Free The Ape Who Guards the Balance by Elizabeth Peters Page B

talking. He got only nods and curt answers for his pains, but when he came back he appeared pleased.
    “Kyticas doesn’t like me,” he remarked. “But he dislikes Yussuf Mahmud even more. Kyticas thinks he’s got something on his mind. He’s been squatting on that bench every night for a week, but he hasn’t tried to make any of his dirty little deals.”
    “Would the Master—uh—you know who I mean—deal with a second-rater like Yussuf Mahmud?”
    “Who knows? He’s one of the people I meant to talk with—and I’m beginning to suspect he wants to talk with me. He’s carefully not looking at us. We’ll take the hint and follow him when he leaves.”
    Yussuf Mahmud showed no sign of leaving. He sat stolidly drinking coffee and smoking. Unlike most of the others he was shabbily dressed, his feet bare, his turban tattered. His scanty beard did not conceal the scars of smallpox that covered his cheeks.
    They passed another hour in not-so-idle gossip with various acquaintances. Ali the Rat was in a generous mood, paying for drinks and food with coins taken from a heavy purse. Yussuf Mahmud was one of the few who did not take advantage of his hospitality, though he was obviously fascinated by the purse. Ramses was about to suggest to David that they leave when a voice boomed out a hearty “Salaam aleikhum!”
    Ramses almost fell off his stool, and David doubled over into an anonymous bundle, ducking his head. “Holy Sitt Miriam,” he gasped. “It’s—”
    “—Abu Shitaim,” said Ali the Rat, recovering himself in the nick of time. For good measure he added, “Curse the unbeliever!”
    His father had advanced into the room with the asssurance of a man who is at home wherever he chooses to be. He glanced incuriously at Ali the Rat, dismissed him with a shrug, and went to join Kyticas. His sleeve over his face, David whispered, “Quick. Let’s get out of here!”
    “That would only attract his attention. Sit up, he’s not looking at us.”
    “I thought he was at the reception!”
    “So did I. He must have crept away while Mother wasn’t looking. He hates those affairs.”
    “What’s he doing here?”
    “The same thing we are doing, I suspect,” Ramses said thoughtfully. “All right, we can go now. Slowly!”
    He tossed a few coins onto the table and rose. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Yussuf Mahmud get to his feet.
    :
    T he following night they met by arrangement, and a short time later they were following Yussuf Mahmud into a part of the city which even Ali the Rat would have preferred to avoid. It bordered the infamous Fish Market, an innocuous name for a district where every variety of vice and perversion was for sale at all hours and, by European standards, at extremely reasonable prices. The narrow alley down which he led them was dark and silent, however, and the house they entered was obviously not his permanent address. The windows were tightly shuttered and the sole article of furniture was a rickety table. Yussuf Mahmud lit a lamp. Opening his robe, he loosened a leather strap.
    Bound to his body by the strap was a bundle approximately sixteen inches long and four inches in diameter, wrapped in cloth and supported by splintlike lengths of rough wood.
    Ramses knew what it was, and he knew what was going to happen. He dared not protest. Fearing David would let out an involuntary and betraying exclamation, he stamped heavily on his friend’s foot as Yussuf Mahmud removed the wrappings and unrolled the object they had concealed. A few yellowed, brittle flakes sifted onto the table.
    It was a funerary papyrus, the collection of magical spells and prayers popularly known as “The Book of the Dead.” The section now visible showed several vertical columns of hieroglyphic writing and a painted vignette that depicted a woman clad in a transparent linen gown hand in hand with the jackal-headed god of cemeteries. Before he could see more, Yussuf Mahmud drew a piece of cloth over the