Children of the Storm (49 page)

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN FROM MANUSCRIPT H

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The boy wasn’t ill. She ought to have known it had been a ruse. He stood lightly poised, swaying with the motion of the vessel, and his face was as pretty and bland as a wax doll’s.

“Were you lapping the water like a dog?” Justin asked.

There was a note in his voice that sent alarm bells jingling through Nefret’s head. She tried to speak, but produced only a rusty croak.

“A nice cup of tea is what you need,” Justin said cheerfully. “Can you walk, or shall François carry you?”

The last hope faded when she saw he was not alone. What part he played in this she could not yet determine, but at best he was useless, incapable of understanding and too frail to resist. François had to be one of them, though. He reached for her, grinning unpleasantly. Nefret staggered to her feet, pushing his hand away.

“As you like,” Justin said. “Come with me.”

Nefret followed him along the passageway and into the saloon, with François close behind her. Smiling sweetly, Justin indicated a chair, and Nefret sank gratefully into it. Tea was set out on a table, a handsome service of silver, but there was no one in the room except herself and the boy and his attendant. Her eyes moved to the windows. It was dark outside. And the boat had stopped.

“Drink your tea,” said Justin, pouring. “You must be very thirsty.”

Something about the gesture, the turn of his wrist, caught Nefret’s attention. She watched him as he lay back against the cushions of the divan, one hand behind his head, the other gracefully limp.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

The light peal of laughter, a tone higher than Justin’s, was the final clue. My God, how could I have missed it? she wondered. “His” coat was open and the thin shirt clung to the curves of a woman’s breasts, now unconfined.

“My name, you mean? I have had a number of them. You may continue calling me Justin. It sounds a little like Justice, and that is what I am about to deal out.”

Nefret shook her head dazedly. “Why are you doing this? What do you want of us?”

“Justice. For a dead woman and her children. Come now,” she said impatiently, as Nefret stared openmouthed. “How stupid you are. Your family took my mother’s life and would have left me to die, unprotected and exploited, had it not been for her friends and my own talents.”

“Your mother,” Nefret echoed. She picked up her cup and burned her tongue on the scalding tea. “Who . . . ?”

“It shouldn’t be that difficult. How many women have met their deaths at the hands of your virtuous family?”

“None. Not even . . . Oh, good Lord.” Nefret gasped. “Bertha? You are her child? But—but that’s not fair, we didn’t even know you existed. Mother and Father would have helped you. They would help you now.”

“I don’t want help. What I want I will take, as my due, not as charity.”

Nefret couldn’t think what to say. In all their theorizing, they had never anticipated this. She sipped the tea, stalling for time until she could get her wits back. “What have you done to the Professor?”

“Not as much as he deserves.” François had taken up a position beside his . . . mistress. His scarred face twisted. “He is only chained and locked into that room. She wouldn’t let me—”

“I did not give you leave to speak.” The light voice pierced like a sword blade. François recoiled, and then dropped to his knees and began mumbling apologies.

“It really would serve him right,” Justin said, ignoring her groveling servant. “He has thrown all our plans into disarray. Would you like to know what they were, and how they have changed? François, where are your manners? Offer our guest a biscuit.”

“I’m not hungry,” Nefret said. “Tell me.”

Justin lay back against the cushions, her hands under her head, breasts lifted.

“Hathor,” Nefret said in stunned disbelief.

“On both occasions, yes. You suspected Maryam, didn’t you? I did it for her. She wants your husband. If the Professor hadn’t interfered today, she’d have got him.”

“Never,” Nefret said steadily.

“Oh, I think her chances were excellent. You see, our original intention was to get you aboard and then, wearing your clothing and hat, I would have gone ashore and strode briskly off into the alleys of Luxor. When I returned it would have been as myself. By the time your friends came looking for you, the Isis would have sailed and a dozen gaping witnesses would have reported you had left the boat.”

Watching her, Nefret was reminded of something Ramses had once said about the art of disguise. It wasn’t so much a matter of physical change as of demeanor and gesture, speech and movement. She had played a boy’s role well, but she couldn’t have pulled it off if they had not thought of Justin as not quite normal. No wonder she had reacted so vehemently to being touched. She might bind her breasts and wear loose boy’s clothing, but her body was a woman’s.

“But now that’s out of the question,” Justin went on briskly. “Those same gaping witnesses saw both you and the Professor board the boat; they had told him you were here and he was prepared to tear the place apart to find you. We had no choice but to move up the time of our departure and take both of you along.” She sighed. “Poor Maryam. She can’t go back and pretend innocence now.”

“Where is she?” Nefret asked.

“Sulking in her cabin. She’s been complaining all day,” Justin added contemptuously.

Nefret’s eyes wandered to the window. It opened onto the deck. The shutters had been thrown back. She could see stars, and the dark outline of land not far away. Her heart sank at the idea of abandoning Emerson, but if she could get onto the deck . . .

Nefret made a dash for the window. Her legs were still shaky, so it wasn’t so much a dash as a series of stumbles. François was after her the moment she moved. He twisted her arms behind her and held her.

Nefret shook the straggling hair out of her eyes. Knowing you look like a fright, dirty and sweaty and disheveled, has a demoralizing effect on any female. The woman lounging on the couch knew that; smiling, she ran her hands caressingly over her body. She made a very pretty woman with that head of crisp curls, bright as gold shavings, and that slender young body.

Nefret tried to stop herself, but it was no use. She had to know. “Why did you take Ramses prisoner? What would you have done to him if he hadn’t got away?”

“It was a test, of sorts, to see how well my people performed,” Justin said, stretching like a cat. “And I was curious about what Maryam saw in him. Then—well, I saw. I thought it would be fun to have him make love to me.”

“You’re insane,” Nefret said. “You couldn’t have made him do that.”

“Oh, yes, I could, if I’d had a little more time. I quite looked forward to it. I enjoy men, and he is a particularly handsome specimen—in every way. Maryam doesn’t appreciate that sort of thing. She only married that vulgar American because she wanted his money. She thinks she’s in love.” The tone was one of pure disgust.

“You’ve never been in love?” Nefret asked. She was following one of the family’s basic rules: Keep the other person talking, watch for a slip of the tongue or a moment of carelessness. One never knew what might turn up! And there was a horrible fascination in the conversation. She had never encountered a woman like this. But then, she reminded herself, I never knew Bertha.

“In love?” The pretty mouth curled. “I wanted him, though, and I’d have had him if he hadn’t got away from me. I may succeed yet. I generally get what I want, and I expect he’d be willing to do anything to keep me from hurting you.”

“Not anything,” Nefret said. “And you’d be a fool to let him get close to you when he’s angry.”

“What an innocent you are,” Justin murmured. “There are ways . . . I know most of them.”

She was baiting her prisoner, only too successfully. Nefret swallowed the sickness rising in her throat. “What are you going to do with us?” she demanded.

“Nothing just yet” was the careless reply. “We may need you.”

“What for?”

“Wait and see.” Laughing, Justin sat up and clasped her hands. “Wouldn’t you like to freshen up before dinner?”

The room to which François took her was a distinct improvement over the other. The shutters over the windows were closed, and barred from the outside, but the gaps between the wooden slats admitted air. There were a bed and a washbasin and even a lamp, hanging on a bracket by the washbasin. An impromptu prison, this, not as formidable as the other, but they had left nothing that could be used as a weapon or a tool. Bed and basin were bolted to the floor; they had even removed the stout wooden bar on the inside of the shutters.

Nefret moved purposefully around the room, looking into the cupboard over the washbasin and under the bed. The water pitcher was not a heavy earthenware vessel but a delicate bit of china, painted with pansies. It was part of the usual set. The other vessels were just as dainty; hitting someone over the head with one would only irritate him. The soap dish held a bar of scented soap. Apparently that diabolical woman really did want her to tidy up before . . . dinner? A towel and washcloth had been provided too.

Why not? She could at least wash face and arms. The tepid water felt wonderful against her hot cheeks.

It would have been heavenly to take off her clothes and sponge the dried sweat off her body, but there was no way of locking the door from the inside. She compromised by removing her filthy shirt and washing her upper arms and throat. The chemise that had been so fresh and white that morning was just as grimy as the rest of her clothing. The thin cotton stuck to her breasts and ribs. In a moment of purely illogical, utterly feminine weakness, she compared her body to the graceful form on the divan, and snatched up her shirt. How old was the damned woman? Younger than she by a good ten years. Maryam was even younger. Neither of them had borne two children.

And neither of them had Ramses, she reminded herself. She began taking the pins out of her tangled hair, remembering how his hands had stroked it over her shoulders. She had been a fool to let jealousy sour her mind and sharpen her tongue. He wouldn’t rest until he had found her, and her formidable mother-in-law would be hot on Emerson’s trail by now. She thought of Emerson, sweltering in the dark hold of her former prison, manacled and injured, and her jaw set. I’ll ask if I can see him, she thought. I’ll beg. On my knees, if the bitch wants that.

She looked for a comb, without success. They were taking no chances. Sharp teeth, even of celluloid, could rake painfully across a face. Philosophically she began running her fingers through her long locks, smoothing them as best she could. She stood up and tucked her shirt in. When the door opened she was behind it, the dainty pitcher raised. One must do one’s best, whatever the odds!

The door was flung back, flattening her painfully against the wall. The pitcher fell and shattered. A hand reached round, gripped her wrist and pulled her out of concealment.

“You have spoiled the set,” the doctor said, studying the pink-and-blue shards. His fingers squeezed like pincers.

He maintained the painful grip as he led her along the passageway to the saloon. A table had been drawn into the center of the room, covered with white damask and spread with china and crystal. Flowers filled an epergne in the center. There were four places set, but only two of the chairs were occupied. Nefret stopped, rubbing her aching wrist. The men who stood at attention behind the chairs didn’t look much like waiters. François was one of them.

She realized now what had been wrong with the room. It was as contrived and unreal as a stage setting, a recreation of stuffy respectability. Its artificiality was emphasized by the bizarre occupants—the heavily muscled, hard-eyed attendants, and the woman she knew only as Justin.

The name was particularly inappropriate now; she wore the robes of Hathor, complete with black wig and artificial cow’s ears. Maryam sat at her right. Her eyes were fixed on her plate. One of the companion’s loose black dresses made her look almost as shabby as Nefret felt, but the stolen pectoral gleamed on her breast, deep lapis blue framed by the gold curves of the two serpents.

“Where are the bracelets?” Nefret asked steadily.

“My, my, what admirable sangfroid,” Justin murmured. “Show her, Maryam.”

Maryam raised her hands, but not her eyes. The bracelets were clasped round her wrists.

“Sit there,” Justin directed. “At my left. That will be all, Khattab.”

“The good doctor isn’t dining?” Nefret asked, settling into the chair the waiter held for her.

“He’s no doctor, he’s a cheap abortionist who worked for me in Cairo,” Justin replied with careless contempt. “Hardly a social equal.”

Khattab’s shoulder blades twitched. He left the room without replying and slammed the door.

“Not that you are a suitable dinner companion,” Justin went on, inspecting Nefret critically. “Was that the best you could do?”

“Under the circumstances, yes.” Nefret was past caring about the woman’s taunts. “If you find my presence so offensive, why am I here?”

“Two reasons. We hadn’t finished our little chat. I enjoyed watching your reactions. You have such an open, uncontrolled face. And there is still such a lot you don’t know.”

“And the other reason?” She didn’t turn her head to look at the windows. The draperies had been drawn, but she could hear sounds of activity outside, on the deck.

“To join us in our celebration,” Justin said. She pulled off the heavy wig and tossed it to François. “Tomorrow—or next day, at the latest—we will complete our mission. It has been a year in the making, but it will be worth the wait.”

The only thing Nefret could think of was the family—her children, Ramses, her mother-in-law—all the others, friends and kin—caught up in the same web that had entangled Emerson and her. She told herself it was impossible to strike at all of them at once. Some of them, then. Which? And how?

Involuntarily she looked toward the windows. Some heavy object had fallen, thudding onto the deck; a round Arabic curse burst out, followed by a hissing adjuration to silence.