and arched his thin form languorously on the rough wooden bench opposite his companion. He wondered idly where all the slaves went once they had cleared the city. Some back to the desert tribes undoubtedly; others to hidden oases or mountain castles where no white man could guess their fate, much less interfere with the age-old trade. By dawn the inhabitants of Mucar would go about
Page 6
their business once again and no one-especially those in authority-would ever guess that an illegal auction had taken place during the small hours of the night.
The big man yawned and scratched beneath his mask.
"I'm tired," he said. "But I suppose I'd better see Prince Selim before I sleep."
Zadok nodded, getting up from the bench.
"It's been a good night's work, Saldan," he said.
The big man snarled. Purple showed on his cheeks beneath the mask. He stepped forward, the muscles on his forearms quivering. Zadok staggered as Saldan's hand struck. The crack of the blow sounded like a pistol shot in the quietness of the room. Zadok fell against the wall. His face showed an ugly yellow where Saldan's open palm had cut across it. Blood trickled slowly from the corner of his mouth.
"Fool!" the big man hissed, his breath whistling through his mouth. "How many times have I told you never to use my name in public?"
Hatred flickered in Zadok's eyes as he stepped forward.
"I'm sorry," he gasped. "It won't happen again."
"Just see that it doesn't," said the slaver grimly, picking up the loaded bags on the table before him.
Zadok passed his hand across his face; it came away scarlet. He went silently out into the night.
It was almost dawn when Saldan's white horse clattered into the courtyard of a heavily guarded villa in the Old City. The moonlight glinted on swords and pistol barrels as guards came forward to take his horse.
They relaxed when they saw who it was and one went running on ahead, opening the great iron-bound doors and bounding up the marble steps. Saldan knew that by the time he had reached the ornate mosaic-floored hall of Prince Selim's residence, his arrival would have already been noted by the ruler of Mucar.
His footsteps echoed hollowly through the corridors as he made his way towards the old man's private apartments. Nubians, heavily armed and with naked scimitars in their hands, stood before the entrance to the women's quarters.
Saldan advanced over a floor of the blue and gold inlaid tiling of exquisite beauty as a dark-skinned body servant bowed deferentially before him.
"Prince Selim will see you now, sir," he said softly. "I'll bet he will," Saldan said sardonically to himself as he jingled the money bags contemptuously, elbowing his way past the guard and down the room. It was a strange and exotic chamber, lit by small oil lamps of weird and bizarre shapes, suspended on chains from the slatted ceiling and which cast shimmering bars of light into every corner.
Prince Selim was a man of about seventy who was reputed in Mucar to keep twenty or thirty young wives actively occupied. Saldan himself doubted this, but he knew it pleased the old man to have people think so.
He bowed stiffly from the waist and came to a halt about three yards away from the ruler's carved sandalwood throne, waiting until he was bidden to come closer by an imperious gesture from Selim's clawlike hand.
Page 7
Saldan smiled and took the leather backed armchair Selim indicated to him. But first he put down the bags on the ornately carved table at his elbow and bent once again over the emaciated fingers the Prince held out to him.
"Some refreshment, my dear sir," said Selim in quavering tones. Saldan sat back in satisfaction as sweet Turkish coffee in small porcelain cups and plates of sweet-cakes with syrup and arid little biscuits were placed between them.
Only when be had eaten did etiquette permit them to talk business. Prince Selim was a striking-looking man, despite his advanced years. He wore a richly embroidered tunic of
Page 6
their business once again and no one-especially those in authority-would ever guess that an illegal auction had taken place during the small hours of the night.
The big man yawned and scratched beneath his mask.
"I'm tired," he said. "But I suppose I'd better see Prince Selim before I sleep."
Zadok nodded, getting up from the bench.
"It's been a good night's work, Saldan," he said.
The big man snarled. Purple showed on his cheeks beneath the mask. He stepped forward, the muscles on his forearms quivering. Zadok staggered as Saldan's hand struck. The crack of the blow sounded like a pistol shot in the quietness of the room. Zadok fell against the wall. His face showed an ugly yellow where Saldan's open palm had cut across it. Blood trickled slowly from the corner of his mouth.
"Fool!" the big man hissed, his breath whistling through his mouth. "How many times have I told you never to use my name in public?"
Hatred flickered in Zadok's eyes as he stepped forward.
"I'm sorry," he gasped. "It won't happen again."
"Just see that it doesn't," said the slaver grimly, picking up the loaded bags on the table before him.
Zadok passed his hand across his face; it came away scarlet. He went silently out into the night.
It was almost dawn when Saldan's white horse clattered into the courtyard of a heavily guarded villa in the Old City. The moonlight glinted on swords and pistol barrels as guards came forward to take his horse.
They relaxed when they saw who it was and one went running on ahead, opening the great iron-bound doors and bounding up the marble steps. Saldan knew that by the time he had reached the ornate mosaic-floored hall of Prince Selim's residence, his arrival would have already been noted by the ruler of Mucar.
His footsteps echoed hollowly through the corridors as he made his way towards the old man's private apartments. Nubians, heavily armed and with naked scimitars in their hands, stood before the entrance to the women's quarters.
Saldan advanced over a floor of the blue and gold inlaid tiling of exquisite beauty as a dark-skinned body servant bowed deferentially before him.
"Prince Selim will see you now, sir," he said softly. "I'll bet he will," Saldan said sardonically to himself as he jingled the money bags contemptuously, elbowing his way past the guard and down the room. It was a strange and exotic chamber, lit by small oil lamps of weird and bizarre shapes, suspended on chains from the slatted ceiling and which cast shimmering bars of light into every corner.
Prince Selim was a man of about seventy who was reputed in Mucar to keep twenty or thirty young wives actively occupied. Saldan himself doubted this, but he knew it pleased the old man to have people think so.
He bowed stiffly from the waist and came to a halt about three yards away from the ruler's carved sandalwood throne, waiting until he was bidden to come closer by an imperious gesture from Selim's clawlike hand.
Page 7
Saldan smiled and took the leather backed armchair Selim indicated to him. But first he put down the bags on the ornately carved table at his elbow and bent once again over the emaciated fingers the Prince held out to him.
"Some refreshment, my dear sir," said Selim in quavering tones. Saldan sat back in satisfaction as sweet Turkish coffee in small porcelain cups and plates of sweet-cakes with syrup and arid little biscuits were placed between them.
Only when be had eaten did etiquette permit them to talk business. Prince Selim was a striking-looking man, despite his advanced years. He wore a richly embroidered tunic of
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