The Ape Who Guards the Balance (23 page)

“Ramses?”

“Who else? How badly are you hurt? Can you walk?”

“I’ll give it my best try as soon as you free my ankles.”

“Oh. Right.”

After he had done so Ramses stuck the knife in his belt and bent over David. “Put your arm over my shoulders. We’re on borrowed time as it is; if you can’t walk I’ll carry you.”

“I can stumble at least. Help me up.”

At first he couldn’t even stumble. Ramses had to drag him out the door and across the courtyard to the gate Layla had left open. They weighed about the same, but Ramses could have sworn David had gained ten stone in the past few hours. His lungs were bursting and his knees felt like molasses. He couldn’t keep this up much longer.

Then he heard a shout from the house and discovered he could. The rush of adrenaline carried them through the gate and into a patch of shadow. Can’t stop now, he thought. Not yet. They were still on borrowed time, time borrowed from Layla. He prayed she had got away. He prayed they would too. Abdullah’s house was on the other side of the hill and their captors would expect them to head in that direction, and they would . . . They would . . .

Something strange was happening. The patches of moonlight on the ground shivered like water into which someone has tossed a stone. The trees were swaying as if in a strong wind, but there was no wind. He couldn’t catch his breath. He fell to his knees, dragging David down with him.

“Go on. Abdullah—”

“Not there, you fool. Too far.”

Hands pulled at him. Layla’s? She had called him a fool. He was on his feet, moving, floating, through patches of silver and black, moonlight and shadow, until a burst of sunshine blinded him, and he passed through the light into utter darkness.

:

I
would rather not remember those hours of waiting, but some account of them must be given if my narrative is to be complete. Nefret’s distress was harder to bear than my own, for mine was mitigated by familiarity with my son’s annoying habits. This would not be the first time he had gone off on some ill-considered and dangerous expedition without bothering to inform me. Delay did not necessarily imply disaster; he and David were full-grown men (physically if not emotionally) and quite adept at various forms of self-defense, including the ancient Egyptian wrestling holds I had shown them.

So I told myself, at any rate, and attempted to convince Nefret of my reasoning. She was not convinced. They were in trouble, she knew it, and it was her fault for not going with them, and something must be done about it.

“But what?” I demanded, watching her anxiously as she paced up and down. She had not changed from her working clothes, and her boots thudded heavily on the tiled floor. Horus had lost all patience with her because she refused to sit down and provide a lap for him; when she passed him he reached out and hooked his claws into her trouser leg. She detached him without comment and went on pacing.

“There is no sense searching for them,” I insisted. “Where would we start?”

Emerson knocked out his pipe. “At the temple. Never mind dinner, none of us has the appetite for it. If I find no sign of them there, I will come straight back, I promise.”

“Not alone,” I said. “I am coming with you.”

“No, you are not.”

We were discussing the matter, without the coolness that verb implies, when Emerson raised his hand for silence. In that silence we all heard it—the pound of galloping hooves.

“There,” said Emerson, his broad breast rising in a great sigh of relief. “There they are. I will have a few words to say to those young men for frightening you so! That is Risha, or I know nothing of horseflesh.”

It was Risha, running like the wind. He came to a sudden stop and stood trembling. His saddle was empty, and a broken end of rope hung from his neck.

My dear Emerson took charge as only he can. In less than ten minutes we were mounted and ready. Nefret wanted to ride Risha, but Emerson prevented her, knowing she would outstrip us. The noble beast would not stay, however. Intelligent and loyal as a dog, he guided us back along the path he had taken in such haste. It led, as we had expected, to the temple of Seti I.

We found Asfur, Risha’s mate, still tied to a tree near the spring north of the temple. In one of the chambers off the hypostyle hall a thin cat sprang hissing into the shadows when the light of our candles appeared. It had been devouring the remains of the food the boys had brought. On the floor were their knapsacks, two empty water bottles, and their coats. Their drawing materials had already been packed, so they must have been about to leave when they were intercepted. There was no sign of them elsewhere in the temple or its surroundings. Lanterns and candles were not bright enough to permit a search for footprints or bloodstains.

There was nothing we could do but return to the house. Emerson was the one who paced now; Nefret sat quite still, her hands folded and her eyes lowered. Finally Emerson said, “They did not leave the temple of their own accord. They would not have abandoned the horses.”

“Obviously,” I said. “I am going to Gurneh to fetch—no, not Abdullah, worry and exertion would be bad for him—Selim, and Daoud and—”

“Peabody, you are not going anywhere. And neither are you, Nefret; stay here and try to keep your Aunt Amelia under control. It is a damned difficult job, take my word for it. I will go to the dahabeeyah. It’s a far-out chance, but someone may have seen something of them. I will bring Reis Hassan and another of the crewmen back with me, and then we will think what to do next.”

Another grisly hour dragged by. Emerson did not return. It was Reis Hassan who came instead, with a message from my husband. Someone had claimed to have seen the boys walking toward the ferry landing. If they had gone over to Luxor he would follow the trail. Mahmud was with him, and Reis Hassan would stay with us.

Nefret did not react or even look up. For the past hour she had not moved. All at once she started to her feet; Horus, who had been on her lap, rolled off it and bounced onto the floor. Over his yowls of fury, I heard her say, “Listen. Someone is coming.”

The individual was on horseback, coming at a gallop, and I assumed it was Emerson. Even at a distance, however, I knew the slighter form could not be his.

“Selim,” said Nefret calmly.

There could be no doubt. Selim was an excellent horseman and he was waving his arms in a wild manner that would have unseated any rider less skilled. He was shouting too, but it was impossible to make out the words until he stopped.

“Safe!” was the first word I heard. “They are safe, Sitt, safe with me, and you must come, come at once, and bring your medicines, they are sick and bleeding and I have left Daoud and Yussuf on guard, and they are safe, and they sent me to tell you!”

“Very good,” said Nefret, when the enthusiastic youth had run out of breath. “I will go with you, Selim. Ask Ali the stableman to saddle Risha.”

She put her arm round my waist. “It’s all right, Aunt Amelia. Here, take my handkerchief.”

“I do not require it, my dear,” I said with a sniff. “I believe I may have a slight touch of catarrh.”

“Then you should not go out in the night air. No, Aunt Amelia, I insist you stay here and wait for the Professor. You might send someone to ask Mr. Vandergelt for the loan of his carriage, in case they are . . .”

She did not give me time to suggest alternatives, but dashed into the house and came back with her bag of medical supplies. It was, I supposed, the most sensible arrangement. I had no fear for her; Selim would be with her, and nothing less than a bullet could stop Risha when he was in full gallop.

As I had expected, Cyrus and Katherine accompanied the carriage, full of questions, and demanding to be allowed to help. I was explaining when Emerson returned.

“So you’re at it again,” Cyrus remarked. “I thought things had been abnormally quiet this season. Emerson, old pal, you okay?”

Emerson passed his hand over his face. “I am getting too old for this sort of thing, Vandergelt.”

“Not you,” said Cyrus with conviction.

“Certainly not,” I exclaimed. “Katherine dear, you and Cyrus must stay here. There won’t be room for all of us in the carriage.”

“I will make tea,” Katherine said, pressing my hand. “What else can I do for you, Amelia?”

“Have the whiskey ready,” said Cyrus.

       
(xii)
    
From Manuscript H

When Ramses opened his eyes he knew he wasn’t dead or delirious, though the face that filled his vision was the one he would have preferred to see under either of those conditions.

“I think I’m supposed to babble about angels and heaven,” he said faintly.

“I might have known you’d try to be clever,” Nefret snapped. “What’s wrong with ‘Where am I?’ ”

“Trite. Anyhow, I know where I—hell and damnation! What are you . . .”

The pain was so intense he almost blacked out again. Off in the distance he heard Nefret ask, “Do you want some morphine?”

“No. Where is David?”

“Here, my brother. Safe, thanks to—”

“None of that,” Nefret ordered. “You two can wallow in sentiment later. We have a lot to discuss and I haven’t finished with Ramses yet.”

“I don’t think I can stand any more of your tender care,” Ramses said. The worst of the pain had subsided, though, and the hands that wiped the perspiration from his face were sure and gentle. “What the hell did you do to me?”

“What the hell did you do to that hand? It’s swelling up like a balloon, and one of your fingers was dislocated.”

“Just . . . leave me alone for a minute. Please?”

His eyes moved slowly around the room, savoring the sense of safety and the reassurance of familiar faces: David, his dark eyes luminous with tears of relief; Nefret, whitefaced and tight-lipped; and Selim, squatting by the bed, his teeth bared in a broad grin. If he hadn’t been such a fool he would have remembered Abdullah had relatives all over Gurneh. Selim’s house was one of the closest. His youngest wife made the best lamb stew in Luxor.

His eyes went back to David. “You got me here. God knows how. How bad is it?”

“To put it in technical terms, the knife bounced off his shoulder blade,” Nefret said. “A bit of sticking plaster was all that was required. Now let’s get back to you. I want to make sure nothing else is broken before we move you.”

“I’m all right.” He started to sit up and let out a yelp of pain when she planted her hand firmly against his chest and shoved him back onto the pillow.

“Ah,” she said, with professional relish. “A rib? Let’s just have a look.”

“Your bedside manner could use some improvement,” Ramses said, trying not to squirm as she unbuttoned his shirt.

There was no warning, not even a knock. The door flew open, and he forgot his present aches and pains in anticipation of what lay in store. The figure that stood in the door was not that of an enemy. It was worse. It was his mother.

:

I
have always believed in the medicinal effects of good whiskey, but on this occasion I felt obliged to prescribe something stronger, at least for Ramses. Nefret and I discussed whether his ribs were broken or only cracked; Ramses insisted they were neither, but soon would be if we went on prodding him. So I strapped him up while Nefret dealt as efficiently with his hand, which was as nasty a specimen as I had ever beheld, even on Ramses. I then attempted to administer a dose of laudanum to each lad, for though David’s injuries were superficial he was gray-faced with exhaustion and strain. Neither of them would take it.

“I want to tell you what happened,” David said. “You should know—”

“I’ll tell them what happened,” said Ramses. We had had to hurt him quite a lot, but I suspected the unevenness of his voice was due to annoyance as much as pain.

Emerson spoke for the first time. Sitting quietly by the side of the bed, he had not taken his eyes off Ramses, and once, when he thought none of us saw him, he had given his son’s arm a surreptitious and very gentle squeeze. “Let’s get them home, Peabody. If they are fit for it, we might certainly profit from a council of war.”

So we bundled them into the carriage and took them home, with Risha trotting alongside. We retired to the sitting room, where I tried to make Ramses lie down on the settee, but he would not. Katherine moved quietly around the room lighting the lamps and drawing the curtains. Then she came and sat next to me. Her silent sympathy and support were what I needed just then; rallying, I once more took charge.

“You had better tell us what happened, Ramses,” I said.

I had had occasion in the past to complain of my son’s verbose and theatrical literary style. This time he went too far in the opposite direction. His concluding sentences were typical of the narrative as a whole. “The fellow hit his head when he fell. Once David was freed we ran for it. We would not have got away if he had not taken charge and made for Selim’s house. I had somehow got it into my head that we must reach Abdullah.”

“Is that all?” I exclaimed.

“No, it is not!” David’s expressive countenance had displayed increasing signs of agitation. “I saw what you did, Ramses. I was dizzy and sick and short of air but I was not unconscious.” His eyes moved round the circle of interested faces. “The guard had a knife. Ramses did not. He looked as if he could barely stand. When he fell forward I thought he had fainted, and the guard must have thought the same, but it was that trick he showed us once—you remember, Nefret, the one he told you not to try unless you had no other choice because it requires split-second timing. You have to go in under the knife and pray it will miss you, and get hold of the other man’s feet before he can jump back.”

Nefret nodded. “Split-second timing and long arms and the devil’s own luck. That’s when he cracked that rib.”

“It is not cracked,” Ramses said indignantly. “Only bruised. And the damned sticking plaster itches like fury. I don’t know which is worse, you or—”

“He tried to carry me,” David said, his voice unsteady. “I couldn’t walk, I was too stiff. He could have left me and gone for help, but—”