Children Of The Storm Part 37

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

The room to which Francois 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 s.h.i.+rt and was.h.i.+ng 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s and ribs. In a moment of purely illogical, utterly feminine weakness, she compared her body to the graceful form on the divan, and s.n.a.t.c.hed up her s.h.i.+rt. How old was the d.a.m.ned 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 b.i.t.c.h 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 pa.s.sageway 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. Francois 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 Francois. "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.

Justin laughed gleefully and clapped her hands. "Plain as print, that face of yours. Why don't you just ask what they're doing? I don't mind telling you."

"What?" Nefret asked.

"By morning the Isis will be a different boat-fresh paint, a new name, the Stars and Stripes waving bravely at the stern."

Nefret nodded. "Clever, but not good enough. Where are we?"

"I don't mind telling you that either. We're at anchor near an island just south of Qena."

Only a few hours downstream from Luxor. He was only a few hours away. She tried to imagine what he-and the others-might be doing, how long it had taken them to realize what had happened to her-and Emerson. Then she remembered her mother-in-law's complacent statement: "I do not expect that such an eventuality will occur," and icy fingers traced a path down her spine. If they had been detained, by force or accident, at that obscure village, Ramses might not yet know she was missing.

"You are thinking of him, aren't you?" Justin cooed. "I can tell. So far as I know, he's in no danger, dear, and I feel certain he will rush n.o.bly to your rescue. But don't get your hopes up. They will have to follow by water, and they can't have put two and two together before dark. We are far ahead and they will have to be very clever to find us before we've accomplished our aim. Even if they do, they won't dare interfere so long as we hold two hostages. You are also hostages for each other. If you don't behave yourself, the punishment will fall on him."

"Is he hurt?" Nefret asked. "May I see him?"

Justin's lips curled into a tight-lipped smile, as enigmatic as that of an archaic statue. "Say 'please.' "

"Please."

"Later. Perhaps. He's not seriously injured, but he isn't very comfortable."

Maryam hadn't moved a muscle or uttered a sound until then; the movement was slight, only a jerk of her slim shoulders.

"Then I take it he won't be joining us," Nefret said. She too had flinched at the gloating malice in Justin's voice but she was trying to live up to Emerson's standards. "Who is the fourth? Someone I know?"

"Yes and no," Justin said. "I wonder what's keeping her. Waiting to make a grand entrance, I suppose. Francois, go and tell-ah. Finally!"

The woman who entered was tall and thin. Her wrinkled face and white hair bore the uncompromising marks of time, but her step was firm and her shoulders were straight. She had abandoned her veils and widow's weeds; her black dress was severely practical, with no concession to vanity, not even a ruffle of lace.

Justin pushed her chair back and rose, followed more slowly by Maryam. Nefret had been taught to stand up when an older woman entered the room. She remained seated.

"A criminal organization of women," she said. "At least you're not another of Bertha's get."

The old woman, whose name was almost certainly not Fitzroyce, pa.s.sed a caressing hand over Justin's bright curls. Then the same withered hand administered a sharp slap across Nefret's face, the sort of slap a governess might give an impertinent pupil.

"Your manners are not so pretty as your face. Stand up in the presence of your elders."

With a slight shrug, Nefret obeyed. The old woman went to the head of the table and seated herself. "Thank you for waiting, my dear," she said to Justin. "Francois, you may open the wine now."

"What took you so long?" Justin asked.

A cork popped and foam bubbled up over the bottle. "Clumsy oaf," the old lady snapped. "Pour it and don't spill any more. Where was I? Paying a little call on the Professor. It was hard to tear myself away."

"Is he all right?" Nefret asked. Champagne slopped into her gla.s.s.

"No, he isn't all right. He has a vile temper and the strength of an ox, and I'm taking no chances on his getting away. Now join me in a toast to our success." She raised her gla.s.s.

"You can hardly expect me to drink to that," Nefret said.

She expected a reprimand, if not another slap, but the old woman only smiled. Her collection of wrinkles looked like a map of Cairo, with its curving lanes and intersecting alleys. They were the result, Nefret thought, of weight loss in a woman who had once been stout and strong. She was by no means feeble, though. Her hand was all bones and sinew.

"I could have Francois pinch your nose and pour it down your throat," her hostess said. "But that would spoil the effect. Maryam-Justin . . ."

Ceremoniously they raised their gla.s.ses and drank.

The first course was soup of some kind. It was tepid and overflavored with onion. Even the cook must be one of the gang, Nefret thought. The wine was excellent, a pale hock, and Nefret allowed herself a sip. The sounds of activity outside were more muted now.

"What was it I didn't drink to?" she asked. "And who the h.e.l.l are you? Bertha's avenger?"

"Do you suppose I would go to so much trouble for the sake of revenge?" The old woman leaned forward, withered hands planted on the table. "Sentimentality is a weakness of the young. I had no objection to Justin arranging her cunning little accidents and epiphanies. She only succeeded in killing one of the men who had murdered Bertha, but some of the others were seriously inconvenienced and she enjoyed your fear and confusion. I stopped caring about such things a long time ago."

"If it's money you want," Nefret began.

"I want it and I intend to get it. This is an expensive operation," she went on, in a voice as practical as a banker's. "It took every penny I had saved and all the money Maryam inherited from her doting old husband. I believe it will prove a worthwhile investment."

The waiters removed the soup plates and replaced them with fish, white-eyed and dry as a mummy. Nefret was glad she had forced herself to finish the soup. She didn't think she could deal with that dead fish, and she definitely needed to keep her wits about her. She said, in the same matter-of-fact voice as the old woman's, "Perhaps we can come to an agreement. I can match-"

"Perhaps you could, though I doubt it." "Mrs. Fitzroyce" glared at the fish. "Disgusting. Take it away. Money isn't all I want. I am not, it appears, as impervious to emotion as I had believed. Three of you were primarily responsible for the death of the woman I loved like a daughter and admired as my leader. Not the poor fool who struck the actual blow; the ones who had tormented and foiled her. The satisfaction I felt when I beheld one of them in my power at last, helpless and suffering as she had suffered, took me by surprise. It would give me even greater pleasure to lay my hands on the others."

A calloused brown hand slapped a plate of beef down in front of Nefret. Blood formed a repulsive puddle around it.

"You were one of Bertha's aides," Nefret said slowly. "A member of her notorious organization of women. You took it over after she died. You must be . . . I've forgotten your name."

"It was a nom de guerre. We never met formally, but you may remember the nurse who was in attendance on a pregnant lady. Pregnant with that one," she added, frowning at Maryam. Her eyebrows squirmed like blind white caterpillars. "Sit up straight, girl. What are you sulking about? The failure of your romantic fantasy? I trust you aren't having second thoughts."

"It wasn't a fantasy," Maryam said sullenly. "It would have worked." Her wide hazel eyes moved from the old woman to Nefret and back.

"Nonsense. In any case, it's too late now."

"Matilda," Nefret breathed. "That was the name. Mother told us about you. It's she you want. Mother and-"

"The man who abandoned my girl for her. Her lover."

"They were not lovers," Nefret said indignantly.

The old woman cackled with laughter. "No? The more fool she, then. I took rather a fancy to him myself, but of course he never gave me a second look. I wonder . . . Would he be willing to exchange himself for you, little Maryam? Then you can have your precious Ramses, supposing you are woman enough to win him."

Maryam's mouth tightened. "He wouldn't agree. They must know now I'm as guilty as you."

"We can think of something," Justin said eagerly. "I'd like to know him better. Much better."

"Control yourself," Matilda said severely. "Revenge is all very well, but it must not interfere with our primary aim."

Nefret didn't have to ask what that was. Emerson had been right. There was only one way they could recoup their "investment"-by seizing the princesses' treasure.

"How are you planning to capture the steamer?" she asked casually.

Matilda grinned at her. "Clever girl. Since you're so clever, you figure it out. It will give you something to occupy your mind for the remainder of your stay with us."

WE WERE ON BOARD BEFORE daybreak. I do not believe anyone had slept, despite my admonitions. I know Ramses had not. The dark stains under his eyes looked like smears of charcoal. Waiting with forced patience for that moment when there was enough light to distinguish a black thread from a white, I stood at the railing looking toward the outline of the western mountains and reviewing our preparations to make sure nothing had been overlooked. The messengers were on their way to villages down- and upstream; signals had been arranged, so that any news could be immediately relayed to us. We had a crew of twenty, all thirsting for blood; we might have had fifty, had there been room for so many. Cyrus had brought his entire a.r.s.enal of pistols and rifles.

The greatest difficulty had been persuading some members of the family to remain behind. My orders had less effect than Ramses's appeal.

"If something goes wrong, the children mustn't be left without all their parents and grandparents. Lia-Aunt Evelyn-promise you will look after them."

At this point Gargery burst into tears.

"You too, Gargery," Ramses said resignedly.

"With my life, sir, with my life," Gargery sobbed. "But, sir, don't talk so discouraged-like. You'll come back."

"Not without her," Ramses said. He turned away.

I loved Nefret like a daughter, but it was of Emerson I thought in those last dark moments before sunrise. If I knew my spouse-and I did-they could not have taken him without a struggle. Did he lie even now wounded and suffering in some hastily contrived and horribly uncomfortable prison? Or had they already . . . No. I would not think that.

Our force consisted of Cyrus and Bertie, both of whom were good shots, Ramses, who was even better when he overcame his dislike of firearms, David, Selim and Daoud, Sethos, our twenty loyal men, and of course myself. I was fully armed, with pistol, knife, belt of tools, and the sword parasol I had retrieved from Evelyn. My blood was up, and I hoped I would have a chance to use the last item. Only hand-to-hand combat would satisfy my righteous wrath.

Ramses joined me at the rail. "You are grinding your teeth," he remarked.

"My blood is up," I explained. "I am going to tell Selim we are ready to push off."

"You don't have to tell Selim anything." The breeze freshened, blowing the hair back from his brow; we were in motion, gliding gently away from the dock. "I only wish we had a helmsman. Bertie and David know a bit, and so do I, but you had better pray we don't go aground."

The sun peeped over the eastern hills, blood-red, as suited my mood. Gradually the temples of Luxor faded into the morning mist.

If the Reader has a map before her (or, as it may be, him) she will see that the Nile does not run directly northward from Luxor, but in a gentle curve to the northeast. After approximately sixty miles it swings westward, in a sharper curve. What the Reader may not see are the innumerable smaller bends, curves, and bays-or the islands and sandbanks that interrupt the smooth flow of the river. A feature that looks small on a map occupies hundreds of yards on the ground. The vessel we sought might be concealed anywhere-or it might be miles ahead, steaming at full speed toward some unknown destination.

The wind tugged at my garments. The Amelia was capable of a fair turn of speed, especially downstream. How satisfying it would have been to race in pursuit, the rapidity of our progress keeping pace with our raging anxiety! It was a luxury we could not afford. We had to watch for signals from our scouts along the bank, and for the missing dahabeeyah.

After a time Sethos came to stand beside me. "Nasir has made coffee. Shall he bring you a cup?"

"Yes. No. Nasir should not be here. He is no fighter, he is only a steward, and not a very good one."

"Fatima sent him. Along with enough food to nourish a regiment for a week."

"Each of us serves in her own way," I murmured gratefully.

"Quite. Now, Amelia, gripping the rail in that white-knuckled fas.h.i.+on isn't going to help. I'll be right back."

When he returned, Nasir was with him, trying to balance a tray. I rescued the cup before it slid off, and thanked him-amd observed with alarm that the boy had strapped to his narrow waist a knife as long as my forearm.

"Oh dear," I said to Sethos, as Nasir staggered off. "We must keep him from engaging in combat."

"Be honest, Amelia." Sethos leaned forward, arms resting on the rail. "You would sacrifice Nasir or anyone else if it were necessary to save Emerson."

"Yes," I said.