Her watchdogs' reaction was more animated.
Abdullah was burly, well muscled, with a graying goatee. Missab was long, bony, and full-bearded. Both sat drinking at an octagonal table.
Abdullah was the boss, or perhaps the only one of the pair who spoke English. His frown at the interruption deepened into a scowl at the sight of this brash Yankee with his go-to-hell grin.
"What are you doing in here?" Abdullah demanded.
"I have a message for the lady."
Sultana looked nonplussed, or at least her eyes did, all that Carter could see of her face. He liked what he saw. He decided he'd like to see more of her, a whole lot more.
First, though, there was the little matter of her guardians to take care of.
Abdullah was obviously vexed. "How did you get past the guard?" Raising his voice to carry outside the box, he called, "Kizar! Kizar! Where is that fool?"
"I'm afraid your man is lying down on the job," Carter said.
Abdullah was the boss, all right. He threw Missab a dark, intent look of command, but Missab was already pushing back his chair to rise.
Carter swatted Missab with a blistering backfist that splashed his nose over half his face. The blow would have knocked him out of his chair, except that Carter caught him by the hair and yanked his head forward, slamming his face against the table edge.
The bottle on the table skittered, teetering on the edge. Carter let go of Missab. His hand was a blur of motion as it shot out, righting the bottle.
Missab, his crushed face a mask of blood, slid off his chair and dropped under the table.
Abdullah stood up, his hairy hand darting for his jacket pocket, reaching for a pistol. His draw never got started. His hand was still plunging into his pocket when Carter unleashed a front snap kick to the groin that mashed Abdullah's testicles to jelly.
Abdullah purpled. He took his hand out of his pocket, grabbed his crotch with both hands, and folded. He knelt on the floor, mouth gaping like a netted fish sucking for air.
Carter bent down, reached into Abdullah's pocket, and came up with a small pearl-handled pistol. He kept it, not wanting it, but only so he could dispose of it later. He used Abdullah's jacket to wipe his hand clear of Missab's hair oil.
Sultana's dark eyes were practically round. She stopped lounging, and sat up. Her veil billowed softly as she said, with no little admiration, "You are insane!"
He spoke to her in her own tongue. "We have a saying in my country: Faint heart ne'er won fair lady."
Carter thought he saw a smile under the veil. "You think to win me, then?" she said.
"Not yet, but I'm working on it."
"You are amusing if nothing else, whoever you are. And just who are you?"
"A friend."
Wariness crept into her eyes. "All men want to be Sultana's friend."
Carter indicated Abdullah and Missab. "Those two weren't very friendly."
"They are no friends of mine." Dark suspicion clouded her face, as if she had smelled something rotten. "Is this a trick, then? Has he sent you, to test me?"
"Who?"
"My 'protector. " She spat the word as if it were a vile oath.
"No." Carter smiled. "I said I had a message for you. Here it is. I have heard that you are very beautiful. I have come to see for myself. Not that I doubt the accounts of your beauty. But I wish to see it for myself."
He shot Sultana a burning look that left no doubt as to his intentions.
"Perhaps you shall," she said. "You may indeed be mad, stranger, but your looks are not at all unpleasant. I had begun to fear that all my admirers had been frightened off. But I warn you, you have made a powerful and dangerous enemy."
Carter shrugged. "What does it matter, as long as I have you for my friend?"
"That you have, stranger." Sultana rose. "Follow me, O rash one. I know a private place where our newfound friendship can blossom."
Missab was out cold. Abdullah remained where Carter had left him, crouched on the floor, clutching his crotch, hunched so far forward that his forehead brushed the carpet.
Sultana raised a delicate foot, pressed the sole of her bejeweled slipper against Abdullah's shoulder, and pushed. He toppled over on his side, but otherwise remained motionless. It was all he could do to gasp for breath.
Sultana's laughter was scornful. Carter took her by the arm, escorting her out. At the threshold of the box, he paused to deliver his final message to Abdullah.
"Tell your boss that I'm taking his woman."
Twelve
Sultana's status in the palace of sin was ambiguous. She was no slave, although Hodler apparently thought otherwise. She had free run of the place, and answered to no one. As Carter followed her through the labyrinthine windings of marble halls and shadowy arcades, they occasionally encountered guards. None of them stopped or even challenged her, but respectfully deferred to her instead. Carter guessed they were household guards, not Hodler's crew. He didn't know what they made of him. Maybe they thought he was one of Hodler's crew too. Or maybe they wanted no part of a fight that wasn't theirs. It was clear that his leveling of Abdullah, Missab, and Kizar hadn't provoked any ground swell of opposition.
Carter had a difficult time keeping his internal compass oriented among the maze of corridors and turnings, in obscure upper levels far removed from the rowdy revelry of the club. Adding to his distraction was Sultana herself, the nearness of her. She gave off an intoxicating scent compounded of perfumes, spices, and her own musk.
The folds of her dark chador covered but did not conceal her womanly body. Sultana was blessed with the rounded, hour-glass figure that leaves fashion designers cold but puts men on fire.
They passed under a tower's arched portal, Sultana leading the way up a stone spiral staircase, through a second archway, down an L-shaped short hall. Halting before a door, she reached into the folds of her garment, pulled out a long tarnished brass key, unlocked a door, and beckoned Carter inside.
They were in an antechamber. Sleeping curled up on a floor mat, swatched and swaddled in black garments, was an incredibly ancient female.
Perhaps she was not sleeping, merely resting, for she sat up as soon as the chamber was entered. She was so old and wrinkled, she seemed a living mummy. Her chattering was animated and then some, her toothless mouth pouring out a torrent of what sounded like abuse when she saw Carter. Her dialect was obscure, and so fast, that Carter couldn't make heads nor tails of what she was saying. It seemed to be about him, and he doubted it was complimentary.
Sultana silenced her with a few short sentences, also spoken in that oddly accented dialect. Her words caused the crone to look at Carter with new eyes — no easy task, since her orbs were sunken in fleshy pouches and filmed with age. But there was disconcerting intelligence in her keen gaze.
"She is Faranyah, my slave," Sultana said. "She's a nuisance, but she's been with me for so long, I wouldn't know what to do without her."
She looked archly at the Killmaster. "I told her you have come to rescue me from my evil captor."
"She doesn't seem too impressed," Carter said.
"Faranyah said it would be a great and good thing if both you infidels killed each other. She is very devout."
Sultana shooed her slave away. Wailing piteously, the crone shuffled out the door, shaking her head and wringing her hands.
Sultana closed and bolted the outer door. She conducted Carter into her private quarters, beyond a beaded curtain covering an archway.
The inner lounge was sumptuous, in the Arabian manner. An intricate Persian carpet stretched from wall to wall. Long low divans were covered with cushions and brocaded pillows. Elaborately carved sandalwood screens and panels pleased the eyes and perfumed the air. Rich tapestried wall hangings adorned the walls in a riot of colored arabesques.