A River in the Sky by Elizabeth Peters

was present, unloading packing cases and various articles of furniture from the wooden donkey carts. The largest of the tents—her personal quarters, no doubt—had already been set up; porters were carrying in rolled rugs, a mahogany table, and a number of large wooden crates. Did the lady insist that her table be laid with crystal and linen and fine china, like the British traveler Gertrude Bell? He had heard his mother’s biting commentary on Miss Bell’s aristocratic habits and activities. (At the time she had been scrubbing the walls of a house in Luxor with carbolic.)
    Apparently the work wasn’t proceeding as rapidly as Madame had expected. She frowned and issued a curt order in Turkish to one of the uniformed guards. The man broke into a run, shouting in thesame language. The porters quickened their pace imperceptibly. They were a motley lot, their attire as diversified as their complexions. Their slowness and sour looks gave the impression that this was not a happy group of people.
    He was about to speak when she turned and held out a gloved hand. “Good-bye. Thank you for your company.”
    Ramses took her hand, wondering whether he was supposed to kiss it. He settled for bowing over it.
    “It has been a pleasure, madam. Are you sure there is nothing more I can do to—”
    “Thank you, no. Please give my regards to your distinguished parents.”
    She left him standing with his mouth open and his extended hand empty. She had controlled the conversation, neatly ignoring the gambits he had tossed out in the hope of learning something about her travels, past and future. Why should she be so reluctant to admit she had visited Carcemish, or anyplace else, for that matter? If this was a professional pilgrimage, from one archaeological site to another, why had she avoided talking about them?
    Obviously her caravan had only just arrived. She might have arrived before it—he could see several horses tethered near the stream—but she had gone straight to the tell, without stopping to rest or freshen up. Why the hurry? Why come at all, for that matter?
    His mother claimed that idle curiosity was his besetting sin. She’d be right in this case; it was none of his business what the lady and her party were doing, or why. But he stood watching while a pair of veiled women emerged from her tent to greet her with bowed heads and hands raised in a gesture of respect. They must be her personal servants. A well-bred lady wouldn’t travel without them.
    When he turned to go back, he saw a crumpled shape of pristine white on the ground just behind him. It was a handkerchief unadorned by lace or embroidery, but it certainly wasn’t one of his—toosmall, too clean, of fine linen fabric. Looking back, he was in time to see the tent flap close.
    With a shrug, Ramses put the handkerchief into his pocket.
    He went back by way of the village. As he passed the mosque he saw a tall white-clad form slip into the door. None of the villagers was that tall. The man was Mme von Eine’s taciturn fellow traveler. He must have slipped away while Ramses was spying on the lady.
    Stop looking for mysteries, Ramses told himself. Why shouldn’t the fellow take advantage of the opportunity for formal prayers? It was almost midday, and Madame obviously had no intention of moving on that day.
    The thin voice of the muezzin came to his ears as he reached the tower. The men had been dismissed and Reisner and Fisher were seated in the shade, eating a frugal lunch. It was the same every day, unleavened bread, cheese, grapes and figs and olives.
    “Did you get rid of the lady?” Reisner asked, offering the basket of food.
    “I walked her back to her camp. What the devil was she doing here?”
    “Damned if I know,” Reisner said placidly. “People do drop in for a variety of inexplicable reasons.”
    “Is she really an archaeologist?”
    “Damned if I know.”
    “Her name is familiar,” Fisher said, digging into the basket. “One of the Germans