Excerpt

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Chapter Three

He wondered where he was, but he couldn't bring himself to care much. Dimly lit by hanging lamps, the room was small and luxuriously furnished, the walls draped with silk like those of a tent. A brazier on a stand nearby glowed, giving off a pale cloud of cloying, strange smelling smoke. He lay on a soft, yielding surface, and not until he tried to move did he realized his hands and feet were immobilized. Vaguely curious, he flexed his wrists; the bonds were soft as silk, tight enough to hold without hurting.

Considerate of them, he thought sleepily. Whoever they are.

I wonder what they want. He was quite comfortable, but he hoped someone would come soon and tell him. Nefret would worry. . . .

He saw his wife's face, as clearly as if she stood beside him. Like a crack opening in a prison wall it pierced the clouds of darkened memory. Bassam's, the beggar, the message . . . How much time had passed -- an hour, a day? Nefret didn't know where he was. She always worried . . . Fighting the pleasant lethargy that weakened his limbs, he hung onto the thought of her, turning his head away from the smoke of the brazier, twisting his hands, trying to loosen the bonds. A stab of pain ran from his wrist up his forearm. An injury of some kind? He couldn't remember, but he twisted harder, deliberately inducing renewed pain and the temporary clarity of will it brought.

"Do not struggle. You will hurt yourself."

It was a whisper, barely audible, but in the silence it rang like a shout. Ramses turned his head toward the sound.

How she had entered he did not know. If there was a door it had closed behind her. Light surrounded her as if her flesh shone through the thin linen that covered her body. Even with the fumes of the drug clouding his mind -- or perhaps because of them -- he took note of the fact that it was a young woman's body, slim and firm. Her face was veiled and on her head rested the horns and sun disc of an Egyptian goddess.

"Who are you?" He forced the words past lips that felt rubbery and unresponsive.

"Don't you know me? You have seen me before, many times, though not in the flesh."

Still a whisper. The words were English, but the accent was odd. Not German, not French, not . . . He found it increasingly difficult to think clearly. How much was real, how much illusion? The sheer linen veiled but did not conceal the lines of her body, the rounded hips and breasts. "Put that damned brazier out," he gasped.

She let out a breath of soft amusement and clapped her hands. A dark form materialized behind the couch where he lay. Featureless as she, androgynous in outline, it moved the brazier away and then vanished. He drew a long, uneven breath and tried to focus his eyes. She took a step toward him.

"Look closely. Do you know me now?"

She was jeweled like a queen, gold enclosing her slim wrists and arms. The robe of fine linen, the beaded sash and collar, the crown -- and protruding from the black hair coiling over her shoulders, the ears of an animal. A cow's ears. A rapidly shrinking core of sanity told him he must be imagining some of it, seeing what she wanted him to see.

"You've gone to a great deal of trouble assembling that costume," he muttered. "But no. I don't know you. Why am I here? What do you want?"

"Only to see you and cause you to remember me. Stay with me for a day . . . or two. I promise, you will find it pleasurable."

He didn't doubt that he would. There were a number of euphoric drugs available, and she seemed to know how to use them. With an effort he pulled himself to a sitting position. She stepped back and raised her hand.

"You waste your strength," she murmured. "I mean you no harm. You are under my protection. Remember that, and do not fear for yourself, whatever befalls. You will know me when next you see me."

A beam of white light shot from her hand, striking him full in the eyes. Blinded and dizzy, he fell back against the cushions. When he was able to see again, she was gone and the brazier had been replaced.

Ramses knew he had only a few minutes in which to act before the drugged smoke overcame him. He rolled as far away from it as he could get, and pulled his knees up.

He had practiced the maneuver many times, but his movements were clumsy now and it took an interminable time for his stretched fingers to find the heel of his boot. After he had twisted it off he lay motionless, forcing his shaking hands to steadiness, breathing through the fabric of the cushions. Then he extracted the thin strip of steel coiled in the heel. It was serrated and very sharp; before he got it wedged against his wrists his fingers were slippery with blood. Afraid of losing his hold, he slashed hard and fast, risking additional cuts, and getting several. The steel slipped out of his grasp, but not before the job was done; a final tug freed his hands, and without daring to pause for rest he picked it up and cut through the cloth around his ankles. It was silk, twisted into a cord. He sat for a moment staring bemusedly at it, and then flung it aside and started to stand.

His knees gave way, so he crawled, to the farthest corner of the room, and fumbled along the wall, behind the draperies, trying to find a window. His fingers finally slipped into the carved apertures of a mashrabiya screen, used in harim quarters to allow the ladies to look out without being seen. With the last of his strength he forced it open and fell across the high sill, drawing in the sweet night air in long gasps.

Sweet by comparison to the atmosphere of the room, at any rate. He'd have known those variegated smells anywhere -- animal dung and rotting vegetation, burning charcoal, the scent of night blooming flowers -- the ineffable perfume of Cairo, as his mother was fond of saying. He was still in Cairo. But where in Cairo? The fresh air cleared some of the cobwebs out of his brain and he raised his head, searching for landmarks. He was high above the street, on the first or second floor of the house; across the narrow way the tall shape of another of the old houses of Cairo faced him, its latticed balcony almost within arms' reach. No lights showed in the windows. It must be late. Late the same night? How much time had passed?

The thought of his wife and parents, frantically searching for him, spurred him to haste. Holding his breath, he stumbled back to the divan and found the discarded boot heel and the strip of steel; it had been specially made and replacing it would be difficult. He didn't bother searching for the door to the room. It would be locked. There was enough silken stuff in the room to make a rope, but he was afraid to take the time. The lunatic lady might decide to pay him another visit. He went back to the window, lowered himself to the full length of his arms, and let go. He landed, ankle deep, in a pile of rotting garbage, slipped, and fell to hands and knees.

The stench was vile, but he preferred it to the scented smoke of the brazier. Picking himself up, he leaned against the wall and inspected his surroundings, trying to orient himself. He knew the old city fairly well, but the streets were all similar, narrow and winding, walled in by high buildings, ending in unexpected cul de sacs. He rubbed his eyes. Then a sound from above made him look up. Against the faint light from the window was the black outline of a man's head and shoulders. He moved away, as quickly as he dared in the darkness, turning at random into one tunnel-like passage after another.

Luck was with him; the soft sounds of pursuit faded, and finally he emerged into a plaza so small it didn't even have a name. He'd been there before. The time-stained sabil in the center spouted a dribble of water. On one side was a disreputable coffeeshop which he and David had occasionally frequented. The coffeeshop was shuttered and dark. The place was deserted except for the motionless shape of a beggar, huddled in a doorway.

Movement and the passage of time had brushed most of the cobwebs out of his head. He knew where he was: not far from the Rue Neuve, less than a mile from the hotel. He paused long enough to wash the blood and odiferous muck off his hands and arms in the fountain. Before he started off toward the hotel, he dropped a few coins onto the ground by the sleeping man. An offering to some god or other seemed appropriate. Some god -- or goddess. The woman's costume had been that of Hathor, Lady of Turquoise, Golden One.

Copyright © 2003 Elizabeth Peters