“Leiutenant Blakely, at your service,” The British policeman said with an engaging smile.
Rameses smiled faintly and nodded. It was necessary not to let on how uncomfortable he was in the Anglo-Saxon police station in Cairo. The Magi felt out of place in the orderly chaos of the station. He was there as Amenemhet’s spokesman, yet that meant nothing to ease his discomfiture.
His shamshir was in its sheath by his side, no self-respecting Magi would carried a gun. Guns were dishonorable. They killed impersonally, and instantaneously. They were cold killing machines. A shamshir was alive and warm, it pulsed in battle, it yearned for triumph but did not kill. He had received his shamshir when he came of age. It was te only connection he felt to his father, who had abandoned him. He fingered the hilt now, a protective and defensive gesture.