The Ape Who Guards the Balance (22 page)

“May I ask you something, Aunt Amelia?”

“Why, certainly, my dear. Is it about Sir Edward? I am glad you want to consult me. I have had a good deal more experience in these matters than you.”

“It is not about Sir Edward. Not exactly. Speaking of experience in such matters—er—you seem to believe he—Sethos—is sufficiently—uh—attached to you that he would not . . . Oh dear. I didn’t mean to offend you, Aunt Amelia.”

“You have not offended me, my dear, but if I understand what you are driving at, and I believe I do, the subject is not one I care to discuss.”

“It is not idle curiosity that prompts me to introduce it.”

“No?”

Nefret’s slender throat contracted as she swallowed.

“Enough of that,” I said in a kindly manner. “Goodness, how dark it has become, and the boys not back. I wonder if they decided to spend the night on the dahabeeyah.”

“They would have told me if they had,” Nefret said. “Damnation! I knew I ought to have gone with them!”

          
(xi)
    
From Manuscript H

The mummy wrappings fitted close around his body, muffling his mouth, blinding his eyes, binding his arms and legs. They had buried him alive, like the miserable man whose mummy his parents had discovered at Drah Abu’l Naga. Someday another archaeologist would find him, his body brown and shriveled, his mouth open in a silent scream of terror, and . . .

He came awake in a desperate spasm that tore at every muscle in his body. It was still dark and he was as incapable of movement as any mummy, but the cloth covered only his mouth. He could breathe. Concentrating on that essential activity, he forced himself to lie still while he drew air in through his nostrils and tried to remember what had happened.

They had been copying the reliefs in one of the side chambers off the hypostyle hall and were about to stop for the day when they heard the thin, high wailing. It was impossible to tell whether it came from a human or another kind of animal, but the creature was obviously young and obviously in distress. Scrambling over fallen blocks and along shadowy aisles, they followed the pitiful, intermittent cries back into the sanctuary, where shadows lay like pools of dark water . . . Then nothing. His head ached, but so did every other part of his body. How long had he been unconscious? It must be night now; if the sun were still shining he ought to see streaks of light from windows or door, even if they were shuttered.

With considerable effort he rolled over onto his side. No wonder he had dreamed of mummy wrappings; they had been extravagant with the rope. His hands were tied behind him and his arms were bound to his sides; the other end of the rope round his ankles must be fastened to some object he couldn’t see, since he was unable to move his legs more than a few inches in any direction. Flattering, in a way, he supposed. His father’s reputation must have rubbed off onto him. Not even the mighty Father of Curses could burst these bonds. There was nothing for it but to wait until someone came. He didn’t doubt that someone would eventually. They hadn’t gone to all this trouble in order to leave him to die of hunger and exhaustion.

But the idea brought him dangerously close to panicking, and he forced himself to lie still and breathe steadily. The gag rasped his lips. There was no saliva left on it or in his mouth, which felt as if it were filled with sand.

The air was close and hot and the smell . . . Every culture has its own distinctive collections of odors, varying with social class and personal idiosyncrasies, but easily distinguished by someone who has made a study of them. Cooking odors were particularly distinctive. Even with his eyes closed he could tell whether he was in an English manor house or a cottage kitchen, an Egyptian coffeehouse or a German bierstube. This room wasn’t a kitchen, but it was a room, not a cave or a storage shed. It held the indefinable but unmistakable smell of Egypt, but at one time it had been occupied by someone with European taste—expensive taste, at that. He couldn’t name the perfume, but he had encountered it before.

The surface on which he lay was softer than a floor, even one covered by a rug or matting. It gave slightly when he moved and made a faint rustling sound. A bed, then, or at least some kind of mattress.

He lay quiet and held his breath, listening. There were other sounds, some faint and far off and undistinguishable, some small and near at hand. A mouse, reassured by his stillness, ventured out on little clawed feet and began to gnaw on something. Insects whined and buzzed. The sound he had half-hoped, half-feared to hear, that of another pair of straining human lungs, was not audible. Had they carried David off too, or had they left him dead or wounded on the floor of the temple?

Since there was nothing else he could do, he willed himself to sleep. He hadn’t supposed the meditation techniques taught him by the old fakir in Cairo would work under these conditions; but his eyelids were drooping when a new sound brought him to full wakefulness. There was a line of light in front of him, lower down, at what must be floor level. It widened into a rectangle.

She slipped quickly into the room and closed the door. The lamp she carried was dim and flickering, just a strip of rag floating in oil, but after the darkness it half blinded him. She put the lamp on a table and sat down on the bed next to him. She wore red roses in her hair this time, and silver shone at her wrists.

“I brought you water,” she said softly. “But you must give me your word you will not call out if I remove the gag. You would not be heard outside these walls, but I would be punished if they knew I had come here.”

She waited for his nod before she slit the cloth with a knife she took from her sash. The relief was enormous, but his throat was so dry he could not speak until after she had raised his head and dribbled water from a clay cup between his lips.

“Thank you,” he gasped.

“Always the proper English manners!” Her full mouth curved in a sardonic smile. She held the cup to his lips again and then lowered his head onto the mattress.

“You can’t replace the gag now that you’ve cut it,” he said softly. “Will they blame you? I don’t want—”

Her ringed hand left a smarting path across his face. He shook his head dizzily.

“Sorry. Was I talking too . . .”

“Don’t do that! ” She bent over him and imprisoned his face between her hands. It was not a caress; her fingertips dug into his aching temples. “Don’t care about me. Why were you fool enough to let them catch you? I tried to warn you.”

“You did?”

She let go of his head and raised her hand. He braced himself for another slap. Instead she ran the tip of one finger slowly across his lips. “Do you know what brought me here?” she asked.

Several possibilities occurred to him, but it would not have been politic to mention any of them. He said, choosing his words with care, “The tenderness of your heart, lady.”

She let out a little sound that might have been a muffled laugh. “That reason will serve as well as another.”

She reached for the knife and freed him in a series of quick slashes. With equal deftness she unlaced his boots and drew them off. Numb with long confinement—and sheer astonishment—he let her rub his hands and feet until they began to tingle with returning circulation.

“Wait in the doorway,” she said. “When you hear me call out ‘Beloved,’ count to ten, then go straight down the stairs. There are two men; you will have to deal with one of them. I think you will have no difficulty. After you have done so, go straight out the door. Do not stop, do not turn back.”

“My friend,” Ramses said. “Is he here?”

She hesitated for a moment and then nodded. “Don’t waste time searching for him, it would be too dangerous. Go and bring help.”

“But you—”

“I will be gone when you come back. Inshallah.” She added, with a faint smile, “You owe me a debt, young lord. When I call on you to make it good, will you come?”

“Yes.”

Her mouth found his. He met it with an appreciation that was not entirely due to gratitude, but when his arm went round her shoulders she twisted away and stood up.

“Another time,” she said. “Inshallah. Come now.”

She blew out the lamp and eased the door open. Silent on stockinged feet, he followed. By the time he reached the door she had gone ahead, along a corridor lit only by a glow from below. The house was of good size; there were three other closed doors and a lower floor. He waited until she had started down the stairs before he tried the other doors. None were locked. None of the rooms were occupied. A narrow flight of stairs, hardly more than a ladder, led to an opening through which he saw the glow of starlight. No need to look there, the ladder must go to the open roof.

The signal came sooner than he had expected. Abandoning caution, he ran for the stairs. He had known what she meant to do. All part of the day’s work for her, perhaps, but he couldn’t let her do it—not for him.

They were in the room opposite the foot of the stairs. The second man had his ear pressed to the flimsy panel of the door—waiting his turn, as he erroneously believed. He was too absorbed to hear the rush of unshod feet until it was too late. Straightening, he reached for the knife at his belt and opened his mouth to shout a warning. Ramses closed it for him and he fell back against the door, bursting it open. Ramses elbowed the inert body out of his way and went in.

He hadn’t realized how angry he was until after the other man lay sprawled on the floor at his feet. Rubbing his bruised hands, he watched Layla rearrange her clothing and sit up.

“Fool,” she snapped. “Why don’t you go?”

“You first. They’ll know it was you who freed me.”

She swore at him. He laughed aloud, giddy with the dangerous euphoria that follows a winning fight, and as she darted toward the door he swung her into his arms and kissed her.

“Fool,” she whispered against his lips. “You must hurry! They are coming soon, to move you to another place. If you knew what they plan for you, you would not linger.”

“Where is he?”

“I will show you, but don’t think I will stay to help you. The fate meted out to traitors is one I would not face.”

The man near the door was stirring. There wasn’t time to tie him up. Ramses turned him over and hit him again.

Layla had gone up the stairs. She was back immediately, wearing a dark cloak and carrying a loosely tied bundle. She must have got her things together in anticipation of flight before she freed him. A woman of many talents, Ramses thought.

Gesturing him to follow, she ran toward the back of the house and unbolted a door that led into a walled courtyard.

“He is there,” she said, indicating a shed against the far wall. “Ma’as salama, my lord. Do not cheat me of my payment.”

Moonlight framed her for a moment and then she was gone, leaving the gate through which she had fled ajar. Ramses headed for the shed, trying to avoid the squashier debris that litters Egyptian courtyards. Pebbles pressed into the soles of his feet. The euphoria was passing and he was beginning to wonder if he had made the right decision. He had been lucky so far, but the long hours of confinement had taken their toll, and that last blow had been a mistake. He’d been too drunk with imbecile heroism to feel it at the time, but his right hand ached like a sore tooth, and he couldn’t bend the fingers. If the door of the shed was locked he would have to go for help before the guards woke up and came looking for him.

The door had not been locked or barred. As soon as it opened he knew why.

They hadn’t handled David as considerately as they had him. They must have tossed him in and left him to lie as he fell, because his head was bent at an awkward angle and his legs were twisted. Not even a pile of moldy straw lay between his body and the hard earthen floor, which was littered with ancient animal droppings. They hadn’t stinted on the rope, though, and the dirty gag covered his nose as well as his mouth.

There was a lamp. The guard would have insisted on that.

He had been sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, and he must have been dozing, for he was slow to react. When he rose, Ramses’s stomach twisted. The fellow was as tall as he and twice as broad. His belly rounded the front of his galabeeyah, but not all the weight was fat. And he had a knife.

For a moment they stared at one another in mutual stupefaction. The guard was the first to recover. It wasn’t difficult for Ramses to read his mind; his round sweaty face mirrored every slow-moving idea. No need to call for help against an opponent as wretched-looking as this one. Recapturing the prisoner single-handed would win him praise and reward. He drew his knife from its scabbard and started forward.

Ramses wasn’t thinking fast either, but the options were too obvious to be overlooked. One backward step would take him out the door. There was a bar. By the time the guard broke down the door or summoned help, he would be long gone. It was the only sensible course of action. Unarmed and exhausted, he wouldn’t last ten seconds against a hulking brute like that one. No one would know he had run away. David was unconscious. Or dead.

He launched himself forward and down, at an acute angle that would—he hoped—take him under the blade of the knife. The move caught even him by surprise; his chest hit the floor with a force that knocked the breath out of him, but his hands were already where he wanted them to be, gripping the bare ankles under the ragged hem of the galabeeyah. He yanked, with all the strength he could muster.

It wasn’t much. His right hand gave way, but the left was still functioning, and it was enough to pull the man’s feet out from under him and get his attention off the knife. He sat down with a thud that must have rumbled up his spine into his skull, and his head hit the wall. The blow only stunned him but it gave Ramses time to finish the job. Then he picked up the knife and crawled through the dung and dust to David.

He was alive. As soon as his mouth and nose were uncovered he sucked in a long shuddering breath. Ramses heaved him over and began slashing at the ropes. He had freed David’s hands and arms before he realized that not all the dark stains on David’s shirt were dirt. He breathed out a word even his father seldom employed.