Free Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures by Robert E. Howard

the Moor’s poniard, he paused longer, and presently murmured softly, as if to himself: “Soho! Zaman the Sworder! Of high rank the archer whose shaft is panelled with pearls!” And wrenching from the limp black finger a heavy, curiously bezelled ring, he slipped it into his girdle, and then laid hold on the garments of the dead man.
    “Aid me, brother,” said he. “Let us dispose of this carrion, so that no questions will be asked.”
    Without question Yusuf ibn Suleyman grasped a blood-stained jacket in each hand, and dragged the bodies after the Turk down a reeking black alley, in the midst of which rose the broken curb of a ruined and forgotten well. The corpses plunged headfirst into the abyss, and struck far below with a sullen splash; and with a light laugh, the Turk turned to the Moor.
    “Allah hath made us allies,” he repeated. “I owe you a debt.”
    “You owe me naught,” answered the Moor in a rather surly tone.
    “Words can not level a mountain,” returned the Turk imperturbably. “I am Al Afdhal, a Memluk. Come with me out of these rat dens, and we will converse.”
    Yusuf ibn Suleyman sheathed his saber somewhat grudgingly, as if he rather regretted the decision of the Turk toward peace; but he followed the latter without comment. Their way led through the rat-haunted gloom of reeking alleys, and across narrow winding streets, noisome with refuse. Cairo was then, as later, a fantastic contrast of splendor and decay, where exotic palaces rose among the smoke-stained ruins of forgotten cities; a swarm of motley suburbs clustering about the walls of El Kahira, the forbidden inner city where dwelt the caliph and his nobles.
    Presently the companions came to a newer and more respectable quarter, where the overhanging balconies with their richly latticed windows of cedar and nacre inlay almost touched one another across the narrow street.
    “All the shops are dark,” grunted the Moor. “A few days ago the city was lighted like day, from dusk to sunrise.”
    “That was one of Al Hakim’s whims,” said the Turk. “Now he has another whim, and no lights burn in the streets of al medina . What his mood will be tomorrow, only Allah knows.”
    “There is no knowledge, save in Allah,” agreed the Moor piously, and scowled. The Turk had tugged at his thin drooping moustache as if to hide a grin.
    They halted before an iron-bound door in a heavy stone arch, and the Turk rapped cautiously. A voice challenged from within, and was answered in the gutturals of Turan, unintelligible to Yusuf ibn Suleyman. The door was opened, and Al Afdhal pushed into thick darkness, drawing the Moor with him. They heard the door closed behind them, then a heavy leather curtain was pulled back, revealing a lamp-lit corridor, and a scarred ancient whose fierce moustachios proclaimed the Turk.
    “An old Memluk turned to wine-selling,” said Al Afdhal to the Moor. “Lead us to a chamber where we can be alone, Ahmed.”
    “All the chambers are empty,” grumbled old Ahmed, limping before them. “I am a ruined man. Men fear to touch the cup, since the caliph banned wine. Allah smite him with the gout!”
    Bowing them into a small chamber he spread mats for them, set before them a great dish of pistachio kernels, Tihamah raisins, and citrons, poured wine from a bulging skin, and limped away, muttering under his breath.
    “Egypt has come upon evil days,” drawled the Turk lazily, quaffing deep of the Shiraz liquor. He was a tall man, leanly but strongly built, with keen black eyes that danced restlessly and were never still. His khalat was plain, but of costly fabric; his spired helmet was chased with silver, and jewels glinted in the hilt of his scimitar.
    Over against him Yusuf ibn Suleyman presented something of the same hawk-like appearance, which is characteristic of all men who live by war. The Moor was fully as tall as the Turk, but with thicker limbs and a greater depth of chest. His was the build of the mountaineer