Part 2

The girl paused, flung into a censer at the Dreamer's feet a handful of incense, and resumed as she turned to face Schamas ad Din, "But think well, Son of the Old Tiger. A lesser vengeance, and one such as you contemplated when you sought me, could be bought much more cheaply.... So back to the courtyard and ponder with clear sky over your head. For only that old rogue of an Ismeddin ever escaped the penalty...."

The girl smiled reminiscently and fondly, then continued, "And it is no jesting matter, this sitting cross-legged on a pedestal when I have tired of you. Nor would Maksoud find a cheaper vengeance at all pleasant."

Yet her eyes belied the discouragement her lips spoke. The sultan ceased comparing her to the women of Gurjestan and Tcherkess, for she was incomparable. Even his jest and his vengeance were trifling....

The sultan disengaged himself from her perfumed embrace.

"Ismeddin is waiting."

And Schamas ad Din ascended the winding incline, smiling and stroking his curled beard.

* * * * *

Ismeddin in the meanwhile had led Maksoud, still bound and gagged, and his escort of black mamelukes into the courtyard.

"Father of many little pigs," murmured the darvish, "our lord the Sultan has taken offense at your last display of wretched marksmanship. And since none of his own fancies were worthy of you, he is even now taking counsel with Abaddon of the Black Hands. I expect him any moment, well advised and smiling. So be assured against anything as commonplace as being sawed asunder between two planks."

The Africans had dismounted, and were taking from their packs all manner of implements, as well as cords, flasks of oil, charcoal, and a pair of small bellows. One of them set to work kindling a fire while the other three deftly fitted together mortised and tenoned pieces of dark, heavy wood, assembling a stout frame equipped with hooks, manacles, and shackles.

"It is difficult to say what form the master's fancy will take," resumed Ismeddin, as he approvingly regarded the executioners at their work. "But surely it will not be commonplace."

He picked up a keen, two-handed sword, tested its edge and balance.

"Very pretty. But you will have nothing to do with this."

Then, as he noted the four horses tethered to a column: "Ah! ... now _that_, with certain variations, has real possibilities. You are quite substantial, Maksoud ... but those horses are sturdy little beasts...."

Ismeddin stroked the neck of a savage Barbary stallion, and continued, "But then, that also is swift. At the best, it lasts but a little over a day, even with the nicest of workmanship," mused the old man.

Ismeddin deftly removed the gag from the prisoner's mouth.

"He can no more than banish me!" sputtered Maksoud. "The Resident would depose him were I not to return. Old ape ... son of many pork-eating fathers ... do you think all this parade of curious torments will kill _me_ of fright? That is an old story. I myself once helped him----"

And Maksoud's laugh rang true.

"So?" Ismeddin smiled suavely. "Well, and I said that you would meet none of these commonplace things. But supposing ... just supposing, as food for thought, that we were to let you down into that black pit. You have seen those who have played about these ruins----"

Ismeddin nodded to the black slaves, who advanced to remove the prisoner from his horse.

"Not _that_, _saidi_," implored Maksoud.

"That, and more than that. You have seen those who lost their way in these ruins. And you once laughed at what was left of one who finally did find his way out."

The executioners, skilled as they were at handling tormented wretches, kept their hold on Maksoud with difficulty.

And then the cool voice of the sultan, as he emerged from the pit: "Well, Ismeddin, couldn't you wait for me? I heard his howling long before I reached the surface."

"Mercy, O Magnificent! Not into that pit of Iblis!"

"The penalty of poor marksmanship, Maksoud," declared the sultan. "Had you practised in private a few more days, I would not be here deciding your fate."

He smiled and stroked his beard.

"And so you fancied being sultan, did you?" resumed Schamas ad Din. "Those wild fancies are deplorable. Yussuf, here, has devised an entertainment worthy of your bungling; but he shall save it for another."

The chief of the black slaves looked up from his implements, and grinned.

"That pit, master ... spare me that!"

"Well, and so be it, Maksoud ... ungrateful son of my brother. But listen: I have devised a doom which will make that pit seem a childish game, and the companions of the pit pleasant playmates. For those whom these ruins have done to death and torment and madness have lived but a month or two of frenzy. But what I have devised----"

He paused, ignoring the prisoner and his pleas. The sultan's smile faded, and his features became drawn and thoughtful. He leaned against the balustrade, and stared at those eleven all too life-like figures squatting on their pedestals of chiseled stone.

The executioners were now supporting rather than holding fast the prisoner. And they themselves, hardened as they were to applying fire and steel, shifted uneasily, and licked their dry lips as they regarded the sultan. And when he turned, they dropped their eyes to avoid his eyes.

Still the sultan did not speak.

His presence was a smoldering doom.

Then a poison sweetness crept up from the mouth of the pit.

From its blacknesses emerged the figure of a bearded king, who solemnly advanced with measured steps, as to the cadence of a slowly beaten drum.

The tongueless executioners dropped their implements, and made horrible, choking grasps at speech.

But as if alone in a desert waste, the presence strode through the group. His robe brushed Maksoud as he passed toward the other side of the court, bearing in his left hand a strangely carved scepter, and with his right hand stroking his long, curled beard.

Straight across the moon-bathed tiles, and to the twelfth pedestal; and then with infinite care and deliberation, he seated himself cross-legged after the fashion of those eleven all too life-like images.

Very faintly came the sound of a distant gong: not resonant as bronze, but rather as the hissing of a serpent or the rustling of silk.

The sultan started. Then he looked Maksoud full in the eye, and smiled that terrific smile of his father, the Old Tiger.

"Maksoud," he began, "you sought to be king before your day, and forgot my friendship and favor. You could not wait for me to meet my doom on the highroads of Allah. And I shall now punish you by giving you----"

The prisoner choked and gasped.

"Not that, _saidi_----"

"By giving you," continued the sultan, "that which you sought, so that the fullness of possession shall corrode your soul worse than any torment could corrode your body. You shall sit on my lofty throne and publish the orders dictated by an infidel Resident. He shall thwart your vengeances. He shall make a mockery of you, the last remnant of the lordly estate of kings. You shall rule by words rather than by swords."

The sultan drew his simitar.

"Your friends shall seek you with daggers in your gardens. Poison shall lurk in your food and in your thoughts. Bungling marksmen shall never quite attain the mark you will finally wish them to attain. Your enemies will pity you."

The simitar flickered twice, and the stout cords fell from Maksoud's wrists and ankles.

"To horse, Maksoud, and ride to your throne!"

The sultan sheathed his blade, advanced a pace down the spiral pathway of darkness, then paused to listen to the hoof-beats of Maksoud's cavalcade.

Old Ismeddin leaned over the balustrade.

"A moment, _saidi_! Let your first whisper in the girl's ear ask for _two_ British Residents in Angor-lana."

And with a courtly salaam to the master, Ismeddin disappeared among the ruins.