Guardian of the Horizon: An Amelia Peabody Novel of Suspense Page 3

  Goddamn him, Ramses thought; how can I or anyone else compete with a hero like that? Tarek had fought like a hero too, sword in hand, to win his crown. They had repaid part of their debt to him by helping him in that struggle, each in his or her own way. Emerson had been at the height of his powers then — not that he had lost many of them — and some of his exploits rivaled the achievements of Hercules and Horus.

  Another hero, thought Emerson’s son. And now I’ve got to tell him I won’t go with him this year.

  So vehement was Emerson’s initial reaction to Ramses’s news that his shouts brought Gargery, John the footman, Rose, and several of the housemaids rushing in to see what had happened. Our relationships with servants are somewhat unusual, thanks to Emerson’s habit of treating them like human beings and their profound affection for him; once they learned what had occasioned his wrath, every single one of them felt entitled to join in the conversation, on one side or the other. Rose, of course, supported Ramses, and so did Gargery (offering himself as Ramses’s replacement, which infuriated Emerson even more). The housemaids were swept off by Rose before they had a chance to say very much. Still, the consensus was clear, and Emerson had some justice on his side when he shouted, “You are all against me!”

  Nefret had warned me in strictest secrecy of what Ramses meant to do, so I had had a little time to get used to the idea. I was somewhat surprised at the strength of my initial disappointment. I had got used to having Ramses around. He was a great help to his father.

  However, a mother wants what is best for her child, and at least the news explained why Ramses had been behaving so oddly. So I had promised Nefret I would help persuade Emerson, and of course my arguments carried the day.

  “He’ll get himself in trouble all alone over there, you know he will” was Emerson’s final attempt to sway me by appealing to my maternal instincts. “He always does.”

  He always did. However, as I pointed out to Emerson, he did anyhow, even when he was with us.

  From Manuscript H

  Now that his decision had been accepted and the time of his departure drew near, Ramses found it easier to deal with Nefret’s constant presence. It wouldn’t be for long, he told himself. Nevertheless, he spent most of his time in his room, ostensibly working. David had gone off to Yorkshire, radiant at finally having received an invitation from his beloved’s parents. (Ramses suspected his mother had had a hand in that.)

  One warm August afternoon he had just finished a tricky translation of a hieratic text when Nefret knocked at his door. She had honored his request that he be left alone — to work — and compunction smote him when he saw her sober face.

  “Am I interrupting?” she asked.

  “No, not at all. Come in.” He stepped back and gestured her to a chair. She sat down, clasping her hands between her trousered knees. Her face was flushed with heat and her loosened hair clung wetly to temples and cheeks. The open neck of her shirt bared her slim throat and offered a distracting suggestion of rounded curves below. Ramses went back to his desk, ten feet away, and leaned against it.

  “Rather warm to be riding, isn’t it?” he asked.

  She made a face at him. “It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that that’s what I was doing. May I have a cigarette?”

  Ramses lit it for her and retreated again. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “Tell me.”

  “Are you sure I’m not bothering you? It’s nothing, really. I probably imagined the whole thing.”

  “It would bother me very much if you didn’t feel you could come to me with anything that worries you. I’m sorry if I’ve been —”

  “Don’t apologize, my boy. I know why you’ve been hiding in your room.”

  “You do?”

  “You don’t want to face the Professor.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t let him upset you. He’ll get over it.”

  “I know. Well?”

  “Well. I did go riding, as you deduced. On the way back I stopped at Tabirka’s pyramid.”

  It took Ramses a few seconds to focus on the unexpected subject. Impatiently, she elaborated. “Tabirka — Tarek’s brother, who came to England with Tarek. We buried him in the clearing where he died and raised a little pyramid —”

  “I know. I was surprised, that’s all. I haven’t heard you mention him or Tarek for a long time. Do you go there often?”

  “Every now and then,” Nefret said evasively. (Or was it only his jealous fancy that she sounded evasive?) “It’s a peaceful, pretty place. May I have another cigarette?”

  Ramses supplied it. She scarcely ever smoked. “What happened?” he asked.

  “It was warm and very still,” Nefret began. “Not the slightest breeze. All of a sudden the leaves rustled violently, and I heard a voice, distant and hollow, as if it came from deep underground. Ramses — it spoke in the language of the Holy City.”

  “The Lost Oasis?” Ramses said, stalling for time.

  “We called it the City of the Holy Mountain.” The words, and the way she pronounced them, warned Ramses that he was on dangerous ground. Her head was bowed and her shoulders stiff, as if in anticipation of laughter or skepticism. Casually he said, “I know. What did the voice say?”

  “I didn’t understand every word. It was a greeting, I think.” She looked up. “You believe me? You don’t think I imagined it?”

  “I don’t believe you heard the ka of poor young Tabirka, calling to you from the next world. Neither do you, you’ve better sense. Perhaps someone is playing tricks.”

  “Of course,” Nefret said with a sigh of relief. “That’s the obvious explanation, isn’t it? But you can’t imagine how uncanny it was, Ramses. I got away as fast as I could. I — I don’t usually run away, you know.”

  “How well I know.”

  She returned his smile with a look so bright and grateful, he felt like a mean hound. Had he been behaving so churlishly that she had hesitated to approach him? She had come to him, though, not to his mother or father; that was a hopeful sign, and thank God he had had the sense to say the right thing.

  “Let’s go and have a look.” He held out his hand. “The fellow may still be hanging about. Or he may have left some trace of his presence.”

  “Thank you, my boy.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “For believing me.”

  Ramses gently freed his hand. “We’ll walk, shall we? It isn’t far, and we can move more quietly on foot.”

  Tall elms lined the narrow path through the woods. The leaves hung limp and still in the warm air. As they went on, the shadows darkened. A thunderstorm was brewing; clouds piled up in the eastern sky. The place did have an uncanny atmosphere, especially in stormy weather, for the strange little monument in the glade was a pyramid in the Cushite style, steeper-sided and smaller than those of Egypt. Few people knew of it, and those who did took it to be one of the fake antiquities once popular with English gentry who had an interest in Egypt. On one side was a small enclosure in imitation of an offering chapel. Ramses had himself inscribed on the lintel the hieroglyphs that gave the dead boy’s name and titles and a short prayer invoking the goodwill of the gods of the judgment. Tabirka deserved an easy journey to the next world. He had been murdered by Nefret’s cousin, who had tried every dirty trick in the book to keep the Emersons from bringing her back to threaten his inheritance.

  Ramses really didn’t expect to find anything or anyone. She had most probably been daydreaming a little, putting herself in a fanciful mood, and had misinterpreted the sound of an animal or bird. He was caught completely off guard when a hard body crashed into him, knocked him flat, and fell heavily on top of him. Winded and bruised, Ramses stared up into the dark face that hovered over him. It split in a wide, terrifying grin, and hands reached for his throat. Nefret was yelling and raining blows on the fellow’s back with a branch. It didn’t seem to have much effect.

  Ramses found breath enough to yell back. “Get out of the way!” He brought his hands up in time to slam the other man’s forearms apart, rammed an elbow under his chin, heaved him up and over onto his back, and scrambled to his feet. Nefret lowered the branch.

  “Nicely done, my boy,” she said breathlessly.

  “Thank you.” Ramses stood poised, ready to kick out if his erst-while opponent showed signs of continuing the fight. The fellow was rubbing his throat, but he was still grinning, and his lean body, clad only in a kiltlike lower garment, was completely relaxed. Ramses stared in mounting disbelief. With his dark skin and bizarre costume he was as out of place in an English woodland as a tiger in a drawing room. There was something familiar about the aquiline features.

  “Tarek was right,” the stranger remarked. “You have become aman.”

  We have entertained a number of unusual guests in our home, but never had I seen one so extraordinary as the young man who was in the drawing room with Ramses and Nefret when I came down to tea. Barefoot and bareheaded, his body uncovered except for a brief skirt or kilt, he might have stepped out of an ancient Egyptian tomb painting. I stopped short; and Ramses said, “Mother, may I present Prince Merasen. He is the brother of Tarek, whom you surely remember.”

  I am seldom at a loss for words, but on this occasion I was unable to do more than emit a wordless croak of surprise. Nefret hurried to me and took my arm. “Aunt Amelia, are you all right? Sit down, please.”

  “A nice hot cup of tea,” I gurgled, staring. The young man raised his hands to shoulder height and bowed. It was the same gesture shown in innumerable tomb paintings, a gesture of respect to the gods and to superiors. He was far more at ease than I. Well, but he had been prepared for me, and I certainly had not been prepared for him!

  “A nice whiskey and soda, instead?” said Ramses. He sounded a trifle sheepis
h. “I apologize, Mother. I didn’t think to warn you.”

  “Not at all,” I replied, taking the glass he handed me. “Will you take a chair, Mr…. Er…Does he speak English?”

  “I speak very good” was the cool reply. “It is why Tarek sent me.”

  “Tarek sent you?” I repeated stupidly.

  “Yes, Sitt Hakim. I am honored to see you. They tell many stories about you in the Holy City. And about the Father of Curses, and the Brother of Demons, and the Lady Nefret.”

  “Father of Curses” was Emerson’s Egyptian sobriquet (and well-deserved, I should add), as Sitt Hakim, “Lady Doctor,” was mine. We had been known by those honorifics when we were last in the Holy City. If I remembered correctly, Ramses had not at that time acquired his nickname of “Brother of Demons” (a tribute to his supposedly supernatural talents). Merasen must have heard Ramses referred to by that name during his journey to England, perhaps from Egyptians in London who had given him directions to Amarna House.

  I nodded acknowledgment, sipping my whiskey, and trying to collect my scattered wits. The young man bore a certain resemblance to his brother, with his well-cut features and well-made frame — or rather, I told myself, his brother as I remembered him. He must be about eighteen, the same age Tarek had been ten years ago.

  “It is good to see you too,” I said, politely if somewhat mendaciously — for I suspected his arrival meant trouble. It wasn’t likely that Tarek would send an emissary all that long, dangerous way simply to say hello. “Er — Ramses, perhaps you can lend our guest some clothes.”

  “I have clothes, English clothes.” The boy indicated a bundle at his feet. “I will put them on?”

  It was a question, not an offer; I rose to the occasion, as any good hostess should when confronted with well-meaning eccentricity. Smiling, I shook my head. “Not if you would rather not. The weather is extremely warm.”

  Nefret, who had exhibited growing signs of impatience, burst out, “Aunt Amelia, perhaps you can persuade Merasen to tell us why he is here. I doubt that he undertook that long, arduous journey simply to make our acquaintance.”

  “My thought exactly,” I agreed. “He has not confided in you and Ramses?”

  “No, he was too busy fighting with Ramses,” Nefret said caustically.

  The boy grinned engagingly. “Tarek said Ramses would now be a man. I wished to see what sort of man.”

  “You found out,” said Ramses curtly.

  The overt antagonism and the touch of braggadocio were so unlike him I looked at him in surprise. Merasen only smiled more winningly.

  “And she” — a little bow in the direction of Nefret — “she is even more beautiful than Tarek said. She is not your wife?”

  Ramses’s countenance became even stonier. Nefret said, “I told you, we are brother and sister, in affection if not by birth.”

  Realizing, as did I, that the monarchs of the Holy City, like Egyptian pharaohs, often married full or half sisters, Nefret amplified the statement. “I am no man’s wife, Merasen, nor about to be.”

  “Now that we have settled that,” I said. “What is the message, Merasen?”

  “It is for the Father of Curses.”

  “Oh, dear,” I murmured. “Ramses, will you go and get your father? You needn’t mention the identity of our guest,” I added.

  Ramses smiled and went out of the room, leaving the door open.

  “And you, Nefret,” I went on, “might just warn Gargery before he brings the tea tray. I don’t want any more cups broken.”

  “He knows,” Nefret replied. “We met him in the hall. He was absolutely thrilled.”

  “He would be,” I muttered.

  I heard the rattle of the tea cart, which was coming at a great pace. Emerson got there before it. I could tell from his appearance that he had been hard at work, for he had removed as many of his garments as was proper. His shirt was open and the sleeves rolled above the elbow, baring his muscular forearms.

  “What is all this?” he demanded. “Ramses said —” His eyes lit upon the prince, who had risen and was making his obeisance. “Ah,” said Emerson, without so much as blinking. “A visitor from the Lost Oasis? Sit down, my boy, sit down. I am —”

  “Emerson, the Father of Curses,” the boy breathed. “Now that I see you, I know the stories are true. That you drove a spear straight through a man’s body and killed another with your bare hands, and fought a hundred men with sword in hand to help Tarek to the throne.”

  Emerson drew himself up to his full height, basking in the admiration that filled the young man’s eyes. “At the bottle already, Peabody?” he inquired, smirking at me. I looked accusingly at Ramses. He shook his head. Ramses preferred equivocation to prevarication, so I had to believe he had not mentioned our visitor to his father.

  The tea cart rattled in, propelled by Gargery. He was alone; either the maids had been too timid to face the visitor, or, what was more likely, Gargery had seized on an excuse to prolong the service of the genial beverage so that he could listen to our conversation. I had no intention of discussing our visitor’s purpose in Gargery’s presence, so I dismissed the latter, telling him we would wait on ourselves. He left the door slightly ajar. I slammed it and heard a muffled yelp.

  I then turned my accusing gaze on my son. “You told your father.”

  “No, Mother, honestly.”

  “Emerson, how dare you pretend you aren’t surprised?”

  Emerson tried to keep a straight face, but he could not. “I saw him through the study window,” he admitted with a grin. “Almost fell off my chair. Well, well. You are welcome in my house…What is your name, my friend? You may leave off bowing,” he added graciously.

  The young man drew himself up. “I am Merasen. I bring a message to the Father of Curses from Tarek, my brother and my king.”

  Emerson held out his hand.

  “I do not have the writing,” the boy admitted. “It was lost when the slavers took me. But I know the words. I will speak them. ‘Come to me, my friends who once saved me. Danger threatens and only you can help me now.’ ”

  Curse it, I thought. Glancing at Ramses, I saw my sentiments mirrored in his normally inexpressive face. The expression — tightened lips, narrowed eyes — was fleeting. Emerson — it was just like him! — responded with chivalrous, unquestioning enthusiasm. “Certainly, certainly! How can we do less?”

  “Emerson,” I said repressively. “You might at least ask what sort of danger Tarek is in before you commit yourself, and us, to what you once referred to as a harebrained adventure.”

  “I agree,” said Ramses.

  “That was quite different,” Emerson exclaimed. “On that occasion we were following a rumor and a questionable map, and that villainous servant of Reggie Forthright had poisoned our camels. This time —”

  “Professor!” Nefret jumped to her feet. “Excuse me. But could we, for once, stick to the point instead of arguing? Aunt Amelia has asked a sensible question. Merasen — what is the danger that threatens Tarek?”

  “It is a strange sickness. Not one of our priests can cure it. It comes and goes away, and each time it leaves the sick one weaker. Two times Tarek has fallen ill. He is a strong man and it will take long to kill him, but now the child is sick too. He is Tarek’s heir, his only true son. It is for him Tarek sends to you.”

  “Good Lord,” Nefret gasped. “The little boy can’t be more than ten years old. We must go, of course.”

  “Let’s hear a little more about this,” Ramses said coolly. “How long has it been since you left the Holy Mountain? Surely you did not cross the desert in the heat of summer.”

  I understood what he was getting at. The journey must have taken weeks, if not months. It might be too late for Tarek and his child. Nefret understood too. Her face paled. “What difference does it make?” she asked passionately. “There is a chance we might be in time, a chance we must —”

  “I am not denying your premise.” Ramses’s voice was like icy sleet on flame. “But we need to learn all we can before we decide what to do. Tell us about your journey, Merasen.”