asked. He seated himself without waiting for a reply, leaned back in his chair, and hoisted his glass. He wasn't drinking tea. "Good to be back in civilization," he declared. "How many elephants did you slaughter this time?" Ramses inquired. Newbold let out a hearty guffaw. "A few. Why not, there are plenty of the brutes and the ladies will have their ivory combs and hairbrushes." Peaceful, herbivorous brutes, who didn't attack unless they or their young were threatened. Unlike human beings. Newbold was the type of Great White Hunter Ramses particularly despised; the man was in demand because he always found impressive game for the parties he led into the interior, but there were a number of unsavory stories about him--rumors that he abandoned his bearers when they became ill or too weak to travel, tales of wounded animals left to die slowly and painfully when pursuit was dangerous-- and worse. It was said that not all the ivory he brought back came from beasts he had killed. The previous owners had been handed over to the slavers who still operated in remote regions. Like everyone else in Cairo, Newbold knew Ramses's views about hunting. His smile was derisive. He drained his glass and snapped his fingers to summon a waiter. "Join me in a whiskey, Mr. Emerson? And you, Your Highness--what will you have? Lemonade?" Feisal nodded his thanks. "So you didn't find King Solomon's diamond mines? This," he added, glancing at Ramses, "is another man with an idee fixe." "Africa is full of them," Ramses said. "Laugh all you want," Newbold grunted. "Africa is also full of unexplored territory, and some of the legends must have a basis in fact. Maybe I've been looking in the wrong area. Been thinking of transferring to the Sudan." "There are no diamonds there," Ramses said. "But there's other things." Newbold ordered a third drink--or maybe it was his fourth or fifth. The whiskey had begun to affect him. His eyes glittered and his face was flushed. "When I was in Wadi Haifa I heard an interesting story about a native boy who came out of the Western Desert carrying bars of gold. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you? I hear you and your notorious family are heading for the Sudan." "We are planning to excavate," Ramses said, trying to hold on to his temper. Newbold laughed offensively. "Like the last time you were there. Where'd you find the girl, in some rich sheikh's harem? She must have cost you a pretty penny." Ramses's chair fell over as he rose. Several people turned to stare, and Feisal put a restraining hand on his arm. "He's drunk, Ramses. Newbold, you damned fool, watch your mouth." Newbold wasn't that drunk. He studied Ramses with cool calculation. "You wouldn't hit a crippled old hunter who is more than twice your age, would you, boy? Not even when he offends your outdated notions of chivalry toward women? A knight in shining armor, eh?" Ramses shook off Feisal's hand, and Newbold got unsteadily to his feet. "All right, I apologize. See you in the Sudan." "Stay out of his way," Feisal advised, as Newbold wove an erratic path toward the door of the clubhouse. The limp was new. Ramses hoped it was an elephant that had gored him. "Can you imagine telling my father to stay out of the way of a miserable swine like that?" He had got the information he wanted--or rather, the information he had hoped not to get. His notorious father wasn't going to be happy about it, and neither was his equally notorious mother.

"Dear me," I said. "How disconcerting. I suppose we ought to have anticipated--" "I certainly did not." Emerson chewed fiercely on the stem of his pipe. We had been enjoying a little preprandial libation in the saloon when Ramses came in. "Didn't you ask the swine from whom he heard about Merasen?" "Everybody knows he has dealings with slavers," Ramses said. "I assumed . . . You're right, Father, I ought to have pursued the matter. I lost my temper." "You?" Nefret inquired in exaggerated surprise. "What on earth did he say to bring about that astonishing result?" "Something about you, perhaps," I said. "You had better tell us, Ramses." "The point is not his precise words but what they implied," said Ramses. "Merasen and his bloody--excuse me, Mother--his gold, coupled with our declared intention of returning to the Sudan, has reminded people of our last trip to that region and its result. Mother's ingenious story about finding Nefret with a group of kindly missionaries didn't prevent evil-minded persons from gossiping." "No," I agreed, remembering some of the gossip that had reached my ears. It had run the gamut of bad taste, from speculation about Nefret's parentage to prurient hints of harems and white slavery. "But at least no one postulated an unknown country of vast treasure." "That isn't precisely true, Mother," said Ramses, who seemed determined to look on the dark side. "The people who knew Willy Forth had heard of his dream of finding a lost civilization, and before Reggie Forthright set off in search of his missing uncle, he confided in half the officers at Sanam Abu Dom." "He also babbled to Budge," I said, remembering with dismay a conversation I had had with that gentleman and several of the officers all those years ago. "I do hope you and young Ramses are not going with the Professor when he sets off in search of the Lost Oasis," Budge had said with a hypocritical look of concern. He had meant it as a joke--a jeer, rather, intended to make Emerson look foolish. But Budge was no fool, however much Emerson might deride his scholarship. Having seen Merasen, was he clever enough to put the pieces together? A dismal silence ensued. The boat rocked gently at anchor. The sunset colors had died and the stars had come out--though we had to take them on faith, owing to the mixture of mist and smoke that hung over the city like a dark blanket. "Very well," I said, giving myself a little mental shake--for I had been about to give way to unpleasant forebodings. "Let us consider the worst possible scenario. Who else might harbor suspicions about our real purpose?" "Aside from Selim?" Ramses inquired. "He saw the damned-- excuse me, Mother--the sword. Merasen's landlord probably searched his luggage, which contained several interesting items in addition to the sword. The slavers had seen the gold, and unless they managed to hide it before they were caught, the soldiers saw it too." Emerson let out a heartfelt swear word. "What about Prince Feisal?" "He wouldn't interfere with us. But he's in communication with other would-be explorers, and you can be sure our movements are of interest to many of that lot." "Good Gad," said Nefret in alarm. "Explorers, Egyptologists, slavers, the military . . . Uncle Walter and Aunt Evelyn, of course, and heaven only knows how many random gossips in the antiquities game in Cairo . . . What are we going to do?" Emerson sucked reflectively on his pipe. It had gone out. He made a face and knocked the ashes out into a receptacle. "Our best hope now is to move fast enough to stay ahead of possible followers. The only alternative would be to squat round the pyramids of Meroe digging innocently and industriously until they give up." "We can't do that," Nefret exclaimed. "We've lost enough time already." "I suppose now we will actually have to go to Meroe, in order to throw people off the track," I said with a sigh. "That will mean further delay, transporting ourselves and our gear back north to Napata." "Don't worry about that," said Emerson. "I have it all worked out." Ramses's eyebrows shot up. "I hope, Father, you don't intend to strike out into the desert from Meroe? Last time we left from Gebel Barkal, and the route given by the map starts there. Calculating a new route--" "I have it all worked out," Emerson repeated. "Leave it to me." "Oh dear," I murmured. "Your lack of confidence cuts me to the quick, Peabody," said Emerson. "How soon can we be ready to leave Cairo?" "If the rest of you will condescend to help me supervise the packing, two, possibly three more days." "Certainly, certainly," said Emerson. "Ha," I said. "Do we take Selim and Daoud with us? And what about the Amelia?" "We cannot elude Selim," said Ramses. "Any effort to do so would only increase his determination to follow us. Supposing we send him and Daoud off to Luxor tomorrow, with instructions to gather a few of our men and proceed at once to Aswan. We will stick to the story about the interesting ruins west of Meroe until it is no longer possible to conceal our real purpose." "You mean to go straight through to Aswan, then, without stopping in Luxor?" Emerson asked. "Are you asking me, sir?" Ramses's dark brows tilted up in surprise. "You seem to have been more on top of this business than the rest of us," Emerson said. "Perhaps I have a more suspicious nature than the rest of you." One of Ramses's rare smiles warmed his thin face. "More suspicious than your mother's? Give her a whiskey, Ramses, she appears to have fallen into a stupor." "What?" I said with a start. "No, thank you, Ramses, it is time for dinner." I had been in a kind of stupor, induced by sheer consternation. For as we discussed the persons who might know of the Lost Oasis, a name blazoned itself on my brain in letters of fire. Walter and Evelyn had known--and so had one other individual. I had told him of it myself. To do myself justice, I had not been aware of his true identity at the time, for his masquerade, as one of my old friends, had been perfect. We had first encountered him when he tried to steal the Dahshur treasure out from under our noses, and over the years he had become our most dangerous opponent. He was one of the cleverest men I had ever met, well informed about the antiquities that he specialized in stealing, a master of disguise and a criminal of the deepest dye . . . Sethos, the Master Criminal. Rallying, I directed Mahmud to serve dinner. There was no point in mentioning our old nemesis to Emerson, who resented Sethos all the more because of the latter's professed attachment to me. No, there was no need. I had learned how to identify him now, and if he had the audacity to show his face--one of his many faces--I would know him and expose him. We got Selim and Daoud off to Luxor and made arrangements to have the Amelia follow at her own pace. It took longer than I had hoped to gather our supplies, even with Emerson threatening the merchants. I hadn't had to equip an expedition of this nature for a long time. Everything from mosquito netting to tinned biscuits had to be purchased in Cairo, since we could not count on finding them south of Aswan, and we had to maintain the pretense that we were bent on archaeological excavation. Cameras and photographic plates, paper and writing supplies, surveying instruments, medicines--the list was endless, and I kept adding to it. Emerson had his own list, and so did Nefret. The delay was maddening, even though prudence would have dictated an even longer delay because of the heat. My sense of urgency had been held at bay hitherto by the impossibility of earlier action, but now that we were closer in space and time to the moment of truth, the more impatient I became. When there is a dangerous or unpleasant task ahead, one (I, at any rate) wants to get it over with. I began to feel as if we were trapped in a web of surmise that spread daily. The merchants with whom we dealt gossiped about us, and it proved impossible to avoid all our old friends, who came round or sent round offering advice. Emerson's reputation for unreasonableness served us well with the latter; they had no difficulty in believing he had settled on the Sudan rather than go hat in hand to M. Maspero. On the day before our departure we were in receipt of a telegram from Sir Reginald Wingate, the governor general of the Sudan, inviting us, in the most courteous terms, to call on him in Khartoum. "The devil," said Emerson. "Does he expect us to go four hundred miles out of our way to pay him a social visit?" "He expects us to inform the Sudanese government concerning our plans," Ramses replied. "As other expeditions have done. Win-gate has always been interested in Egyptology, and he runs a tight ship." "Tight, bah," said Emerson. "He let--no, he encouraged!-- Budge to rip the pyramids of Meroe apart. Breasted told me some of them had been leveled to the ground and others had huge holes dug through." He crumpled the telegram in his hand and threw it on the floor. So much for Sir Reginald, I thought, wondering if we would have his people after us too. Despite the improvements in transport and communication, travel in the Sudan was still slow and complicated. Between Aswan and Khartoum, the swift flow of the Nile is interrupted by six cataract regions, where navigation is perilous if not actually impossible. From Wadi Haifa, at the foot of the Second Cataract, a railway track ran across the desert to Abu Hamed and thence along the river to Khartoum, but there was still no railway line in the two hundred miles between Aswan and Wadi Haifa. To fill this gap, the government ran a regular service of paddle wheelers from Shellal, the terminus of the Cairo-Aswan line. It was at Shellal, a few miles south of Aswan, that Emerson had instructed Selim to meet us; and I was not surprised to find him and the others waiting on the platform when the train pulled in. They crowded round, embracing and greeting us, and it was good to see their friendly faces. Selim had selected the best of our men, and the best was very good indeed. There were three of them--Ali, who was in his early twenties, Ibrahim, still strong and stalwart at forty, and Hassan, Selim's cousin. Selim had wanted to bring more, but Emerson had refused. The fewer lives at risk, the better. The village of Shellal has few amenities, since travelers do not linger there; either they are boarding trains to the north or boats to the south, or they are making an excursion to the temples of Philae-- now, alas, under water most of the year. Selim and our fellows had found lodgings which they were very pleased to leave, since they did not measure up to the standards of cleanliness to which they were accustomed. I had a feeling they would not approve of the boat either. The government steamers are comfortable and well maintained; but Emerson, being Emerson, rejected them in favor of a dilapidated boat owned by a friend of his. The stern-wheel looked as if it was about to fall off, and the reis, whose name was Farah, was so cross-eyed that both eyes appeared to be staring straight at the end of his nose. When I expostulated, Emerson reminded me that we meant to have as little as possible to do with the government. "He has you there, Aunt Amelia," said Nefret, as Emerson went off with Farah and Daoud to direct the loading of our baggage. She took off her broad-brimmed hat and fanned away a swarm of gnats. "Don't worry, I brought quantities of insecticides and disinfectants. Shall we go on board?" "Not until we have to," I said with a slight shudder. "So, Selim, what do you think of Aswan?" "An ugly place," said Selim promptly. "Not like Luxor." "That is pure parochialism," I retorted. Selim, who did not know the word, widened his eyes at me. "It is a pretty town, with many points of interest." "The dam is interesting," Selim conceded. "I talked to one ofthe engineers, who told me how the sluices work. They are all open now, because the river began to rise in July, but they will be closed, one at a time, until winter." His cultivated air of superiority had been replaced by the enthusiasm he displayed toward mechanical and engineering subjects, and I knew he would go on and on about the cursed dam unless I stopped him. "Who was this person?" "Moncrieff," said Selim. "He was a friend of Emerson's, and he said he hoped he would see you all when you were in Aswan. How long will we stay here?" "Emerson means to get off at once," I said, mentally adding another group of curious persons to the list. Moncrieff was a pleasant fellow and a dreadful gossip. "We may as well inspect our quarters and start cleaning them. Selim--" "I must help the men load," said Selim, retreating in haste. I suppose it is difficult to keep a dock neat and tidy. This one looked as if no one had even tried. Nefret and I picked our way through rusting tools and coils of rope, puddles of oil that shone greasily in the sunlight, and other objects I will not mention, to a shady spot beside one of the loading sheds. There was a good deal of bustle. Not only our men, but porters carrying cargo and several individuals in European clothing who appeared to be passengers. Either they were in too much of a hurry to wait for the government steamer, or they had bargained with Farah for a lower fare.