Elizabeth Peters - A River in the Sky

“You do. In your prisons and execution chambers. In war.”

“I deplore both. But the prisoner has had a fair trial and the soldier is armed.”

The other man’s lips parted in a smile. “That is not always true. You reason like a philosopher; if I had time I would enjoy debating with you. Will your conscience be at ease if I tell you that he has been tried, by his peers, and condemned?”

“No. What is his crime?”

“That is not your concern. Where is your friend?”

There hadn’t been a sound from David. Ramses hoped he was still sleeping, or that if he wasn’t, he had sense enough to remain silent and out of sight. “Gone,” he said curtly.

“So long as he does not try to interfere.”

The men who held Ramses tightened their grip. The knife blade caught the light, once, twice, in flashing movements. Blood spurted up in the cuts, obscuring the design on Mansur’s arm.

Ismail stepped back, wiped the knife on his robe, and then sheathed it.

“He is yours now,” he said. “Do as you will with him.”

The men restraining Ramses let go their hold. With Ismail in the lead, the entire group started back toward the gate.

“Wait!” Ramses shouted. “Come back. I want…Oh, dammit.”

He had a choice between catching Ismail up and demanding answers to various vital questions, and letting Mansur lose a vital amount of blood. Ripping a strip from the hem of his shirt, he hurried to the recumbent man and whipped a makeshift tourniquet around his upper arm.

The injury wasn’t as bad as it had appeared. The knife had nicked a small artery, but most of the blood came from one of the large veins. Still, it required attention, and Mansur wasn’t doing a damn thing to help himself. He remained motionless, staring up at the sky.

“Hold on to this,” Ramses snapped. “I’ve got antiseptic and bandages in my pack.”

He tumbled the contents of his pack onto the ground and hurried back with his mother’s medical kit, pausing only long enough to look in on David. His slumber was so profound that Ramses began to wonder whether the most recent packet of herbs hadn’t been stronger than the first. Mansur didn’t speak until Ramses had finished disinfecting and bandaging the wound.

“You expect thanks, I presume,” he said.

“No. A few answers would be nice, though.”

“For example?”

“Who are the Sons of Abraham?”

“You would call them a cult, I expect.” Mansur sat up and reached for his robe. “Is there water?”

Ramses fetched the skin and waited impatiently while Mansur drank long and deeply. “Go on,” he said.

Mansur wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “They prefer to call themselves a faith. They are very old, many centuries old. They believe in the brotherhood of Jew and Arab, of all those who have lived in this land and become part of it. They work peacefully and patiently for freedom and in dependence.”

“And they let you join?”

Mansur’s lips curved in a tight smile. “Their goals are mine. However, after a time I realized that they were willing to wait for many more centuries rather than take the action that would win them what they want. They would lose, because the pacifists and idealists always lose.”

He paused. Ramses waited for a few moments and then prompted him. “You used the prestige you gained from being a member of this old and respected organization to instigate a revolution. You betrayed their principles. It took them a while to catch up with you, though.”

Mansur glanced up at the sky. The sun was visible over the top of the wall. “Matters did not go quite as I planned,” he admitted. “Have you a cigarette?”

Ramses had been hoarding them and the few remaining matches, but he wanted Mansur to go on talking. He handed them over, with a wary eye on the other man’s hands. Mansur wasn’t armed, and although Ramses wasn’t at his best, he was pretty certain he could take a wounded man.

That wasn’t what Mansur had in mind. He lit his cigarette and tossed the match aside. It landed in an inconspicuous pile of dried grass. Small flames licked up. Mansur leaped to his feet and kicked the spreading fire into a patch of weedy branches.

It had to be a signal. Ramses sprang toward it. Mansur kicked him in the ankle and he fell flat. When he pulled himself to a sitting position he saw Mansur standing over him with a sizable stone in his right hand.

“This is what you should have done to me,” he said, and brought the stone down on Ramses’s head.

“There! Do you see?” I shrieked, gesturing with my parasol. “Hurry, Emerson, hurry; they are being immolated!”

Emerson let out a string of oaths in a variety of languages and urged his steed to a gallop. I did not need to prod my driver; with a wordless whoop he cracked his whip, and our equipage thundered away in pursuit of Emerson.

If I had been thinking clearly instead of allowing the anxious heart of a parent to guide my tongue, I would have realized the verb was probably exaggerated. It was just as likely that the smoke was a signal from Ramses himself, to guide us. Still, haste was of the essence-all the more so because coming toward us, though still some distance away, was a sizable body of men wearing Turkish uniforms.

We would have missed the path if we had not been looking for it. Hardly more than a rutted track, it cut off to the left between two rugged banks. Still in the lead, since she had never slackened pace, Nefret swerved abruptly and disappeared into the cleft. Selim was close behind her and Emerson was not far behind Selim. I was on my feet, shouting encouragement and instructions to the driver, when we reached the spot. He made the turn so abruptly that I would have fallen had it not been for my firm grip on the rail and Daoud’s big hands holding me. The path was scarcely wide enough for a carriage-if it were carefully driven. Ours struck the side and came to a shuddering stop. Held erect only by Daoud’s grasp, I watched in stunned surprise as the driver leaped from his perch and cut both horses loose. Uttering equine noises of alarm, they trotted on up the path.

Daoud jumped down and caught the driver by the throat. “He turned purposely into the bank, Sitt Hakim. He is one of the enemy! But I will not let him harm you. I have him fast.”

The last sentence was certainly true. The driver’s headcloth had slipped down over his eyes and his scarf was twisted tightly round his neck. Clawing at it, he strove to speak but could only gurgle. Conceive of my astonishment, dear Reader, when he took the end of his nose between thumb and forefinger and wriggled it-twice!

The entire incident had transpired so quickly that the wheels of the carriage, two of them off the ground, were still spinning. I climbed out of the vehicle and approached the driver, remarking as I did so, “You had better release him, Daoud. Go on, I will catch you up.”

Daoud cast an agonized glance over his shoulder. Sounds indicative of combat floated down to us from above, echoed by running footsteps from below, at the entrance to the path. Whipping my little pistol from my pocket, I fired several shots toward the approaching soldiers. Since I had not actually hit anyone, I doubted it would deter them for long, but it might give them pause, in both senses of the phrase.

“Go on,” I said again. “That is an order, Daoud.”

Daoud was torn between his need to protect me and his desire to aid his friends, but his faith in me was unquestioned. He dropped the driver and ran. I pushed the fellow’s headcloth up and looked into a pair of bulging pale blue eyes.

“Ah,” I said. “Mr. Courtney Camden. Why did you not inform me of your true identity, and why did you wreck the carriage? Be succinct, I beg.”