Elizabeth Peters - A River in the Sky

“Don’t try that trick on me, young lady,” I said sharply. “I am not moved by womanly tears.”

She knew that. The tears were not meant for me, they were aimed at Emerson, who had been talking with Selim.

For once they failed to have the desired effect. Emerson was too full of the news he had heard from Selim. “David came downstairs several hours ago. The grooms can’t say precisely when; they do not carry pocket watches. He told them he was going on ahead, mounted the beast he had selected, and rode off. They had no reason to stop him, since they had seen him last evening and knew he was one of our party.”

“They can’t be blamed,” I agreed. “Did any of them see which way he went?”

Emerson pointed, and then shook his head. “That’s no help. The main roads to Gaza, Nablus, and Jerusalem are in that direction.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said grimly. “I know where he is going. Samaria.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

The rain had stopped next morning, but the roads were still waterlogged, as Ramses discovered after he had been wedged back into the vehicle, blindfolded and bound. He found himself unpleasant company, since Mansur had denied his request that he be allowed to bathe and change his clothes. He was also developing a bristly growth of beard.

The artificially imposed blindness was beginning to take its toll. He knew the blindfold and Mansur’s oh-so-polite refusal to give him so much as a basin of water and a bar of soap was part of a deliberate process, a slow and subtle method of reducing a prisoner to something less than a human being. Being spotlessly clean at all times had never been one of his major preoccupations; when he and David had prowled the back alleys of Cairo, their disguises had often necessitated filthy rags and a rancid odor. But that had been a matter of choice, and of self-imposed limits. Now a stranger and an enemy controlled even that basic aspect of his existence. For an arrogant Englishman, the control itself was intolerable. At least that’s how Mansur would reason-and he’d be right. I wonder what he’ll come up with next? Ramses thought. His imagination, enriched by knowledge of his own inner weaknesses and fears, supplied a variety of ugly possibilities. He knew what Mansur wanted-to reduce him to such a state of misery that he would beg for even a small comfort. In many ways it was a more intolerable form of torture than physical pain.

He wasn’t able to sleep, since the vehicle kept sinking into water-filled ruts. The only advantage to sightlessness was that his other senses were keener. He could hear water sloshing around as the men grunted and shoved to lift the cart, and smell the tobacco smoke whenever the man perched on the apron at the back of the cart lit a cigarette. There was always someone there, discernible by the smell of tobacco and the small noises he made shifting position, coughing, clearing his throat. Ramses had tried speaking to him, but he never got an answer.

After an interminable interval he was allowed out, still blindfolded, to relieve himself and eat. He couldn’t see the man who kept a firm grip on his arm throughout-and who let go his grip once, so that Ramses stumbled and fell flat in the mud. He wasn’t even allowed to wipe the muck off his face; his silent attendant did it with a rough cloth, like a nursemaid cleaning a grubby child.

The man’s brisk face-scrubbing had had one positive effect. The lower edge of the blindfold had been pushed up, over the bridge of his nose, so that a thin strip of light was visible. He managed to worry it up a little more by rubbing his face against the side of the vehicle. He couldn’t see anything except the inside of the vehicle, but even that small window into the world of sight lifted his spirits.

Sometime later the worst of the jolting stopped and their progress became more even. They must have turned onto a larger highway, after traversing less-traveled back tracks. He pricked his ears. Yes; there were other travelers, he could hear snatches of conversation and laughter, hoofbeats, the creak and rumble of wheeled vehicles, and an occasional burst of profanity directed by one driver at another who had got in his way. A well-traveled highway, then. There weren’t that many roads fit for all-weather travel. One to Nablus and on to Jerusalem, another to Jaffa; unless they had headed north, toward Haifa, or west, toward Damascus. Too many possibilities, and no clue.

Their pace slowed till it was hardly faster than a walk. Mansur was in no hurry. Was he early for a rendezvous, or waiting until after dark to reach his destination? Probably the latter, Ramses thought, as the light faded and their speed began to increase. They were entering a town, a town of some size; the sounds of traffic were louder and he saw flashes of light, from lanterns or torches, under the blindfold.

When the vehicle finally stopped, he was yanked out of it, not too gently, and assisted to stand. It was not Mansur’s hand that guided him; he had learned to recognize that touch.

The surface underfoot was stone, but the place must be open to the sky. A brisk breeze cooled his face and ruffled his hair. He was led through a door, along a corridor, and up a flight of stairs. Another length of corridor, another open door; this was no peasant dwelling, but a house of some size. The man gave him a shove that brought him to his knees. Then his bonds were untied, and the door closed with a reverberant slam.

His first instinctive act was to pull the blindfold up over his head. Blinking in the light, still on his knees, he took in his surroundings.

The light came from an ornate brass chandelier high overhead. Only half the candles had been lighted; the flames flickered in a chilly draft. The room was large, furnished with tawdry elegance-silk-and velvet-covered cushions scattered about the marble floor, ivory-inlaid tables, a long divan whose covering shimmered like cloth of gold. Ramses got slowly to his feet. It was definitely an improvement on his former quarters, but knowing Mansur as he had come to do, he was not reassured. Cautiously he moved around the room, staying close to the walls. The draft of air came from windows on a side wall. They were closed by elaborately carved wooden screens, the apertures too small to allow the occupant of the room to see out. Peering into dark corners, Ramses continued his search. He had almost decided he was alone when he came face-to-face with an apparition that wrung a muffled cry from him-a tall figure with staring eyes and a face horribly mottled with green and brown stains, a tangle of black hair crowning its head. His nerves were in such a state that it was several seconds before he realized the monster was his own reflection in a floor-to-ceiling mirror, distorted by the crackling of the glass.

He got his breathing under control and moved on. The door through which he had entered the room was a massive affair, heavy wood bound with iron. It was, as he had expected, locked or bolted.

A closer examination of the room and its furnishings told him what sort of room it was. Mashrabiya screens, ornate mirrors, velvet cushions-a harem chamber, probably the ka’ah, or main salon. But the fringe on the cushions was unraveling, the mirror was speckled, and a thin film of dust covered the flat surfaces. The Turkish official who owned the house hadn’t kept his women here for some time.

The rattle of hardware at the door made him spin around.

Two of the guards entered, carrying, of all things, his suitcases. They dropped them and took up positions on either side of the open door, standing at attention.

Mansur looked as if he had just come from a long hot bath. His caftan was spotless, his beard oiled, his feet encased in elegant red leather slippers. Ramses knew only too well what he looked like. He had to fight the temptation to duck his head or raise his hands to hide his horrible face. The contrast between their appearances couldn’t have been sharper.