A River in the Sky

by Elizabeth Peters

  Clouds hid the sun and a brisk breeze tugged at my hat brim. It would have taken more than inclement weather to stop me. The autumn rainy season, with its heavy downpours—the inundation of the river in the sky—was still a month away. If a shower were to occur, it would be brief, and I had my useful parasol.

  I had hoped to find Ali Bey on duty at the barricade, but he was nowhere to be seen. I asked the fellow on duty where he had gone and got only a stare and a shrug; but the invocation of that mighty name got me past the ropes. I made my way to Morley’s tent, observing with some surprise that the toiling workmen were not at their task. The windlass hung empty from its support. Was that an indication that Morley had found what he sought, or that he sought it elsewhere?

  It is not possible to knock at the flap of a tent. I called out. At first there was no response except for sounds of movement within. Someone was there, then, probably Morley himself. He could—and would—tell me where the lady was staying. I called again, announcing myself by name.

  The flap was drawn aside, just far enough to show Mme von Eine herself. She was dressed with her usual elegance, not a hair on her fair head ruffled. “Mrs. Emerson! What a surprise. If you are looking for Major Morley, he is not here.”

  “I am looking for you,” I said, clutching my hat. “I was not expecting to see you, but I hoped to get your address from the major.”

  “I see.” It was clear she wanted me to go away. Naturally, that made me all the more determined to stay.

  In retrospect, that might not have been one of my wisest decisions.

  After several long seconds she said, “Come in, then.”

  She drew the flap farther aside. Not until I was inside the tent did I see the man sitting at a table to the right of the entrance. I had never beheld him before, but I knew at once who he must be, for his appearance matched Ramses’s description. The first part of my third question had received an answer.

  Discretion, perhaps, would have dictated a speedy withdrawal. With the speed of light, alternatives raced through my mind. The lady stood between me and the exit, and Mansur had risen to his feet. They could easily prevent my departure. The only hope, it seemed to me, was to feign ignorance of Mansur’s identity and pretend that my motive for seeking Mme von Eine was purely social.

  “I apologize for intruding,” I said. “I did not know you were entertaining a friend. I will come another time.”

  “I cannot possibly let you go,” Madame said. “Without offering you a cup of tea. May I present Mr. Abdul Mohammed.”

  “How do you do?” I produced my best social smile and inclined my head, without taking my eyes off his face. It was worthy of attention, with the combined delicacy and strength of a master carving. Only the shape of his mouth spoiled the nobility of his countenance. It had curved into a thin-lipped smile. He wore a robe of creamy-white wool, embroidered at the neck and around the sleeves, and when he acknowledged my greeting by raising his hands in salute, I noticed he moved one arm stiffly.

  Mme von Eine seated herself behind the tea service and waved me to a chair. “Do you take milk? Sugar?”

  “Neither, thank you.”

  The tea was tepid. I sipped it while I examined my surroundings. The tent was fitted out with all the luxuries money can buy, including several crates labeled “Fortnum and Mason” and another that bore the mark of a famous winery. Nothing I saw inspired an idea, or the means, of a daring escape. The silence of my companions, and Mansur’s fixed smile, persuaded me that there was little chance of their letting me go. I would have to make a dash for it.

  Under cover of the table I slipped my hand into my pocket. When I jumped up I was holding my little pistol.

  “I must make my excuses,” I said, pointing the gun at them. “Don’t move, either of you.”

  I began backing toward the exit. The wind had risen; the tent shook and creaked and a blast of air tugged at my hat.

  “Why, Mrs. Emerson,” said the lady, opening her eyes wide. “What has come over you?”

  Mansur only smiled more broadly. He lifted his left hand and brought it down in a chopping motion. Pain blossomed through my head, and my eyes went blind.

  WHEN I CAME TO my senses I was lying on one of the beautiful oriental rugs, with my hands and feet tied. Bending over me was Mme von Eine, her face set in a look of hypocritical concern.

  “Gott sei Dank,” she exclaimed. “You are not seriously injured.”

  “There was a guard,” I muttered. “He was not on duty when I came in…”

  Mansur looked up from the paper he was reading. I recognized it as my list; I must have put it in my pocket without realizing it. “Most illuminating,” Mansur said with a tight smile. His voice was as deep and his English as excellent as Ramses had described. “If I had entertained any doubts as to your involvement, this would remove them. As for the guard, the fellow must have gone off on a—er—private errand, but he has redeemed himself by returning in time to obey my orders.”

  “You forced us to act,” Madame said. “Your behavior was most extraordinary.”

  “The conventional excuse of the villain—‘You made me do it,’” I said. “What am I going to make you do next?”

  “Why, nothing, except to keep you comfortable and safe until we are certain you have recovered from your fit of hysteria. Mansur will watch over you. Good afternoon, Mrs. Emerson.”

  Only pride prevented me from begging she would remain. She would never commit an act of violence with her own hands, or even watch its being done. She would only authorize such an act, explicitly or by her silence. All down the centuries evil men—and a few women, I admit—had maintained their innocence of murder and torture by remaining aloof from the actuality. I doubted that Mansur would be deterred by those hypocritical excuses.

  However, if I could keep him talking, something might yet turn up!

  “What precisely is it you hope to accomplish here?” I asked.

  He looked up from his examination of my pistol and an expression of genuine amusement transformed his face.

  “You live up to your reputation for forthrightness, Mrs. Emerson. Do you really expect me to answer that question?”

  “It never hurts to try,” I said, squirming about in an effort to find a more comfortable position. The ropes were not tight, but my surreptitious efforts to loosen them had had no effect. “If you are planning to dispose of me, there can be no harm in satisfying my curiosity before you do so.”

  “Believe me,” he said earnestly, “I don’t want to kill you.”

  “It is against your principles as a civilized man?”

  “You heard that from your son, didn’t you? What else did he tell you?”

  “Quite a lot. The other members of my family know everything he knows.”

  Mansur shook his head. “They know it secondhand, as do you. The only person who threatens my cause is your son. If he is willing to exchange himself for you, you will be released unharmed.”

  “No,” I exclaimed. “Impossible. I won’t permit it.”

  “You cannot prevent it. Nor can the other members of your group. We have our methods, Mrs. Emerson. The message has already been sent. It will be delivered to him in private, and if he is as wily as I know him to be, he will respond to it without letting anyone else know.”

  “O God,” I whispered. It was a prayer, not an expletive. Having made that appeal, knowing it would be understood, I said, “But how can you reach him without…Ah. The Sons of Abraham? You have been expelled from that group, you have no more power over its members.”

  “The word of that event has not yet spread to all the persons involved.” He smiled. “You amaze me, Mrs. Emerson. Your powers of concentration function under the most adverse situations. I do hope my little scheme succeeds, for it would distress me, personally as well as philosophically, to be forced to harm you.”

  “There it is again,” I said scornfully. “The specious reasoning of the villain. No one is forcing you to do anything. You are th
e master of your destiny and you bear the responsibility for your acts.”

  His face darkened, and he turned away without replying.

  I had struck a nerve of some kind, but I did not pursue the conversation. Continuing to tug at my bonds, I strained my ears for the sound of someone approaching. How long had I been unconscious? How long would it take the message to reach Ramses? That he would respond instantly I did not doubt. If I could shout loudly enough, call out a warning…

  Time seemed to stretch out forever. Mansur sat brooding over his cold tea. The wind had subsided somewhat. I thought I heard movement outside and drew a deep breath, but hesitated. It might have been the guard I heard. If I cried out, Mansur might decide to gag me.

  There was no further sound, no warning. The tent flap lifted and Ramses entered. His eyes found me where I lay, my lips parted but incapable of speech. He held a knife. The blade was darkly stained.

  “All right, are you, Mother?” he inquired. “I came as soon as I could.”

  Mansur got slowly to his feet. “You killed the guards. Very civilized. The poor devils were only doing their duty.”

  “Obeying orders,” Ramses corrected, with a curl of the lip. “It went against my instincts, of course, but—”

  “You had to do it,” said Mansur, curling his lip. He didn’t do it as well as Ramses.

  “No. I didn’t have to. I had a choice and I made it. You see, Mansur, I can’t trust you to keep your word. Now it’s between you and me. Free her and I’ll stay here.”

  Mansur took a step toward me. Ramses was quicker. With two deft slashes he cut the ropes that held me. I felt the warm stickiness of blood against my wrists. I knew it was not my blood.

  “A bit stiff, are you?” he asked, extending a hand to help me rise. “Go now, Mother. With celerity, as you might say.”

  He smiled at me. I felt an odd pang in that region of the anatomy that is often mistaken for the heart. His eyes were bright and his cheeks were flushed. Haste or excitement might be responsible, but I doubted it. I spun round, not toward the exit but toward the table where my little pistol…

  Had lain. It was now in Mansur’s hand, and it was pointed at me.

  “I’m afraid I cannot allow that,” he said, attempting to emulate Ramses’s coolness. “I will keep my word, but she must stay here until morning.”

  “So it’s for tonight, is it?” Ramses inquired, trying to get in front of me.

  “What?” I asked, avoiding the attempt.

  “I’m beginning to get a vague idea,” Ramses said. He glanced at an object I had not noticed before—a prettily carved box that stood on a nearby table. “I see she left the job to you, Mansur. I wouldn’t recommend it. You could just as easily—”

  Suddenly he flung himself at me. We both fell to the floor, with Ramses on top, and the gun went off, two, three times. I felt Ramses flinch and tried to free myself from his weight. Desperation lent strength to my limbs; I pushed him off me and sat up. His eyes were open and his lips were moving. I assumed he was swearing until he found his voice and gasped, “Run, Mother. Now!”

  I snatched up the knife that had fallen from his hand and turned on Mansur. His lips were moving too, and I felt fairly certain he was swearing.

  “There were only three bullets left in the gun,” I said. “I neglected to refill it after I used it last time. Now put your hands behind you and turn round.”

  Mansur’s face was distorted with rage. Having come so close to accomplishing his desire, he was maddened by failure. Spinning round, he dropped the gun, snatched up the carved box, and ran, not toward the entrance to the tent, but toward the back, where one of the pegs had been pulled out, leaving a space below.

  “Stop me if you can!” he shouted, and ducked under the loosened section of canvas.

  Ramses staggered to his feet and took the knife from me. I read his intent in his grim face and tried to catch hold of him.

  “Let him go!” I shrieked. “He wants you to follow him! It is an ambush!”

  “I have to finish this,” Ramses gasped. “He won’t leave us alone, it’s a matter of personal revenge now…Mother, stay here. Just for once, will you please do as I ask?”

  He pulled away from me and ducked under the canvas.

  Naturally I followed at once. The pistol was useless to me now, but the Reader may well believe I did not forget my parasol.

  The wind had died; the stillness had an ominous quality, like some mighty force holding its breath. The sky was black except for a few streaks of violent crimson on the western horizon, but I was able to make out a column of white, in rapid movement, which could only be Mansur’s snowy robe. Ramses, in drab work shirt and trousers, was virtually invisible.

  I was running as fast as I dared, over uneven and unfamiliar ground, trying to keep the moving whiteness in sight, when suddenly it disappeared. I ran faster, brandishing my parasol and shouting. Almost at once I tripped and fell.

  “Haste makes waste,” said a familiar voice. I could see Ramses now, bending over me. “Are you hurt?”

  “Only bruised knees,” I replied, accepting the hand he offered.

  “Damn,” said Ramses, so softly I could barely hear him. I knew what he was thinking, and moved back a little in case he decided to take steps to prevent me from going on. I doubted, however, that he would have the temerity to imitate his father, who had once struck me unconscious in the hope of removing me from the scene of the action. (It had not succeeded.)

  I recognized my surroundings now. The object that had tripped me up was one of Morley’s rope barricades. Beyond, lingering light reflected off a gently moving surface. It was water. We had reached the Pool of Siloam.

  “Where did he go?” I asked. I thought I knew the answer, though, and my heart beat faster with excitement.

  “Back that way,” Ramses said, pointing.

  “No, I would have seen him. He has gone into the tunnel! Hezekiah’s tunnel!”

  We had a little discussion. Ramses was twitching with impatience to get on lest his quarry elude him, and I refused to yield, so in the end he was forced to give in.

  “Stay behind me,” he said sternly. “Perhaps you are safer here with me than you would be stumbling into open pits. But please—please!—if I tell you to go back, assume that I have good reason to say so.”

  The pool was low, since this was the end of summer, and owing to the lateness of the hour, water carriers and pilgrims had gone. There were only a few inches of water in the tunnel itself. It was very narrow; my outstretched hands measured barely two feet from side to side.

  “Would you like a candle?” I inquired. I certainly wanted one, since I couldn’t see a cursed thing.

  “I might have known you’d have one. Thank you.”

  He held it while I lit it with one of the matches from my waterproof box. The wavering light gave his face an eerie look, with deep shadows framing his tight mouth and turning his eye sockets into holes of darkness.

  “The roof is quite high,” I said encouragingly. “We needn’t fear bumping our heads.”

  “It is lower farther on. What other useful items do you have with you?”

  “In addition to my parasol, only a roll of bandages and a little bottle of brandy.”

  “Is that all? Let’s hope we don’t need either.”

  He sounded quite calm, but I was close enough to him to realize he was shivering. The water was icy cold and the tunnel itself dank and chilly.

  “Perhaps the candle was not a good idea,” I said uneasily. “He will be waiting for you, won’t he?”

  “So I assume.”

  “Here.” I offered him my parasol. “If you hold this upright it will warn you when the roof begins to lower. I will extinguish the candle.”

  Ramses, who had eyed the parasol askance, let out a sputter of laughter. The sound echoed uncannily and I put my finger to my lips.

  “He knows we’re here,” Ramses said, taking the parasol. “If he’s standing still he will hear our mov
ements through the water. There’s nothing we can do about it, so let us go on.”

  He paid me the compliment of not bothering to advise me to keep one hand on the wall to one side. The sides were of solid rock, rough hewn and winding. I rested my other hand lightly on his back so that I would not run into him if he halted.

  Had it not been for the absence of light and the fact that there was an assassin lying (or standing) in wait, I would have considered this one of the most thrilling moments of my life. I had given up hope of Emerson allowing me to explore the tunnel, and now Fate had presented me the opportunity.

  Our progress was slow, for obvious reasons. Every now and then Ramses stopped, presumably to listen for sounds of movement ahead. I, too, strained my ears in vain. The water was a little deeper here, but not deep enough to produce splashing noises unless the person was running fast. Keeping track of elapsed time was impossible. I did count my steps, which gave a rough indication of the distance we had traveled. As I recalled, the tunnel was approximately 1,750 feet long. There was quite a distance yet to go.

  A low-voiced warning from Ramses informed me that the roof had lowered. It was still high enough not to incommode my five feet and a bit, but had it not been for the parasol, Ramses might have been in danger of hitting his head. On, and yet farther on; I too had begun to shiver in the dank air and my feet were icy, even through my boots. I began to hope that I had been mistaken about Mansur’s motives, that he meant to escape through the exit when a light suddenly flared just ahead. It was bright enough to blind me after that intense darkness. I flung up my hand to shield my eyes and saw that Ramses had done the same.

  Standing squarely in the center of the tunnel was Mansur. One arm was folded across the breast of his robe. His hand held a torch. In the other hand was a knife. The backlight from his torch displayed a countenance fixed in a stare of disbelief. Then he let out a high-pitched cackle of laughter.

  “Is that your weapon?” he asked. “A lady’s parasol?”

  Ramses straightened slowly. The tunnel was only six feet high here. The top of his unkempt black head brushed the roof. “Give it up,” he said.