Read Online He Shall Thunder in the Sky by Elizabeth Peters - Free Book Online

would.”
         “Yes, sir,” said Ramses.

    From Manuscript H
         They met just after nightfall, in a coffee shop in the Tumbakiyeh, the tobacco warehouse district. Massive doors, iron-hinged and nail-studded, closed the buildings where the tumbak was stored; but much of the area was falling into decay, the spacious khans abandoned, the homes of the old merchant princes partitioned into tenements.
         There were four of them, sitting cross-legged around a low table in a back room separated from the coffee shop itself by a closed door and a heavy curtain. A single oil lamp on the table illumined the oblong board on which the popular game called mankaleh was played, but none of them, not even the players, was paying much attention to the distribution of the pebbles. Conversation was sparse, and a listener might have been struck by the fact that names were not used.
         Finally a large gray-bearded man, dressed like a Bedouin in khafiya and caftan, muttered, “This is a stupid place to meet and a dangerous time. It is too early. The streets are full of people, the shops are lighted —”
         “The Inglizi are drinking at their clubs and hotels, and others are at the evening meal.” The speaker was a man in his early twenties, heavily built for an Egyptian, but with the unmistakable scholar’s squint. “You are new to our group, my friend; do not question the wisdom of our leader. One is less conspicuous in a crowd at sunset than in a deserted street at midnight.”
         The older man grunted. “He is late.”
         The two who had not yet spoken exchanged glances. Both were clad like members of the poorer class, in a single outer garment of blue linen and turbans of coarse white cotton, but there was something of the student about them too. A pair of thick spectacles magnified the eyes of one man; he kept poking nervously at the folds of his turban, as if he were unaccustomed to wearing that article of dress. The other youth was tall and graceful, his smooth cheeks rounded, his eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. His zaboot was open from the neck nearly to the waist; on the sleek brown skin of his chest lay an ornament more commonly worn by women, a small silver case containing a selection from the Koran. It was he who responded to the Bedouin. “He comes when he chooses. Make your move.”
         A few minutes later the curtain at the door was swept aside and a man entered. He wore European clothing — trousers and tweed coat, kid gloves, and a broad-brimmed hat that shadowed the upper part of his face but exposed a prominent aquiline nose and clean-shaven chin. The gray-bearded man sprang up, his hand on his knife. The others stared and started, and the handsome youth clapped his hand to his chest.
         “So you appreciate my little joke. Convincing, is it?”
         The voice was Wardani’s, the swagger with which he approached the table, the wolfish grin. He swept off his hat and bowed ironically to the Bedouin. “Salaam aleikhum. Don’t be so quick to go for the knife. There is nothing illegal about this little gathering. We are only five.”
         The bespectacled student let out a string of pious oaths and wiped his sweating palms on his skirt. “You have shaved your beard!”
         “How observant.” They continued to stare, and Wardani said impatiently, “A false beard is easily assumed. This widens the range of disguises available to me — not only a clean-shaven chin but a variety of facial decorations. I learned a number of such tricks from David, who had learned them from his friend.”
         “But — but you look exactly like him !”
         “No,” Wardani said. “Take a closer look.” He stooped so that the single lamp shone on his face. “At a distance I resemble the notorious Brother of Demons closely enough to pass unmolested by a police officer, but you, my band of heroes, should not be so easily deceived