A River in the Sky

by Elizabeth Peters

  “It has about the same value as word of a German lady. That was just another gambit, to convince us to submit quietly to captivity. Which leads me to believe we’d better get out of here as soon as we can.”

  David’s bag was surprisingly and encouragingly full when they finished. The box of medical supplies, the rolls and sacks of cash, a pair of rather gaudy blue-and-white-striped pajamas and two of the galabeeyahs Ramses preferred for sleeping attire. A small adjoining bath chamber contributed several linen towels and a bar of soap. Some of the money went into their pockets, along with a roll of twine, a box of matches, and the scalpels from the surgical kit.

  “What if we can’t break through the screens?” David asked.

  “We’ll set fire to them. There’s some oil left in the lamp.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I want out of here tonight. When Frau von Eine turns soft and timid she’s up to no good.”

  The only object that might conceivably serve as a lever was the fluted rim of the lamp. While David pried away at one of the sides, Ramses inserted his fingers into several of the holes and pulled. A small segment broke off, then another. The wood was old and in some places rotten enough to yield to pressure, but progress was slow—too slow for his taste. The small frustrations and torments of the past few days had suddenly become unendurable.

  “How’s it coming?” he asked.

  “Not so good. If I had a proper lever—”

  “Why not wish for an ax while you’re at it? At the rate I’m going it will take all night to open a large-enough hole. I think the whole damned thing would give way if I hit it hard enough.” He picked a few splinters out of his fingers.

  “The fellow at the listening post might take notice of that,” David said drily. “We haven’t made a lot of noise or struck a light, but crashing through the screen would certainly get his attention.”

  “I have my doubts about the spy hole. She didn’t seem worried about being seen or heard with us, did she? It doesn’t matter. I’m willing to take the chance.”

  He didn’t have to ask David if he was willing. David would go along with any plan he suggested. It was a foolhardy plan, but the alternative might be worse, especially for David. He himself was his father’s son and a valuable hostage. If David became a nuisance they might decide he was expendable. They couldn’t know that the entire Emerson family would track his killers down with the same ferocity they would have demonstrated for Ramses himself.

  “Maybe we had better have a look before we leap,” David said. “How high up are we?”

  It was, like all David’s suggestions, eminently sensible. Ramses tried to remember the route they had followed when they brought him into the haremlik. An open stone-paved courtyard, then a long corridor, a flight of stairs, a turn to the right, another corridor. They were on the first floor of the building and toward the back. The main reception rooms were below and at the front. They probably faced, as was customary, onto an enclosed court. The harem quarters might face another court or even a street. The heavy screens were designed to keep lascivious eyes from ogling the beauties within. The beauties couldn’t see out, either, but at least the poor creatures got a bit of air. He applied an eye to the opening, which was roughly eight inches in diameter.

  The light came from a glorious full moon. Its rays illumined a narrow street lined with dwellings and shops. The shops were shuttered; there were no lights in any of the houses. The cobblestones of the street were a good twenty feet below. They looked extremely hard.

  AT THE LAST MOMENT the bandit, for such he appeared to be, veered away from me, toward the spot where Selim and Emerson stood. I cried out a warning. Emerson spun round and assumed a posture of defense as the apparition rushed toward him. Avoiding the blow directed at him, the fellow threw both arms round Emerson, pulled his head down, and planted whiskery kisses on both cheeks.

  “It is you!” he cried. “It is indeed you. We heard you were come to the Holy City but I did not allow myself to believe I would see you so soon. You will come to my house, you will stay with me and make my heart rejoice.”

  “Well, well,” said Emerson, freeing his head in time to avoid a second round of kisses. “If it isn’t Abdul Kamir. What are you doing here, you old villain?”

  I had of course risen to my feet, parasol at the ready, when it appeared my husband might be in danger of attack. Now I sank back onto the stony seat. Another of Emerson’s dear old, disreputable old, friends. Was there no spot on earth free of them?

  Upon closer examination Kamir did not look so menacing or so disreputable. His gray beard was neatly trimmed, the robes he had tucked up under his belt in order to run were clean and without holes. A pair of cracked spectacles perched on the end of his nose gave him a whimsical appearance, reinforced by his rotund frame and broad smile.

  “An Arabic Father Christmas,” said Nefret, chuckling. “He looks much jollier than the Professor’s old friends usually do. Perhaps he can solve our housing problem.”

  “We are certainly not staying with him,” I remarked—but softly, since Emerson was leading Kamir toward us. He presented all of us in turn. It took a while, since Kamir kept interrupting with effusive words of praise and plea sure at having the honor of meeting us.

  “Are you then the sheikh of this village?” I asked, when Kamir had run out of compliments. I knew the word could mean any number of things, from an actual position to a generalized title of respect.

  “No, no. But I am a man of importance here, with a fine house. You will stay with me, you will be my guests.”

  “No, we won’t,” said Emerson, who considers courtesy a waste of valuable time. “We need a house of our own, Kamir. Can you find one for us?”

  “Yes, yes. Come, I will show you now, you and your honored wife and your daughter. A light she is indeed, fair as the sun on the—”

  “Mrs. Emerson will decide on the house,” Emerson said, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other. He had come upon something that intrigued him and could hardly wait to get back to it.

  “But you will come and drink tea?”

  As Emerson was well aware, it would have been a serious affront to refuse the invitation. “Er—yes,” he said resignedly. “As soon as I…er. Go on, go on, Selim and I will be there shortly.”

  I asked Daoud to come with me, since I felt certain he would have come anyhow. He had not been favorably impressed by the locals he had met so far, and I had to admit that Kamir’s array of weaponry did not inspire confidence. “You, Daoud,” I went on, “and…Confound it! Where is Mr. Plato? Emerson, was he with you? Do you see him?”

  Emerson did not pause or look back. “He was here a few minutes ago. The devil with him. Proceed, Peabody, proceed.”

  “Really,” I said to Nefret, “the man is impossible. Emerson strictly forbade him to wander off.”

  “He is probably close by, Aunt Amelia, examining the terrain as the Professor asked him to do. Shall I try to find him?”

  “The devil with him,” I echoed. “Time is getting on and I want to find a house this morning.”

  I had assumed the task of selecting a suitable abode would be mine. In fact I would have insisted upon it, since Emerson’s notion of suitable does not agree with mine. Followed by Daoud, Nefret and I made our way toward the village along a steep but manageable path.

  “And where did you know the Father of Curses?” I inquired of Kamir, who was walking along next to me.

  “In Babylon, Sitt,” said Kamir, referring not to the city of the famed Hanging Gardens but to an area of Cairo. “I came here to—uh—retire. Is that the word? Yes, retire from my labors. It was many years ago, but who could forget the Father of Curses?”

  I did not inquire into the nature of Kamir’s “labors.” They had probably been illegal, and his “retirement” a hasty departure to avoid arrest.

  Our arrival had been heralded by some of the children, dashing ahead to announce the news. In such villages the arrival of strangers
is always of consuming interest. Women came to their doorways to stare; some called out greetings and questions. When Nefret and I responded in their language, cries of admiration rewarded us. I noticed that there were no appeals for baksheesh from the children who tagged along at our heels, and that even the village dogs kept their opinions to themselves. Whoever the sheikh might be, he kept good order in his domain.

  We inspected two houses. It did not take long. I had seen many such dwellings in Egypt: varying in size and state of repair, but similar in their basic plan. I selected the larger of the two, which had a spacious central room surrounded by bedchambers, one of which would serve as an office. The kitchen, such as it was, was located in a walled courtyard behind the house. It must have been vacant for some time, since there were birds’ nests in corners and the floors were littered with a variety of substances, from dust and dirt to petrified orange peels and bird droppings.

  As I had surmised, the house belonged to Kamir. He explained disingenuously that he had not rented or sold it because no one had been able to meet the price he deemed proper for such a fine house. I told him it would have to do, since he had nothing better, and haggled over the price—he would have thought less of me if I had not.

  We then proceeded to Kamir’s house, which was on a higher level. The village was a curious place, almost perpendicular, with houses perched on natural or buttressed ledges, but there was space for gardens and shade trees. Kamir’s house had both, surrounding an establishment of some size and, considering that he was one of Emerson’s old friends, remarkably clean and tidy.

  We were seated in the main salon drinking tea when Emerson finally joined us. After hurrying through the formal greetings—and trying, unsuccessfully, to avoid another affectionate embrace from Kamir—he inquired, “Everything settled, then?”

  “The first step has been taken,” I replied. “As you ought to know, Emerson, a number of other arrangements must be made before we can move in. I may be able to purchase some furniture in the mercantile establishments in the city, but I would prefer to deal with local carpenters who can construct simple bed frames, tables, and the like. No doubt Kamir can suggest likely persons.”

  Kamir assured me that he could. I was not at all surprised. He went on to remark, “If you have settled on the place where you want to dig, Father of Curses, I will speak to the owner of the land. You can trust me to get the best price for you.”

  “Damnation,” said Emerson. “I confess that particular issue had not occurred to me.”

  It ought to have done. This was not Egypt, where we had usually worked in designated archaeological zones under the control of the Antiquities Department. All the land hereabouts was private property, and although the Ottoman government could probably seize anything they wanted, we could not. However, when Emerson is intent on a new excavation he loses sight of minor issues.

  After stroking his chin and pondering, Emerson said, “I will do my own negotiating, Kamir. Have the own er here tomorrow.”

  This pitiable effort won a kindly smile from Kamir. One way or another he would get his cut of every transaction, from the carpenter to the servants we would hire, to the food we would purchase.

  “How many men and boys will you want for the dig, Father of Curses?” Kamir asked. “I will find them for you, I know the best workers.”

  “And take your cut of their wages?” Emerson gave him a knowing smile. “None of that, Kamir. I will hire my own workers. Many of them have had experience, I expect.”

  Recognizing this for the useless attempt it was, Kamir grinned back at him. “Oh, yes, and their fathers and grandfathers before them. The infidels have been digging here for many years, looking for sacred relics.”

  “They are searching for knowledge,” Emerson corrected. “Knowledge of the history of your people and theirs.”

  “What good is history to a man who cannot feed his children?” Kamir asked rhetorically.

  Emerson grunted. “I refuse to enter into a philosophical discussion with you, you old wretch. And who are you calling an infidel?”

  Daoud, who had been following the discussion with wrinkled brows, finally caught up. He let out a grumble of protest.

  “I meant no offense,” Kamir said quickly. “I bear malice toward no man, Moslem, Jew, or Christian. Are we not all sons of Abraham?”

  FROM MANUSCRIPT H

  No bedsheets, no rope, and no projection sturdy enough to hold a man’s weight even if they had a means of descending. Ramses’s sense of urgency was mounting. Ignoring David’s muttered remonstrance, he drove his fist into the section of screen next to the hole. Wood shattered and fell, some scraps inside, some out. A second blow and the opening was now large enough. He forced his head and shoulders through and looked down.

  The cobblestones extended clear up to the base of the wall, with no convenient shrubs or flower beds or heaps of trash to break one’s fall. The wall itself was of dressed stone, without ornamentation or breaks, except for a few windows, each covered by a grillwork of curved iron bars set close together. One of them was directly below.

  He reported this to David. “There’s a stone lintel about six inches deep, probably to keep rain out. I’ll lower you. From there it’s only a drop of ten or twelve feet.”

  “How are you going to get down?”

  “Don’t argue, David, just do it.” He sat down and began unlacing his boots.

  By leaning out the window as far as he could stretch, he got David down onto the lintel. He swayed unnervingly when Ramses let go his hands but managed to catch himself.

  Once David was on the ground Ramses dropped the pack into his lifted hands, tied his boots together by the laces, and tossed them down too. Then Ramses climbed out the window. The uneven edges of the screen dug into his hands as he let himself down, groping for holds with his bare feet. Like the interior of the old villa, the walls were in poor repair, with enough missing mortar and crumbled edges to make the descent easy for someone who had spent years climbing up and down the cliff faces in Luxor, till the soles of his feet were hardened and his toes almost as prehensile as his fingers. But it was a relief when his feet found the solidity of the lintel. He was about to lower himself the rest of the way when a warning hiss from below made him freeze, his body flattened against the facade.

  Until now the street had been deserted. The moon had set; in the starlight he made out a dim form coming toward him. David and the pack had disappeared—where, he couldn’t imagine. He felt as exposed as a lizard on a wall, but any movement, even the slightest, would draw attention.

  The pedestrian moved briskly, his sandals slapping on the stones. He wore a woolen coat over his abba and a scarf wound round his head. Ramses’s muscles tensed. If the man looked up and saw him he would have to jump, and hope he could silence the fellow before he cried out.

  The man passed out of his line of vision; he was directly below the window now. The regular slap-slap of leather soles didn’t stop or pause. A workman, still half asleep, hurrying to be on time for the job.

  Ramses let his breath out. He waited until the sound of footsteps had faded. Then he heard David’s whisper. “Come ahead. Quick.”

  Once on the ground, Ramses said urgently, “Let’s get away from here.”

  David drew him into the shelter of a recessed doorway. It wasn’t deep enough to afford adequate shelter for two. “We’ve got to get out of these clothes. The early birds will be waking up soon.”

  Ramses was twitching with nerves. It had been easy so far—too easy? He remembered a story he had read, about a jailer who let his prisoner get all the way from his cell to the outside of the prison before recapturing him.

  It was too late to worry about that. They had to go on, and fast. The next early riser might not be so unobservant, and European clothing would be remembered. He dug into the pack and pulled out the two galabeeyahs. It didn’t take long to slip them on over their clothes, or to tie the towels onto their heads with pieces of twine. The result wasn’t
very convincing, but it might pass if no one examined them closely.

  “Which way?” David asked.

  Ramses was about to say it didn’t matter when it occurred to him that the front entrance to the villa might face a plaza or a main thoroughfare. “Right,” he said, and led the way into the odorous darkness.

  They began to meet other pedestrians and a donkey or two, heavily laden with market produce. The sky had lightened and the cobblestones were slippery with dew. Ramses led the way, turning into one side street after another whenever anyone they met looked closely at them, or seemed about to speak. In the strengthening light their makeshift disguises were sure to arouse curiosity. Sooner or later they would have to find a bolt-hole and make a plan, but his only purpose now was to put as much distance as possible between them and the villa. Their best hope was to get out of the town and into the countryside, where they might find an abandoned shed or convenient ruin.

  When the sun rose they were still in the town—it was a town, possibly even a city, not a village. This area was even more wretched and refuse-strewn than the other sections through which they had passed. Most of the houses were hovels, piles of stone held together with crumbling mortar and bits of wood. One or two of the structures on this stretch of street, if it could be called that, were somewhat more pretentious. He knew what they were even before the flimsy door of one house opened and a pair of Turkish soldiers staggered out. Their tunics were unbuttoned, and they were boasting in loud voices of the pleasures they had experienced.

  The street cleared as if by magic—men, women, and even the dogs fading back into doorways and behind walls. Ramses had only time enough to drop to the ground, head bowed, hands cupped, and begin the whining litany of the fakir. “Alms, for the love of Allah, alms for the poor, O beneficent ones!”

  The men were dead-drunk—so much for the laws of Islam—and in no state of mind to be observant. One of them burst out laughing. The other called the beggar a filthy name, and kicked him in the side as they swaggered past.