“A secret society!” Emerson exclaimed. “Balderdash! Must you elevate the so-called gang of thugs to a higher rank? Will they soon be agents of a global conspiracy?”

I gave him a cool look. “Then the fact that both men sported monocles was merely a coincidence?”

Since he could not think of an answer, Emerson was forced to say, “The monocles are a bizarre element. To judge by the example I examined, they served no practical purpose. The broken lens was of clear glass, without magnification. I suppose it could have been used to start a fire by focusing the sun’s rays, but why bother with that when matches are available?”

“Possibly,” Ramses countered, “because sharp shards of glass can inflict deadly and disfiguring wounds. It is a simple weapon.”

“Oh dear,” I said.

“I would have employed a stronger word,” said Emerson. He shrugged into his coat and started for the door. “Selim has gathered a full crew, and I am needed.”

“Put on your pith helmet,” I said.

“Why? I always lose the cursed things, and then you complain.”

“Emerson, there are going to be persons present who dislike you. They fear you, yes, but a missile flung by one member of a crowd can be more or less anonymous.”

He slapped the pith helmet on his head with such force that the impact reverberated for several seconds. He winced slightly. “Ramses, you have my authorization to lock up your mother . . . No, just don’t let her out of your sight. I want you or Nefret with her every moment.”

“Really, Emerson,” I said. “Is there any reason why I should not accompany you? Surely I would be safer with you than with anyone else.”

“Well, er, hmph.”

“Mother is correct,” Ramses admitted. “I’ll wait for Nefret, and we should be no more than fifteen minutes behind you. In broad daylight, with the three of us, as well as Selim, Daoud, and the crew surrounding her, it would take a very efficient assassin to get anywhere near her.”

It was a reasonable assumption.

Emerson stopped to speak with Selim, who was waiting on our small dock. I walked on ahead. I had no warning, only a sudden outburst of a thunderous rhythm behind me, before an arm like whipcord wrapped round my waist, lifted me, and deposited me with noticeable force upon a hard surface—in this case, a saddle.

He was attired in the voluminous black robe of a Touareg, the traditional blue veil concealing all but his eyes. I knew those eyes, though, and also the voice that remarked, “Stop squirming, Amelia. If you fall, you will incur some nasty bruises.”

“I have already incurred several nasty bruises,” I retorted angrily. “What is the meaning of this theatrical performance, Sethos?”