After they had settled on the details, Emerson picked up a book and Ramses went to the window. The shadowy, starlit garden was a beautiful sight—or would have been to one who did not see prowlers in every shadow and hear surreptitious footsteps in every rustle of the foliage. He wondered morosely whether he would ever be able to enjoy a lovely view without thinking about such things. Knowing his family, the answer was probably no. Even when there wasn’t a war, his mother and father attracted enemies the way wasps were drawn to a bowl of sugar water.

There were things he ought to be doing—going over the copies of the tomb inscriptions, checking them with Nefret’s photographs. His father ought to be working on his excavation diary. Ramses knew why Emerson was sitting there pretending to read; he hadn’t turned a page for five minutes. How much did it cost him to let his wife go off alone, looking for trouble and possibly finding it? Ramses knew the answer; he felt it too, like a dull headache that covered his entire body.

It was almost midnight before they returned. For once his father’s hearing was keener than his; Emerson was out of his chair before Ramses heard the motorcar. They came in together, his mother and Selim, and Ramses sank back into the chair from which he had risen. Outraged laughter struggled with pure outrage. His mother was bad enough, but Selim…

“Where did you get that suit of clothes?” he demanded.

Selim whipped off his tarboosh and struck a pose. He had oiled his beard and slicked his hair down; the black coat was too tight across the chest and too long. It had lapels of gold brocade. Ramses turned his stricken gaze to his mother. The eyeglasses rode low on her nose. The flaxen blond wig had slipped down over her forehead, and what in heaven’s name had she done to her eyebrows?

Catching his eye, she shoved the wig back onto the top of her head. “Selim was driving quite fast,” she explained.

“Sit down and tell us all about it,” said Emerson, too relieved to be critical. “You too, Selim. I want to hear your version.”

Nothing loath, Selim gallantly held a chair for his lady of the evening (and she looked like one too, Ramses thought).

“It went very well,” Selim said with a broad, pleased smile. “No one knew us, did they, Sitt?”

“Certainly not,” said Ramses’s mother. “We had a quiet dinner. Nefret was dining with the Count.”

“He kissed her hand very often,” said Selim.

“What did she do?” Emerson demanded.

“She laughed.”

Involuntarily Emerson glanced at the clock, and his wife said, “I did not think it advisable to wait and follow them. They were lingering over coffee when we left, but she should be here before long.”

“What if she’s not?” Emerson’s voice rose.

“Then I will have a few words with her.”

“And I,” said Emerson, “will have a few words with the Count.”

“There will be no need for that. Here she is now.”

Nefret came in. Her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled. Ramses found himself in the grip of a severe attack of pure, primitive jealousy. If she had let that monocled swine kiss her…

“Did that swine dare to embrace you in the cab?” Emerson demanded furiously.

Nefret burst out laughing. “He tried, but he did not succeed. He’s really very entertaining. Aunt Amelia, what do you think?”

“I was mistaken.”

This admission stopped Emerson in mid-expletive. He stared openmouthed at his wife. “What did you say?”

“I said I was mistaken. But it was good of you, Nefret, to make the effort.”

It was still dark when they left the house next morning, Ramses on Risha and his father on the big gelding he had hired for the season. They crossed the river on the bridges that spanned the Isle of Roda. The molten rim of the sun had just appeared over the hills when they reached the Abbasia quarter, on the edge of the desert. There wasn’t much there except a few hospitals, a lunatic asylum, and the Egyptian Army Military School and barracks. Emerson turned his horse toward the barracks.

“The road’s that way,” Ramses said, and wished he hadn’t, when his father said patiently, “Yes, my boy, I know.”

Ramses closed his mouth and after a moment his father condescended to explain. “Maxwell reminded me that the military keep a close eye on people heading into the Eastern Desert . We will report to the officer on duty and comply with the rules.”

It was a reasonable explanation, which was why Ramses doubted its truth. His father’s usual reaction to rules was to ignore them.

Early as it was, the officers were already at the mess. Emerson sent a servant to announce his presence. The horse was a large animal, and so was Emerson; when several people emerged from the building, he did not dismount but looked down on them from his commanding height with an air of affable condescension. Some of them were known to Ramses, including a tallish man wearing a kilt, who gave Ramses a stiff nod and then introduced himself to Emerson.

“ Hamilton !” he barked.

“Emerson!”

“Heard of you.”

“And I you.”

Hamilton drew himself up, threw his shoulders back, and stroked his luxuriant red mustache. He was at a disadvantage on foot and he was reacting like a rooster meeting a bigger rooster.

“Hadn’t expected to see you here.”

“No, why should you have done? Following your rules, sir, following your rules. We are on a little archaeological exploration today. There’s a ruined structure out there, a few miles southwest of the well of Sitt Miryam. I’ve been meaning for years to have a closer look.”

The Major’s narrowed eyes measured Emerson, from his smiling face to his bared forearms, brown as an Arab’s and hard with muscle. He seemed to approve of what he saw, for his stern face relaxed. “Probably Roman,” he said gruffly.

“Ah.” Emerson took out his pipe and began to fill it. “You know the place?”

“I’ve done a bit of hunting in the area. There are ancient remains all over the place. Way stations and camps, for the most part. Hardly of interest to you.”

“For the most part,” Emerson agreed. “However, one never knows, does one? Well, gentlemen, we must be off.”

“A moment, sir,” Hamilton said. “You are armed, aren’t you?”

Emerson gave him a blank stare. “Armed? What for?”

“One never knows, does one?” The other man smiled faintly. “Allow me to lend you this—just for the day.”

He reached under his coat and pulled out a revolver, which he offered to Emerson. To Ramses’s surprise, his father accepted it. “Most kind. I’ll try not to damage it.”

He tried to put it in his trouser pocket, dropped it, caught it in midair, and finally managed to get it into the pocket of his coat. Watching him, one of the subalterns said doubtfully, “You do know how to use it, sir?”

“You point it and pull the trigger?”

Ramses, who knew that his father was an excellent shot with pistol or rifle, smothered a smile as the young man’s face lengthened. “Well, sir, er—more or less.”

“Most kind,” Emerson repeated. “Good day to you, gentlemen.”

After they had gone a little distance Emerson drew the weapon out of his pocket, broke it, and spun the cylinder. “Fully loaded and functional.”

“Did you think it wouldn’t be?”

“Happened to me once before,” Emerson said equably. “A nasty suspicious mind, that’s what I’ve got. Particularly when people with whom I am only slightly acquainted do me favors.”

“He seemed cordial enough,” Ramses said. “Even to me.”

“Highly suspicious,” his father said with a chuckle. “Ah, well, perhaps he was won over by my extraordinary charm of manner.”

If anyone’s charm had influenced the major, Ramses thought, it wasn’t yours or mine. He could only hope Nefret had not put ideas into the old fellow’s head. He wouldn’t be the first to make that mistake.

“Not that a Webley is likely to be of much use,” Emerson continued, slipping the gun into his belt. “The cursed things are cursed inaccurate. What sort of weapon have you got?”