“I have been told that,” said Haroun. “He must be a dashing, handsome fellow.”
“That matter may be discussed over small cups of Bazi tea at the end of the day,” said Suleiman, looking narrowly at Haroun.
“True,” said Haroun.
Hassan then turned and led the way into the tunnel. Hundreds of men, including myself, followed him, many bearing lamps.
It was on the height of the highest tower of the kasbah of Tarna that Hassan, I close behind him, cornered Ibn Saran.
“Comrades!” said Ibn Saran. Then he lifted his scimitar.
“He is mine,” said Hassan.
“Beware,” I said.
Immediately the men engaged. Seldom had I witnessed more brilliant play of the scimitar.
Then the two men stepped back from one another, “You fight well,” said Ibn Saran. He stood unsteadily. “I could always beat you,” he said “ “That was years ago, said Hassan.
“Yes,” said Ibn Saran, “that was years ago.” Ibn Saran lifted his scimitar to me in salute.
“One gains a victory,” I said. “One loses, an enemy.”
Ibn Saran inclined his head to me, in Taharic courtesy. Then his face went white, and he turned, and staggered to the parapet of the tower. He fell to the desert below.
Hassan sheathed his sword. “I had two brothers,” he said. “One fought for Priest-Kings. He died in the desert. The other fought for Kurii. He died on the tower of Tarna’s kasbah.”
“And you?” I asked.
“I thought to remain neutral,” he said. “I discovered I could not do so.”
“There is no neutrality,” I said.
“No,” be said. Then he looked at me. “Once,” he said, “I had two brothers.” He clasped me about the shoulders. There were tears in his eyes. “Now,” he said, “now I have only one.
We had shared salt at Red Rock, on a burning roof.
“My brother,” I said.
“My brother,” he said.
Hassan shook himself. “There is work to do,” he said. We hurried down from the tower, to the wall below. There I saw, from the wall, on the desert below, prisoners being herded back to the kasbah, men who had attempted to flee the walls and escape into the desert.
Herded at the point of a lance, bound, was Abdul, the water carrier. At the point of another lance, too, herded, ropes on his neck, between two kaiila, staggering, bloody, was Hamid, who had been the lieutenant to Shakar, captain of the Aretai. Shakar himself rushed forth from the kasbah to take charge of the miserable Hamid. Hamid, whatever might be his guilt in the matter of the striking of Suleiman Pasha, had obviously fought with the men of the Salt Ubar, and had raised his blade against his own tribe, the Aretai.
Other prisoners, too, were being brought back from the desert. Haroun’s lances had well invested the kasbah.
Hassan and I went down to the yard of the kasbah.
Startled was I to discover in the courtyards, mounted in the high saddle of the kaiila, the leader of Hassan’s mystery lancers, who had invested the kasbah of Tarna. He swept aside his wind veil.
“T`Zshal!” I cried.
He, bearded, grinned down at me from the saddle, a lance in his hand.
“I sent,” said Hassan, Haroun, high Pasha of Kavars, “a thousand kaiila, a thousand lances, supplies, to Klima. I thought such men might prove useful.”
T’Zshal raised the lance. The kaiila reared. “We shall not forget the Kavars, Pasha,” said T’Zshal.
I feared that Hassan had made a terrible mistake. Who would dare to arm such men?
T’Zshal turned the kaiila expertly. He had once been of the Tahari, and then, with a scattering of sand, men following him, returned to the desert, again to supervise his men in their encircling ring of will, steel and kaiila flesh.
Hamid and Abdul knelt in the sand, bound.
Hassan held his blade to the throat of Hamid. “Who struck Suleiman Pasha?” he inquired. Hamid looked up at him. Suleiman and Shakar stood near. “It was I,” said Hamid.
“Take him away,” said Suleiman Pasha. Hamid was dragged away.
“How did you know it was he who struck me?” asked Suleiman.
“I was there,” said Hassan. “I saw it.”
“Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars!” cried Shakar.
Hassan smiled.
“No!” he cried. “There were none there but Aretai, Ibn Saran, Hakim of Tor and”
Shakar stopped.
“And Hassan the bandit.” said Hassan.
“You!” cried Suleiman, laughing.
“Surely you did not think there could be two such handsome, dashing fellows?” asked Hassan.
“Kavar sleen!” laughed Suleiman.
“Do not be too broadcast with my additional identity,” requested Hassan. “It is useful at times, particularly when the duties of the pasha become too oppressive.
“I know what you mean,” said Suleiman. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“I, too, will guard its nature,” said Shakar.
“You are Hakim of Tor, are you not?” asked Suleiman, turning to me.
“Yes, Pasha,” I said, stepping forward.
“Grievously did we wrong you,” he said.
I shrugged. “There are still pockets of resistance to be cleared up in the kasbah,” I said. “I beg your indulgence, that I may be excused.”
“May your eye be keen, your steel swift,” said Suleiman Pasha.
I bowed.
“And what of this small sleen?” asked Shakar, indicating the small Abdul, who knelt, cowering, in the sand.
“He, too,” said Suleiman Pasha, “let him be taken away.
A rope was put on the throat of Abdul and he was dragged whimpering from our presence.
I looked to the central building of the kasbah. Within it, here and there, in rooms, men still fought.
“Find me Tarna,” said Suleiman Pasha. “Bring her to me.” Men rushed from his side. I did not envy the woman. She was free. She had broken wells. Prolonged and hideous tortures awaited her, culminating in her public impalement, nude, upon the walls of the great kasbah at Nine Wells.
The men of the Tahari are not patient with those who break wells. They look not leniently upon this crime.
I slipped to one side, and left the group.
Tarna, in her quarters, spun to face me. She was startled. She had not known I was there. I had touched the ring. A moment later, she turning, saw me, standing in the room.
“You!” she cried.
Her eyes were wild. She was distraught. She wore the mannish garb of the Tahari, save that she did not wear the wind veil nor the kafflyeh and agal. Her face and head, proud and beautiful, were bare. Her hair was wild, long, loose behind her, behind the thrown back hood of the burnoose. The garments she wore were torn and stained. The left trouser leg had been slashed. There were long scimitar slashes at the left sleeve, which hung in tatters. I did not think she had been wounded.
There was dirt at the left side of her face.
“You have come to take me!” she cried. She carried a scimitar.
“Your war is lost,” I told her. “It is done.”
She looked upon me in fury. For an instant there were tears in her eyes, bright and hot. I saw that she was a woman. Then again she was Tarna.
“Never!” she cried.
“It is true,” I told her.
“No!” she cried.
We could bear men fighting in the distance, somewhere in the corridors beyond.
“The kasbah has fallen,” I told her. “Ibn Saran is dead. Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars and Suleiman, high Pasha of the Aretai, are already within the walls.”
“I know,” she said, miserably. “I know.”
“You were relieved of your command,” I told her. “You were no longer of use.
Even those men who once served you fight now, decimated, for their lives.” I regarded her. “The kasbah has fallen,” I said.
She looked at me.
“You are alone,” I said. “It is over.”
“I know,” she said. Then she lifted her head, angrily, proudly, “How did you know where to find me?” she asked.
“I am not unfamiliar with the quarters of Tarna,” I said.
“Of course,” she said. She smiled. “And now you have come to take me,” she laughed.
“Yes,” I told her.
“Doubtless for he who brings me in, his rope on my neck, before the noble Pashas Haroun and Suleiman, there will be a high reward,” she said.