Elizabeth Peters - Laughter of Dead Kings

His voice had soared into the high pitch of hysteria.

“Ashraf picketed the museum too,” I said, hoping to distract Jan from Schmidt. No good.

“Khifaya behaved with dignity. But Schmidt! Prancing up and down with that appalling banner, shouting rude slogans, handing out wurst to the spectators, like a circus clown…It was all on the television, and me, hiding behind a column like a frightened rabbit. He made me a laughing stock.”

“I was there too,” I said.

“ Aber natürlich. You would obey your superior.”

And I was a lowly woman. It was insulting but reassuring to hear Jan dismiss me so cavalierly. I didn’t think he would attack me unless I did something drastic. My body didn’t believe it. My mouth was dry and my heart was racing.

“Why isn’t he here?” Jan demanded. “The press conference ended an hour ago.”

“I expect he’s on his way.” I had to think of something quick, before Schmidt walked in. “Tell you what, Jan. Why don’t you hide in the bathroom. Then, when they get here, you can jump out and surprise everybody!”

Degrees of mania are hard to calculate. Like Hamlet, Jan was only mad north-northwest; he knew a hawk from a handsaw, or, in this case, a helpful suggestion from a really stupid idea.

“And what would you be doing?” His eyes narrowed. “But perhaps if I tied you up and gagged you…”

He’d have to put the knife down in order to do that. I had learned a few dirty tricks from John, and Jan had gotten flabby, but he was crazy and I was scared and what if he decided to knock me unconscious or use the knife in ways I didn’t want to think about before he…The alternative was worse, though. Schmidt, with that knife in his chest.

“Okay,” I said.

“You agree too readily,” Jan said. “Wait. I have a better idea. I will lock you in the bathroom and conceal myself behind the door.”

“Okay.”

I slid off the bed and stood up. I felt a little braver now that I was on my feet. I wondered if I could trick him into the bathroom and slam the door. No, that wouldn’t work, there was no lock on the outside.

Jan stood back and waved me through the bedroom door as I walked slowly toward him. Maybe I could make it to the door of the suite before he…No, that wouldn’t work either. He was so close behind me that I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. Let him shut me in the bathroom, lock the door, and start yelling? No good. He’d be on Schmidt the second the outer door opened, before anyone heard my screams or understood what they meant.

The decision was taken out of my hands. There was no warning, not even the sound of voices. The door swung open. As I had expected, Schmidt was the first to enter. Make way for Schmidt, the greatest swordsman in Europe! He stopped in the doorway, petrified and gaping. John and Feisal were behind him.

Jan shoved me aside and started for Schmidt. John tried to push Schmidt out of the way, but the solid shape of Schmidt only swayed a little. I was past thinking, I just planted my feet and grabbed hold of Jan’s arm. He swung around.

Something hard, like a fist, hit me in the side. It knocked the breath out of me for a second or two, and then I saw that Jan was on the floor, arms and legs thrashing, as Feisal tried to subdue him. John, who didn’t believe in hand-to-hand combat, put an end to it by kicking Jan in the head.

Schmidt was still on his feet, but he was very pale. I tried to ask him if he was okay, but my voice didn’t seem to be functioning. They were all staring at me. John came toward me, stepping as delicately as a cat in a puddle, his hands reaching. His face had gone as white as Schmidt’s.

“Easy,” he said. “Don’t move. Let me…”

Three words. That was all I needed, three little words. I tried to say them. Then the lights went out.

Icame to in a strange room. I lay still, wondering why I felt so peculiar and trying to figure out where I was. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a window. It was dark outside. The room was dimly lit. There was a funny smell. Several funny smells, actually. Not disgusting smells, just…funny.

I turned my head. The first thing I saw was a chair next to the bed, and someone sitting in it. Someone familiar. He looked very uncomfortable, slumped over, arms dangling, head bowed.

The name came back to me. “John?” somebody said. The voice didn’t sound like mine.

John sat up with a start. “You’re awake.”

“No, I’m not. I’m not even here. I don’t know where I am.”

“Shh.” He slid from the chair, onto his knees beside the bed. “You’re going to be all right.”

“I want a drink.”

“No drink, not even water for a while. Have a bit of ice.”

He slipped a sliver into my dry mouth. It dissolved like the nectar of Paradise.

“I’m in a hospital,” I said. “More ice. You look terrible.”

“So do you. Here, open your mouth.”

A door opened and somebody came in. I deduced that she was a nurse, on account of her wearing a nurse’s uniform. She did nurse’s things, smiled a professional nurse’s smile, and went away.

“How do you feel?” John asked. He grimaced. “Why do people ask imbecile questions like that, I wonder.”

“I feel like hell. What happened?”

“You’re supposed to rest.”

“I’ve been resting. Why don’t you sit in that chair?”

“I’m not sure I can stand up. My knees feel like Schmidt’s.”

“Have you been here since…Since when?”

“Since they brought you in. A little after midday.”

“What time is it now?”

“Night,” John said briefly.

“I want to know what happened.”

I hadn’t fully realized how drawn his face was until he smiled. “You sound almost yourself again. In a nutshell, Jan Perlmutter is locked up in a psychiatric ward, under guard, and Schmidt is fine. You probably saved his life—and lost your spleen in the process.”

“Is that an organ I can do without?”

“Generally speaking, yes. Anything else you want to know? You are supposed to be resting.”

“I want to know lots of things.”

He reacted to that harmless statement as if I had told a bad joke. Covering his face with his hands, he sat back onto his heels. His shoulders shook.

“Are you laughing?” I demanded.

“No,” John said in a muffled voice.

“Oh.”

After a few moments he took his hands away from his face. His eyes were wet.

I had never seen him cry. I didn’t think he could. I didn’t know what to say.

He took hold of my hand. “Schmidt and Feisal and Saida are in the waiting room. I’m supposed to tell them when you wake up.”

“Send ’em in,” I said grandly. “We’ll have a party.”

“You’re doped up to your eyeballs,” John said, shaking his head. “No party, not yet.”

“Stop squeezing my hand, it hurts. Can’t you just enclose it tenderly in your long, strong fingers, like heroes in books?”

His face lit up. “You are going to be all right. You sound like your normal, rude self. Do you know what you said, just before you keeled over?”

“Three little words,” I murmured.

“Three little words, yes. Words you fought a deadly injury to utter. Could they have been ‘I love you’?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You said,” John snapped, “‘Elizabeth of Austria.’ Why did you say ‘Elizabeth of Austria’?”

“I remember now,” I said drowsily. The shot the nurse had given me was beginning to take effect. “You remember her, the empress of Austria back in 1890 something…She got stabbed by an anarchist, he’d probably be called a terrorist these days, and then she went on walking for, gee, I forget how long, before she collapsed, because she thought he had just punched her in the side, and that was what it felt like, and I thought I should tell you that that was what it felt like, in case you didn’t notice—”