Lord of the Silent: A Novel of Suspense (8 page)

earlier, and her eyes kept returning to the bandage on Ramses's forearm. Its primary function was to keep sand and dirt from infecting the wound, which was not deep. I had inspected it myself. "Physical force would not be necessary," Emerson declared. "Moral persuasion is what I had in mind." He sighed. "I really cannot spare the time, though. A pity. I wonder if-" I interrupted before he could go on. Emerson has not the patience for subtle hints, and that was what we needed now. "How were things at the hospital, Nefret?" I asked. "I trust Dr. Sophia is well. She must be very busy with all the wounded in addition to her usual patients." The color rose into Nefret's cheeks. "There aren't any wounded." "But every hospital in Alex and in Cairo is full," I said. "And the military is sending them on to England. Why-" "Why do you suppose?" Nefret's voice rose. "Because the bloody military won't let a woman surgeon or a woman physician treat their men, that's why! Sophia went round to headquarters in person as soon as the casualties from Gallipoli began pouring in. They thanked her and sent her away." "Damned fools," Emerson grunted. "It is worse than folly, it is criminal negligence," Nefret said angrily. "By the time the wounded are taken onto the hospital ships, many of their injuries are gangrenous, and the surgeons have to amputate. They don't suture the wounds, they just apply wet dressings and pray. An even greater number of the men are suffering from dysentery, jaundice, typhoid, and God knows what other diseases. We could save some of them if we were given the opportunity." "How do you know this?" Emerson asked. Nefret shrugged. "Not all the army doctors are blind fools. Sophia spoke to one of them, who had come round-without official permission-to ask for supplies. He was rather bitter." At the end of the day Ramses and Nefret came back to the house with us for tea. We were a little late-as we often were, since Emerson would have gone on working till sundown if I had not insisted he stop-so we found Sennia waiting for us on our rooftop salon, vibrating with indignation and, as she explained, faint with hunger. "How was school?" I inquired, for this had been her first day. "I did not like it," said Sennia, through a mouthful of cake. "It was very-" "Do not say 'boring,'" I warned. "But it was, Aunt Amelia." She was sitting on the settee between Ramses and Nefret. Nefret put her arm round the child. "Did you make any friends?" "No. The other children are-" "Boring?" Nefret laughed, but her lovely face was a little sad. "A new school is always hard at first, Sennia." "Was it hard for you?" "Oh, my, yes." Nefret and I exchanged reminiscent smiles. "Just ask Aunt Amelia. I didn't know the things the other girls knew, languages and music and deportment, and they "were horrid to me." "It was very hard for you, my dear," I said. I still regretted having put Nefret into a situation whose difficulties I ought to have anticipated. She had been thirteen when she came to us, straight from the remote oasis in the Western Desert where she had been born and raised. Intelligent and anxious to please, she had adjusted to civilized customs so quickly that I had believed her ready for school. I had forgotten that young children of both sexes are inherently vicious. Sennia would not have an easy time either. Socially and educationally she was better off than Nefret had been, since she had been with us long enough to learn our ways, but while Nefret had been a fair blossom of English loveliness, some of the little beasts would make fun of Sennia's dark skin and call her names. I wondered whether Saint Mary's might have been easier . . . Well, we would have to see. Sennia was a fighter, and should the occasion arise I would pay a few calls on the parents of the offenders-or send Emerson to call on them. If she really hated it we would have to reconsider the case. I said cheerfully, "In some ways it was more difficult for Nefret than it will be for you, Sennia. Children of six are not expected to know French and German or play a musical instrument. That is why they are sent to school, to learn those things." "I can play two tunes on the piano," Sennia said hopefully. "Thanks to your aunt Nefret." "Yes!" She threw her arms around Nefret. "Will I be able to play as well as you one day, if I practice?" "You will play much better," Nefret assured her. Horus had joined us, stamping up the stairs with a tread as heavy as a man's. Sennia began feeding him bits of biscuit and cheese, and I looked through the post, which I had brought up with me. "Anything of interest?" Emerson inquired. "No." FROM LETTER COLLECTION M

My dear Mrs. Emerson, I was delighted to learn that you and your family are back in Cairo. Will you-one or all of you-do me the honor of lunching with me on Thursday next? If I should be so fortunate as to receive an acceptance, I will reserve a table at Shepheard's for half past one, unless you would prefer another place. With sincere regards, Margaret Minton My dear Mrs. Emerson, I am so sorry that Thursday is not possible for you. Would Friday, which I understand is the day of rest for your men, be more convenient? If it is not, please suggest a date. Sincerely, Margaret Minton My dear Mrs. Emerson, You can continue to refuse my invitations, but in the small world of Cairo society you can't avoid me altogether. I have a particular reason for wanting to see, not only you, but your husband and your son. It isn't what you think. Won't you meet privately with me so I can explain? Yours, Margaret

Margaret, indeed, I thought, after perusing this last epistle. Our letters had been whizzing back and forth with the speed of bullets; I answered hers the instant they arrived and she did the same with mine. Obviously she had not changed since the days when she first incurred my ire, initially by pursuing us mercilessly in the hope of a story, and finally by falling in love with my husband. She had actually disguised herself as a housemaid in order to gain a position in our home, and it was during this period that she had succumbed, as many women did, to Emerson's numerous attractions. Servants are always hearing and seeing things, since one does not pay attention to them. At least one didn't used to. I did now. Was she still in love with him? She was a very determined woman, and few men can match Emerson. I was not in the least concerned about his being attracted to her. Not until the knowledge was forced upon him did the innocent man realize the depth of her affection, and it had embarrassed him horribly. All the more reason, I thought, to spare him additional embarrassment. I wrote a brief, forceful response in the negative and told Ali the doorman to have it sent by messenger to the Semiramis, where Miss Minton was staying. She turned up at Giza the following day. There were not many tourists in Egypt that winter. Citizens of the countries of the Central Powers were of course personae non gratae, the French and English were most of them deeply involved in the deadly business of war, and many Americans had been deterred from travel abroad because of the submarine threat. Desperate for work and baksheesh, the guides swarmed like flies over the visitors who did come. It was a piercing, poignant chorus of pleas that attracted my attention; I looked up from the rubble I was examining to see a crowd of the rascals scampering toward me. Not until they were close at hand did I recognize the form they surrounded. I leaped to my feet, hoping to head her off before she could get to Emerson, who was down below in the tomb. Seeing me, the guides retreated to a safe distance and Miss Minton proceeded to accost me. "Good morning, Mrs. Emerson." She held out her hand. Instead of taking it I inspected her from head to foot and back again, noting that her well-cut skirt was a trifle fuller than was fashionable and that her buttoned boots had practical, low heels. Her figure was still trim and her black hair was untouched by gray; but the marks of the passing years were visible at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth. A silent stare is often the best way of disconcerting an unwanted guest. It had no effect on Margaret Minton. Her smile broadened. "You ought to have known you wouldn't be rid of me so easily." "What do you want?" "I told you. A private conversation." "You won't get it here," I pointed out. "I will have tea with you on Friday next." "Will you? Or is that just a way of putting me off?" She removed her hat, a stylish Panama with a rolled brim and red ribbon, and pushed a loosened black lock back into place. "So long as I am here, I would like to have a look at your excavation. I've become very interested in Egyptology, you know." I considered various means of removing her by force. None seemed practicable. "I fear that is impossible," I said frostily. "My husband does not allow sightseers to interrupt his work. Go look at the pyramids." She had chosen her time well. I had been about to stop work and summon the others to luncheon. As we stood with eyes locked, like two dogs trying to stare one another down, Nefret emerged from the tomb chamber. "Aren't you ready for lunch, Mother?" she called. "Come and join us." She had taken Miss Minton for a tourist. Emerson, who was the next to appear, did not fall into that error. He had, as was his invariable and uncouth habit, removed his shirt as soon as the temperature began to rise; seeing Miss Minton he started, swore, and dashed back into the tomb. "Dear me," said Miss Minton, laughing. "Was that a hint that he doesn't want to see me?" "We are very busy," I began. "What a magnificent-looking man he is." "As I was saying-" Emerson forestalled my feeble attempt to dismiss the lady, reemerging with his shirt on. Tucking it in as he walked, he came toward us. "Miss Minton, isn't it?" "I'm so flattered you remember me, Professor." She gave him her hand. Emerson let it go as soon as he decently could, but the blunt manners he exhibits toward other men are softened by his hopeless sentimentality about women. He finds it very difficult to be rude to them. "Are you joining us for luncheon?" he asked. "No, no, I wouldn't dream of intruding," said Miss Minton. She glanced at me. "But if it wouldn't be too much trouble ... A glass of water, perhaps, before I go on my way? The air is so dry here." It was a request one could hardly refuse. Forcing a smile, I led the way to the shelter. We had taken Sennia with us that day, as it was a school holiday. She and Gargery were investigating the picnic basket Fatima had prepared while Nefret looked on and Ramses discussed with Sennia the relative merits of tomato versus cheese sandwiches. "What a charming domestic group!" Miss Minton exclaimed, her keen dark eyes taking in every detail, from Sennia's dusty black curls to Nefret's working costume of trousers and boots and sweat-stained shirt. "Please, let us not be formal; I am certain I can identify everyone except-" "Miss Minton," I said, with malice aforethought. "You remember our butler, Gargery." I failed to embarrass her. The corners of her rather wide mouth turned up. "I remember him very well. He gave me a memorable tongue-lashing one afternoon when he found me loitering near the library, a room outside the sphere of my regular duties. How are you, Gargery?" "Quite well, miss-madam-er-miss. Thank you." "And this must be the young Mrs. Emerson," said Miss Minton, offering her hand to Nefret. "I have heard so much about you." "I have heard a great deal about you too, Miss Minton." "You don't know me," said Sennia. "My name is Sennia. Are you a friend of ours?" Miss Minton gave her a sickeningly sweet smile. I could see she had had very little to do with children. "Why, yes, my dear. I have known your-er-family for a long time." Miss Minton then turned a stare like a searchlight on Ramses, who had risen to his feet. He was decently covered, at least, but the casual clothing he wore on the dig set off his frame to best advantage. "You know my son, of course," I said. "I remember him very well, but I would not have recognized him. What a difference a few years can make!" "More than a few years, I think," said Ramses. "Are you in Egypt on a journalistic assignment, Miss Minton, or for pleasure?" "A little of both." I filled a glass with water and pushed it into Miss Minton's hand. "So it is the truth you are after?" I inquired ironically. "As always, Mrs. Emerson." She sipped daintily at the liquid. "Thank you. Most refreshing. What I would really like, of course, is to make my way to the fighting lines." "There's not much going on in the Sinai just now," Ramses said. "I was thinking of the western front." Her lips twisted ironically. "The western front of Egypt, that is. The Senussi have crossed the border and we haven't enough men to drive them back. I'd like to see some action." "No, you would not," Emerson said. "Anyhow, you haven't a prayer of getting to Mersa Matruh. If you tried it on your own you'd be turned back before you left the Delta, and the War Office would never allow a woman into a fighting zone." "They aren't allowing any journalists into that area," Miss Minton said, her eyes flashing. "There are only four correspondents who have a War Office license; needless to say, I am not one of them. Ah, well. They will be evacuating the rest of the poor devils from Gallipoli before long; I am hoping to interview some of them. It is an open secret that the campaign was fatally mismanaged from the start. The inadequacy of medical care is a scandal the War Office is attempting to conceal." I glanced warningly at Nefret. There was no need; though her intent expression indicated her interest in and agreement with Miss Minton's statement, she remained silent. The dear girl had learned discretion from bitter experience, and she had heard a great deal from me about the untrustworthiness of journalists. "You appear to have unofficial sources of information about matters that are not common knowledge," I said, hoping to provoke Miss Minton into an indiscretion. I ought to have known better. She shrugged, and took another sip of water. "All journalists rely on such sources, and there is always someone open to bribery. Well, I must be going. It has been a great pleasure to see you all again and to meet your lovely wife, Ramses ... if I may use the name by which I used to call you." "It was Master Ramses," said my son coolly. "While you were employed as our housemaid." She gave him an appreciative, unembarrassed smile. "Touche- Mr. Emerson. You still favor plain speaking, I see. Good. So do I." To my surprise, for I had expected her to prolong her leave-taking, she started to walk away. The surface was uneven. There were pebbles and bits of broken stone littering the ground. However, I suspected it was not a coincidence that she tripped and lost her balance just as she was passing Ramses. He put out a hand to catch and steady her, and was visibly taken aback to find himself in a close embrace. Clinging to him, her arms around his neck and her body pressed against his, she looked up at him with a smile. "Thank you. How quick you were! You saved me from a nasty fall." "Bruised knees and scraped hands, rather," said Ramses, recovering himself. It is very difficult to disconcert Ramses for long. "Are you able to walk, or shall I call one of the dragomen to help you to your carriage?" "No, that won't be necessary." She detached herself with brisk efficiency. "I hope you didn't hurt your arm again when you caught me. What happened to it?" "Accidents frequently occur on a dig," Ramses said. "Ah." Miss Minton straightened her shirtwaist and tucked it in. "Well, then, good-bye. I will see you tomorrow, Mrs. Emerson. Five o'clock at the Semiramis?" "What was that all about?" said Emerson, as the trim little figure strutted away-there is really no other word for the way the woman walked when she was pleased with herself. I remembered that walk very well. I wondered too. Her stumble had been no accident, and her embrace had been deliberately calculated. It had not been a romantic advance. She was far too clever and sophisticated to resort to a trick like that one to get a man's attention, especially with that man's wife only two feet away. If it had accomplished nothing else, it had aroused my curiosity and convinced me that I had better accept her "invitation."

4

When I entered the Semiramis shortly after five I was met by the concierge, who informed me that Miss Minton had requested that I take tea with her in her room. Aha, I thought, I was right. She has something to tell me, or demand of me-some matter that requires privacy. This was not an ordinary social encounter. Not that I had ever supposed it was. I took the lift to the fourth floor, where the safragi escorted me to her door. It was a pleasant little suite, consisting of parlor and bedchamber; the parlor also served as her office, for there were books scattered about and piles of papers neatly arranged on a table under the window. After she had greeted me and offered me a chair, Miss Minton sat down behind the tea tray. "How do you take your tea, Mrs. Emerson? If I had remained in your household long enough to reach the exalted station of parlormaid I would know the answer, but-" "Milk, please. I marvel at your audacity, Miss Minton. You ought to recall your shameless masquerade with embarrassment and regret, not make a joke of it." "Ramses did. At least I assume he was joking. Come now, Mrs. Emerson, it was a long time ago; haven't you forgiven me for that harmless prank?" "I am not concerned about the past, but the present. You haven't changed your spots, Miss Minton. You would not have been so persistent if you only wanted to renew old acquaintances. What are you after now?" "Straight to the point, eh?" She put her cup on the table and leaned forward. "Believe it or not, renewing old acquaintances was one of my motives. I was particularly curious to see Ramses." "You did more than look." "Mmmm." The sound was like a cat's purr. "I knew he must be a grown man by now, but who would have supposed that infuriating, unprepossessing little boy would change so much? He's even handsomer than his father, and those shoulders . . ." She rolled her eyes and pursed her lips in an unseemly manner. "You are certainly in a position to know," I replied coldly. "What was the reason for that performance?" "I have every intention of telling you. However, I beg you will allow me to tell it in my own way, without questioning or interrupting me. You have heard many strange stories in your time, I expect, but this is one of the strangest. Perhaps I should begin by asking if you will do me the honor of accepting a copy of my latest book." She handed it to me. "I haven't inscribed it. You may keep it, give it away, or burn it, whatever you like; but first read the pages I have marked." "Now?" "Yes, please. It won't take long." A strip of paper indicated where I was to begin. I opened the book and glanced at the page. "It won't be necessary for me to read it. I remember this scene very well." The lines in her cheeks deepened, forming an attractive frame for her firm mouth. "One of the most thrilling scenes I have ever written," she said complacently. "You used the word 'silken' twenty-six times." Miss Minton threw her head back and laughed. "And 'voluptuous' twenty-eight times. Very well, if my style offends you so much I won't ask you to suffer it again. You recall, I am sure, that after requesting an interview with the Emir, I was escorted to a room in the palace where I remained for eight days, seeing no one except the slave girls who brought me food. I was treated with the utmost courtesy, but my repeated demands to see the Emir were ignored and I was prevented from leaving my room by guards outside the door-" "Until, on the eighth night, three burly eunuchs-wearing silken garments-came and escorted you to the audience chamber where the Emir-swathed in silken robes-awaited you. You attempted to ask him about the political situation in central Arabia; he responded with fulsome compliments, his bold black eyes scanning your form. You persisted. He offered to show you his secret correspondence with the spies he had set on his rivals and on the Turkish governor. Fearing the worst but knowing you had no other choice, you accompanied him to a small chamber-" "Voluptuously appointed with soft divans and silken cushions," said Miss Minton, grinning broadly. "It was where he kept his private papers, though." "And there," I continued, "the Emir cast off his silken robes; clad only in trousers and sleeveless vest-" "-of silk brocade-" "-he seized you in his arms. Struggling in his grasp, knowing it would be futile to call for help, you were on the verge of swooning when suddenly he released you and spun round, his hand on the hilt-" "-jewel-encrusted golden hilt-" "-of his sword. You sank trembling upon the silken cushions of the divan and what to your wondering eyes should appear but the form of a man, who had entered the room through a curtained doorway. Was he a rescuer or another foe? you wondered (pressing your hand to your heaving bosom, if I remember correctly). He wore the coarse cotton garments (I must say, that was a pleasant change) of a peasant, and in his hand he carried a naked blade. In deadly silence he rushed at the Emir, who drew his sword. The blades clashed. A grim smile playing about his well-shaped lips, the newcomer . . ." Miss Minton fell back against the cushions, whooping with laughter. She wiped her eyes on her napkin and remarked, "I knew it was bad, but I didn't realize it was as bad as that. Spare me the rest, Mrs. Emerson." "The end was never in doubt," I continued remorselessly. "Your defender's mighty thews (really, Miss Minton!) and tigerish agility soon overcame the Emir, who sank wounded and unconscious to the floor. Lifting your fainting form as easily as if you had been a child, the stranger carried you to the window and . . . well, to make an unnecessarily prolonged story short, he lowered you down to the ground with a rope-a silken rope, wasn't it?-led you through the dark deserted streets to where your men were camped, awaiting your return, and clasped you to him in a long passionate embrace before lifting you onto your camel and vanishing into the night." "Oh, dear," murmured Miss Minton. "Very well, Mrs. Emerson, you have had your fun. I hope you enjoyed that." "Why do you write such rubbish? You are capable of better; some of the passages in that same book are cogently argued and well expressed." "Why? Because it sells, of course. You know my financial situation; my father left me nothing but the empty title of 'Honorable,' and I am dependent on what I earn." Another smile deepened the lines framing her mouth. "You must have been struck by my rubbishy prose, or you wouldn't remember the very phrases I used." "You made it up out of whole cloth, didn't you?" "The story is true up to the point where the Emir took me to his private room. Would you like to know what really happened after that?" Dignity warred with curiosity and lost. "Well ..." Miss Minton rose and went to the table. Selecting a small sheaf of papers from one of the piles, she came back and handed it to me. "Here is the true version. I composed it soon after the event." FROM MANUSCRIPT COLLECTION M (MISCELLANEOUS) The Emir was only a boy, seventeen or eighteen at the most. A black mustache and goatee gave him a warlike look, but his cheeks were as smooth as those of a girl. He reeked of attar of roses and clanked with jewelry. I wondered he could raise his hands; there were rings on every finger and both thumbs. Enameled brooches set with emeralds and rubies pinned his garment; through his sash had been thrust a dagger that had to be purely ornamental-the hilt was so heavily encrusted with gemstones it would have been impossible to get a good grip on it-and on the front of his turban was an ornament many a woman would have sacrificed her virtue to possess-a spray of diamonds eight inches long and four inches across, with a white egret feather sticking up from it. We were alone in that vast-columned audience chamber, but I knew there were guards at the doors. The invitation, though courteously couched, had been a command. I couldn't be any worse off than I was, and after all, what choice had I? When he gestured again for me to follow him, I did so. He managed to keep a step or two ahead of me, as male dignity required, but he had to trot, and he kept shooting resentful glances at me over his shoulder. I stifled a laugh. Which only went to prove that I had a lot to learn about boy emirs. The room we entered was a surprise. There was a divan, there were cushions, and a low brass table with vessels of silver containing dates and sweetmeats; but there was also a modern, workmanlike desk covered with papers. "The most important papers are there," the Emir said, indicating a curtained doorway. "But first let us sit and talk like friends. You appear warm. Take off your coat." "I am quite comfortable, thank you." Involuntarily I drew the garment closer around me. "You will be more comfortable without that heavy garment." He rolled his eyes and moved slowly toward me. "It does not become you. Why do you dress like a man, Sitt, when you are very much a woman?" "The papers-" "Later." I had stood my ground and not backed away as he approached. I was suffering from that inconquerable and imbecile sense of superiority which is born and bred in our class, and fool that I was, I could not help thinking of him still as a boy. I was honestly rather surprised when he caught hold of me. He was stronger than his foppish attire had led me to believe; I had conveniently ignored the fact that the Rashid's were fighters, and that this "boy" had probably killed his first man before he was fourteen. Instead of struggling, which would have been wasted effort, I looked him straight in the eye and said haughtily, "I am not one of your women. Let me go and we will talk like friends and equals." "You are not my equal. No woman is. Come, embrace me. I promise you will enjoy it." His lips crawled across my cheek. So much for moral superiority; I had always suspected it wasn't effective except in fiction. To my surprise and disgust, I heard myself scream. I won't put that in the book; I hate to admit it even to myself. Not only was it contemptible, it was futile. Who would come to my rescue here? I am going to write this down just as it happened, but I wouldn't believe it if I had not been there. The Emir pushed me away, with such force that I staggered back, tripped on the edge of a rug, and fell ungracefully onto the divan with my heels temporarily higher than my head. By the time I got my breath back they were engaged in hand-to-hand combat, the Emir and another man who had appeared from nowhere. The boy was no coward; closing with his opponent, he got both hands around his throat. Instead of trying to break his hold, the other man delivered a series of hard blows with his knee, his elbow, and the edge of his hand. The first two were well below the belt, or in this case, sash; the last caught the Emir on the back of the neck as he doubled up, clutching his stomach. He crashed to the floor and lay still. The newcomer took a step toward me and then stopped as if he had run into a glass wall. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and well-built, the skirts of his cotton galabeeyah tucked up to display muscular calves. The black beard and the folds of his kaffiyeh concealed all his features except for a prominent hawklike nose. "Who the devil are you?" he demanded. I gaped at him, too astonished to answer. His complexion, his costume, and what I could see of his features were those of an Arab, but he had spoken educated English, without the slightest trace of an Eastern accent. Two quick strides brought him to my side. He took me by the chin and tilted my face toward the light. "The resemblance is not so exact after all," he remarked. "You must be the damned fool English journalist they're gossiping about in the bazaars." The reassurance of the language, the speech of a man of my own nation and class, restored my courage. I tried to pull away from him, but he only tightened his grip. My chin felt as if it were being squeezed in a vise. "Who the devil are you?" I asked. "Were you sent here to rescue me?" "You came here of your own free will, didn't you? What makes you suppose you need rescuing?" "He tried to make love to me!" "He did?" The unknown released his grasp and grinned. "That's Ibn-Rashid for you. Can't resist a joke." "A joke? How dare you? He was about to-to ..." "Oh, I doubt it. He knows better. Since his uncle was assassinated-they're heavy on assassination here-his mother and his maternal uncles are the real power behind the throne, and he wouldn't dare go against their wishes. Raping and/or murdering a British subject would get them in serious trouble, and they are not ready to risk that. Too busy playing one side off against the other." Picking up a heavy brass vase, he bent over the Emir, who was beginning to stir, and struck him smartly on the head. "You've really complicated matters," he said in tones of mild vexation. "You had better come along with me. Rashid is going to be a trifle annoyed about this, and he might take it out on you. At least you're sensibly dressed. That fetching ensemble was another thing that misled me; she favors trousers too." "She? Who? What are you going to do?" "First I'm going to tie him up." He removed the Emir's beautifully embroidered sash and bound his hands behind him. "If you hadn't distracted me I'd have done the job and been gone without his knowing I was here." "Why should I go with you? I don't know who you are. I could be going from the frying pan into the fire." "You could be. If I were in your place I'd risk it, though. The frying pan has begun to sizzle." He finished binding and gagging the Emir with bits of his clothing and rose to his feet. "You can come willingly or draped inconveniently over my shoulder. I'll have to knock you unconscious first, you understand. It will hurt. Well?" "Oh, for God's sake, stop dithering." He caught hold of my wrist and raised his other arm. His fist was clenched. He was going to hit me! "Don't, don't! I'll come." "I should damn well think so." A muffled groan from the Emir drew his attention away from me. Ibn-Rashid was conscious. His eyes were the only part of his body he could move, but they were eloquent. I no longer doubted that a possible fire was preferable to a certain grilling. My rescuer-if that is what he was-threw his shoulders back and planted his hands on his hips. His pose, the tilt of his head, a dozen small changes I could see but not define, turned him into the ruffian he had first appeared to be. "Forgive my rude treatment, lord," he said in fluent Arabic. "But you see how it is. You are a rich man and I am a poor man. Does not the Prophet teach that helping the poor is pleasing to God?" Bending over the Emir, he deftly removed the brooches and chains and unfastened the glittering turban ornament. "I will take the woman too," he said, tucking the objects into his pouch. "She would not bring much from the brothel owners, but perhaps the Inglizi will pay."
Ibn-Rashid's eyes were popping and his forehead was beaded with sweat. I hoped he had begun to realize he might be in a spot of trouble if someone came looking for me, and he had to admit his impetuous behavior had caused him to lose me. The other man made him a mocking salute, hands together under his chin, head bowed, and then walked toward me, with a slow, insolent stride. I backed away. I would like to claim my movements were calculated and that I understood what he intended, but honesty compels me to admit my retreat was purely involuntary. His back to the Emir, he bared white teeth in what I hoped was a smile, and swung his fist. It barely grazed my jaw. In case I hadn't got the idea, he administered a brisk kick on the ankle, and as my knees buckled he scooped me up and tossed me over his shoulder. I had the sense to close my eyes and let my body go limp, though it was a damnably uncomfortable position. He carried me through the curtained doorway and set me on my feet. The room was unlighted except by moonlight, but I could see cupboards lining the walls. The door of one of them was open; papers had spilled out onto the floor. I picked one of them up. "What do you think you're doing?" His voice was almost inaudible. "Put that down and come here." "It's his private correspondence." I tried to keep my voice as soft as his. "What a story I could write if I had some of these letters!" "And what a pretty sight you would be hanging upside down from the gate of the palace with crows picking at your eyes." He struck the paper from my hand, added it to the others that had fallen on the floor, and put them back in the cupboard. "Uncle Ismail and Mama won't bother pursuing a worthless female they were about to send on her way anyhow, but if you had those letters they wouldn't rest until they got them-and you- back." He went to the window and then turned, holding something I couldn't identify in the darkness. "I don't suppose you can climb down a rope? Young women today have so few useful skills. I'll lower you. As soon as you're on the ground, untie it and get out of the way." He fastened the end of the rope round my waist and hoisted me unceremoniously into the embrasure. The window gave onto a walled garden, shadowy with trees and flowering shrubs; the sweet scent of some night-blooming flower reached my nostrils. The ground looked a long way down. I took a deep breath and turned round, so that I was lying across the sill, with my feet dangling and my hands gripping the window frame. "You took the jewelry to make him believe you are a common thief," I whispered. "My dear girl!" His voice was light with laughter. "I took the jewelry because I am a thief, though not a common one. The turban pin alone is worth several thousand pounds. Stop talking and let go. I've got you." The only thing that gave me nerve enough to loosen my grip was the knowledge that if I hesitated he'd shove me out. The rope tightened; it felt as if it were cutting me in two. He lowered me in a series of quick, breath-stopping jerks. My feet hit the ground so hard my knees buckled. He was already halfway down before I had loosened the slipknot and stepped aside. "How did you get up there?" I asked breathlessly. "Climbed the wall. I took a rope along since it is sometimes advisable to beat a hasty retreat. Good Lord, you talk almost as much as she does. Follow me and keep quiet." He led the way through shadowy aisles of shrubbery to the far wall. It was of mortared stone and over ten feet high. Moonlight glittered off a fractured surface. "That's broken glass," said my companion informatively. "I cleared a space, but it's only about two feet wide, so be careful where you put your hands. You'll have to stand on my shoulders. How are you at acrobatics?" "I'll soon find out, won't I?" His lips parted in a smile. "Quite. Here we go." I managed it by leaning against the wall to keep my balance while he lifted me and pushed from below. Nimble I was not, but I got there. Squatting, I looked down and saw two astonished faces looking up. "Allahu akhbar!" said one. "It's a woman. Where does he find them?" The other man said, more practically, "Turn, Sitt, and lower yourself by your hands. I will catch you." My palms as well as my knees were bleeding by the time I got myself down. We must have been outside the confines of the palace now; a narrow lane led off to right and left. The high walls on either side cut off the starlight; I couldn't see anything except the pale robes of the two men and some shadowy shapes that appeared to be horses. A few moments later my rescuer dropped down beside me. "Stand still," he ordered. "Don't move." Taking the other two aside, he spoke to them softly and urgently. I couldn't make out the words, but I was pretty sure he wasn't speaking Arabic; the rhythms of the language are quite distinct from those of English. One of the other men laughed; their leader, for so he must be, responded with a curt reprimand. Then he came back to me, leading a horse. He pulled his robe off and handed it to me. "Put this on." I got the thing over my head and tried to find the sleeves. He swung himself into the saddle and reached down. "That's good enough. Leave your head and face covered." It sounds so romantic when one reads about it. Held in the curve of his arm, my face pressed to the hard muscles of his chest, riding off into the night through a city filled with enemies! I couldn't see, I couldn't draw a deep breath without inhaling folds of coarse cotton, something was jabbing into my left hip, and . . . and I wished it could go on forever. Finally he pulled the fabric away from my face. "We're almost there. Your men should be packed and ready to go. We took the long way round, just as a precaution, but Ed- one of my people-went directly to their camp and warned them. I am telling you this much so you won't delay me with a lot of damned fool questions that I don't intend to answer." "Who-" "Especially that question." After a brief silence he went on, in quite a different tone of voice. "You don't owe me anything. They'd have let you leave eventually, with your virtue and your skin intact. The boy has a rather crude sense of humor, that's all. I expect you will be unable to resist the temptation to describe tonight's little adventure for your newspaper, in the most lurid terms you can invent; but if you would care to do me a service you won't mention my-er-linguistic abilities." "You mean I mustn't say you were English." "You're jumping to conclusions. I might have been a Rooshian, or French or Turk or Prooshian-" "Who quotes Gilbert and Sullivan?" "Why not? Look here, I gave myself away once, out of sheer astonishment-and no, I won't explain that either-but-" "I promise. I won't say a word. Will I-will I ever see you again?" "I devoutly hope not." The horse had stopped. He lowered me to the ground and dismounted. I'd been so intent on listening to his voice, trying to get a closer look at his face, I hadn't been aware of my surroundings. We were on the edge of the city, at the place where my men had set up camp. They crowded round me, apologizing and exclaiming with relief. "Enough," said my companion in Arabic. "Take the Sitt and begone. Here is money to bribe the guards." He tossed the leather bag to Ali, who weighed it in his hand and smiled. "It is enough to bribe the vizier himself. We are almost ready, Effendi. There is only the Sitt's bathtub to be loaded onto the pack camel." He trotted off, leaving me facing my rescuer. "Bathtub?" he said under his breath. "No wonder the sun never sets on the British Empire." "At least I'm not traveling with crystal stemware and fine china and damask tablecloths, like Miss Gertrude Bell." "Oh, so it's Miss Bell you're trying to outdo, is it? I'm afraid she would consider you had let the side down." He was wearing only a loose shirt and a pair of knee-length drawers. The moonlight gave them a pale luster but left his face in shadow, except for the tip of that arrogant nose. He started to turn away. "Good night." "Wait. Er-don't you want your robe back?" "Keep it. And borrow a kaffiyeh or scarf from one of your men." "Yes, I understand." "What are you waiting for? Oh. This?" He drew me into his arms and kissed me. It was a long, lingering kiss, and I think he enjoyed it more than he had expected; but it was he who broke away, detaching my clinging hands and pushing me unceremoniously toward my kneeling camel. Ali was there to help me mount; when I looked round, he was gone.