Elizabeth Peters - A River in the Sky

“Their aim is to expel foreigners, especially Englishmen, from this part of the Ottoman Empire. It may come to jihad one day, but at present they are preparing the ground and spreading the word. Mansur is one of the leaders; the other is a woman, a German.”

David started to speak. Ramses raised a hand for silence and went on rapidly: “Her motives may not be the same as Mansur’s, but they have formed an alliance because their goal is the same. They murdered a British agent who was with their group in disguise. He told me several things before they caught him. They are searching for some sort of talisman to inspire the faithful. It could be an artifact, a manuscript, even a man. If-when-you get out of here you must take that information back to Father. He’ll know what to do with it.”

“When we get out of here,” David said, in that gentle inflexible voice.

Ramses shook his head vehemently. “I must stay with them. I haven’t made any attempt to escape-probably couldn’t have brought it off anyhow, but I didn’t try because I need to know what they’re after. And stop them if I can.”

“Why you?”

It was a reasonable question, and one he couldn’t answer. Not patriotism, not love of country, not duty; they were catchwords that could be used for good or ill. Certainly not a fanatical dedication to the ideal of empire, which had inspired so many young idiots like Macomber. Because a lot of innocent people will be killed if they bring this off? That made better sense, but it wasn’t the only reason. And one of those reasons did him no credit. He wanted to get back at Mansur. It had become a personal duel.

He was trying to think what to say when the door opened, to admit not only Mansur but a group of servants carrying loaded trays. They moved efficiently around the room, moving two of the small tables together and spreading them with cloths, setting them with silverware, crystal, and even linen napkins. Ramses’s empty stomach reacted embarrassingly to the savory odors wafting from various dishes. He hadn’t had anything to eat or drink for hours.

Mansur stood looking on with folded arms, then dismissed most of the servants with a lordly wave of his hand. The few that remained, including Mansur’s servant and a veiled female, took up their positions behind the chairs that had been placed at the tables. Four chairs.

She swept into the room with the assurance of a queen, head high and step firm. She wore a long gown of some pale blue floating stuff, and little jeweled slippers; her fair hair was wound round her head in a braided coronet.

David leaped to his feet, eyes widening. The image he had formed in his mind of the unnamed German female obviously didn’t match the reality.

She inspected him with cool detachment and then glanced at Ramses.

“Can there be any doubt?” she inquired of Mansur.

“No. No, lady.”

“Then why is he here?” She gestured dismissively at David.

“Those who brought him had not seen the other. They heard him spoken of by name.”

“And there is a certain resemblance,” she agreed. “Perhaps they are not wholly to blame. But it does present a difficulty.”

“One that is easily solved, lady.”

They had spoken English. Ramses felt sure the choice of language was deliberate; they wanted him and David to understand the half-veiled threat. He managed to refrain from question or comment. She was watching him as if through a microscope, alert to every change of expression.

Then a smile curved her lips. “Of course, Mansur. We will dine together, like reasonable beings, and find a way out of our difficulty.”

The china was Bavarian, the glasses crystal, the silverware heavy and ornate. Frau von Eine had done Gertrude Bell one better; she had brought along the family silver, complete with crest.

The veiled woman waited on her mistress and Mansur’s servant on him. The latter avoided looking at Ramses or David, but the woman stole glances at them from time to time. She had big, soft brown eyes outlined with kohl, and the veil was thin enough to outline a neat little nose and rounded chin. Once Ramses caught her eye and smiled. Madame saw the smile. She didn’t miss much. It seemed to amuse her.

The other servants were competent enough, though not so well trained as the personal attendants of their host and hostess. The food was excellent: lamb prepared with spices and vegetables, fresh-baked bread, bowls heaped high with fruit.

“I trust you find yourselves comfortable here?” was Madame’s opening gambit.

“We are hardly in a position to complain,” Ramses said.

“You are our guests. You must tell Mansur if there is anything you require.”

Ramses realized he was no longer hungry. With the exception of Mansur, they had been served wine, a dark red beverage that was a little too sweet to accompany the lamb. He picked up his glass and raised it in an ironic salute. “We require only our freedom, Madame. Since both of us were brought here by force, the word ‘guests’ is hardly accurate.”

The lady acknowledged his salute with an inclination of her head. “I regret the necessity.”

“Then explain the necessity.” Ramses felt his temper giving way. He had been able to control it-barely-when he was the only prisoner, but David’s safety-his very survival, perhaps-was at stake now. He went on with mounting heat. “I’m tired of lies and equivocation. Just tell me what the hell you want from me, and perhaps we can come to a sensible agreement. I’ve become bored with the childish games Mansur has been playing.”

Mansur, who hadn’t spoken a word or looked directly at Ramses, turned toward him with bared teeth and a raised fist-the first crack in that impenetrable facade Ramses had seen. “We want nothing from you. You are not a danger to us, only an inconvenience, and if we decide the inconvenience is too great-”

“Mansur!” Madame’s voice cracked like a whip.

Mansur’s sleeve had fallen back. On the inside of his forearm, just below the elbow, Ramses saw a crimson mark, too regular to be an accidental disfigurement. He was trying to make it out when Mansur lowered his arm and sat back.

“I ask your pardon,” he said.

“Granted,” Ramses said, though he was sure the apology hadn’t been directed at him. “Why don’t you try telling me the truth?” he suggested. “Mansur implied I might sympathize with your aims if they were explained to me. What harm can it do, so long as we are closely guarded…guests? If those aims are, as I suspect, freedom and independence for the Arab people, I’m on your side, so long as your methods aren’t violent.”

She pondered the question, propping her chin on one slim hand. “A reasonable suggestion,” she said after a moment. “But it grows late, and you are no doubt weary. Rest well, and tomorrow we will talk again.”

The waiting servant girl pulled Madame’s chair back as she rose. The men got to their feet. What else would a gentleman do in the presence of a lady? Ramses wondered if she had stood watching while someone cut Macomber’s throat.

THE SUN ROSE BEHIND ME as I climbed the steep slope from Deir el Bahri to the top of the cliff and the path that led to the Valley of the Kings. I knew what I would see when I reached the summit, and my heart beat fast with anticipation. Sure enough, he was there, walking toward me with the long free stride of a man in the prime of life. Abdullah’s beard had been white when he died in my arms after giving his life to save mine. In these dreams beard and hair were black and his handsome, hawklike face was unlined.

I turned so that we stood side by side, in silence, watching the scarlet orb of the sun lift above the eastern cliffs, banishing the darkness with the life-giving rays of Re Harakhte.