“You?” said Jim. “A Djinni? And you’re afraid of night-devils?”

Jim could feel the dog’s body pressing against the back of his legs.

It was a completely empty threat, of course. Aside from the fact that Jim knew nothing of what night-devils were, or could do, he knew very well he could never bring himself to treat even a Djinni with deliberate cruelty. Nonetheless, the pressure of Kelb against the back of his legs suddenly ceased.

“I don’t understand this,” said Jim, speaking in the direction of Baiju’s voice. “How do you happen to be here? And why?”

“Some time back, in Tripoli,” said Baiju, “but after he had seen you and the Brian-Sir with you, I happened to visit abu al-Qusayr to find out when those of the Golden Horde that are coming this way would come; and how they might be stopped. He looked into water and told me only two things. One, stopping ibn-Tariq was the key to stopping them; and, two, you were the only one who could stop ibn-Tariq. I should try to find you at this time at this place in the night, and help you to get to Palmyra before the caravan.”

“And so you came, and showed up here, just on the basis of that?” asked Jim. Baiju had not struck him as a particularly trusting or credulous individual.

“That was all he said he could tell me,” said Baiju. “You are a magician yourself. I paid the price he asked for in gold-gold, not silver- and he gave me his answer. You would know better than I if a magician would cheat me after setting a price and getting it.”

Baiju had a point, thought Jim. Magicdom’s rules were very emphatic about that. Abu al-Qusayr could not play anything but fair with someone who had struck a bargain with him-once the bargain was accepted. If this was generally known, even among the Mongols, then it was just possible that Baiju would, indeed, have trusted the elderly magician. It also meant that even abu al-Qusayr had not known why stopping ibn-Tariq could stop the other Mongols.

“Yes,” said Brian’s voice at his shoulder, “and any who are with you, Mongol!”

Baiju gave a brief snort of laughter.

“If that is so,” said Brian, “mayhap it is better to forgo the light. What think you, James?”

“I think you’re right,” said Jim, “and particularly if you think so, Brian.”

“It is ordinary sense,” said Baiju, with a contemptuous edge to his voice. “Come, then. I have white camels from Basra, for each of us. Not only are they faster, and do they go farther, than the heavy beasts of the caravan, but we will push harder. We will push very hard. In five days I will bring you into Palmyra.”

Jim felt a return of the pressure at the back of his legs; and Kelb’s voice spoke.

“O, mighty master, forgive your willful and unruly slave for coming back without permission. But what of me?”

“He is a Djinni,” said Baiju. “Let him find his own way to Palmyra.”

“Master-“ began Kelb again.

“No,” interrupted Jim decisively. “You are a Djinni, as Baiju says. We’ll meet you there. Go then-however you can go. I will call for you again, possibly when I get into Palmyra.”

At the same time Jim began to make out the white wavering shapes in the darkness, which turned out to be the camels Baiju had mentioned. Baiju helped both of them to mount; and a moment later, with the Mongol on his camel leading, they were making their way up the steep slope amid the rocks.

Jim could not remember how long a time the caravan had been supposed to take in making the journey to Palmyra; but it was now six or seven days since it had left Tripoli. Still, five days more from here to the city seemed like making very good speed indeed. He was encouraged.

Later, he wished he hadn’t been.

It was true they were near the top of the mountains; and it was only a few hours from the time they had met Baiju before they rode through the dark pass at the peak, with the absolute blackness of rock walls on both sides and a narrow slit of night sky sprinkled with stars far above them. It was also true that the following day after a few hours sleep just before dawn they reached the bottom of the far side of the mountains looking toward the desert valley area, in the midst of which Palmyra was placed; and as they went in the days that followed, the air grew warmer, and somewhat less dry-although it was far from being what might be considered balmy.

All in all, Jim ended up with the conclusion that he would just as soon not make another forced march with Baiju. The little Mongol drove them from before daybreak until after dark; and if they had let him have his own way they would have had no more than three hours of off-camel sleep a night. The camels themselves stood up to it admirably. Brian said nothing; but his face began to look a little more gray with each day passed, and he was definitely showing exhaustion by the time they got to Palmyra.

So it was not a pleasure trip. Their camels might indeed, as Baiju said, be jewels among their kind, and bred for racing; and it was undeniable that their gait, if anything, was smoother than that of the camels Jim and Brian had ridden in the caravan.

But Jim and Brian, both of them, were worn out by the time they all finally reached Palmyra.

At last, slumped in their saddles and swaying with fatigue, they entered the city in late afternoon. It was a good-sized place of tents and more or less lightly constructed wooden buildings, which had risen on the foundations laid out for an early Greek or Roman city.

At that time, clearly, the city had been constructed on a regular pattern; and the main street running east and west in the center of the city had ruins still standing of a double portico called the Great Colonnade. It was close to this Great Colonnade that Baiju at last brought them to a caravansary where they could lodge.

Jim and Brian were shown to a room. It was not until then that Jim realized neither of them had their usual baggage. Their heavy armor and weapons, their extra clothing and-worst of all-his personal, deverminized mattress were missing.

To hell with it, he thought exhaustedly, and chose a clean patch of floor. He visualized a magic line around it that would send all vermin and suchlike running from it in fear, and lay down, pulling his cloak over him. He had just enough consciousness left to magically make the splintered wooden floor underneath him as soft as a bed-and he fell ocean-deep in slumber.

They were wakened by Baiju. The Mongol showed no signs of weariness from the trip, just as he had shown no signs of weariness during it. They woke to find him standing over them.

“Will you sleep forever?” he demanded.

“Not any more, in any case, with your braying!” said Brian. “James, I must have breakfast-and a sword. We must both get swords. But food now! Where do you get some food in this hell-bound place?”

“Rise and come with me,” said Baiju. Without waiting for them he turned and started out of the room.

“Wait a minute,” said Jim. Unlike Brian, who woke up with a nasty temper until fed, but came fully awake at once, Jim needed a little time to reach full alertness. “If you walk out that door without us, you’d better count on not having anything to do with me from now on. I need a little time.”

Baiju spun about on his heel.

“I brought you here,” he said dangerously, “and now you will not repay me as you should?”

“I didn’t make any bargain with you,” said Jim. “Abu al-Qusayr told you I might be useful to you; and the only reason you helped us get here was because of that. If you’ve got any disagreements, go talk to him.”

“That’s all right,” said Jim, answering both Hob and Baiju’s superstitious alarm at once. “I just wanted to make sure you were there and all right. It must have been pretty boring for you this trip. I know you don’t sleep.”

“That doesn’t matter,” said Hob. “Any hobgoblin is used to going a long time with nothing happening. We just sit and think about happy things that happened to us in the past, without sleeping.”

“I will wait for you downstairs in the room where everyone eats and talks,” Baiju said, less pale now, but walking hastily out.

Jim had all but forgotten him already. He was coming all the way awake; and it struck him that he felt hot, sticky and uncomfortable. He would have given almost anything for a shower, twentieth-century style, but of course that was impossible.

A bath was an alternative; but the bathhouses that might be available were more trouble than they were worth. Jim only wanted to get clean. He did not want to be offered female or male company, food, drink, drugs or anything else. Particularly he did not want people pretending to help him bathe, and then asking a price for it. It was not so much the price that bothered him as the annoyance of having to get rid of such gadflies.

He could magic himself and his clothes clean-but he had been nibbling away at his magic reserves, in spite of his good intentions to use them as little as possible.

“I’m ready,” he said to Brian. “How about you?”

“You should wear your mail shirt,” said Brian reproachfully.

Jim looked at the pile of metal links on the floor by his mattress with sourness. That was right. He had taken that off before collapsing in sleep. Now, wearing his shirt and undershirt alone, he was quite comfortable in the passably warm atmosphere here, and it would undoubtedly get warmer during the day. To wear the mail shirt, with its sewn on, interior quilted padding, would be to make himself uncomfortably hot. Still, Brian was right. They were in a strange city, among strangers; and the rule of the fourteenth century, whether you were in England, the Middle East or any place else, seemed to be “Go protected, and be ready for anything.”

Regretfully he put on the mail shirt. He was almost immediately prickly with heat; but hopefully, his body would adjust to it during the day. Brian was on his feet, standing in the clothes he had been wearing all through the trip and moving from foot to foot impatiently.

He led the way out the door and Jim took a few long strides to catch up with him.

When they got to the coffeehouse, restaurant, or whatever it was that was part of their lodging place, it was enclosed by a circular wall of ancient marble in which were niches. Each niche had a low table and pillows on which to sit cross-legged around it. They looked about for Baiju, but he was not there.

“Well,” said Jim, after they had sat down and ordered whatever was available for breakfast-Jim included a large container of cool sherbet with his. Having done this and watched their server leave, he looked around, saw no one was sitting close enough to overhear easily, and spoke to Brian in a low voice.

“Had you any plan for how we might go about finding Geronde’s father here?” he asked Brian.

Brian finished gulping down what was in his mouth and answered.

“To be honest with you, James,” he said, “I had planned to do as I have done all the way here so far, to search out an English knight, or at least a French or other knight of good repute, and ask his help and guidance. But this place seems singularly free of any but the local infidels. Yet we might ask.”

He looked around the eating place they were in, caught the eye of the man who had served them and waved him over. While waiting, he dipped into the single dish that had been put down between Jim and himself, picked up another mouthful of it with the tips of his fingers as he would have done in England, and stuck it in his mouth. The server arrived at their table, as Brian was hastily trying to get this chewed and swallowed. Brian got it down just in time.

“Fellow,” he said to the server, “by the way, what kind of meat is it in this you have brought us?”

“It is a tender young she-camel, masters,” said the server. “One who broke a leg in the stables of Murad of the Heavy Purse, and which we were fortunately able to buy for slaughter. Is it not flavorful and good to eat?”

“Well, it is, at least, not goat,” said Brian. “Tell me, do you know of any English knights here in this city?”

“English knights?” said the server, looking puzzled.

“Yes, yes,” said Brian. “You know-English knights! Knights from England.”

“Master,” said the server, wonderingly. “Of Frankish knights I have heard; but I do not understand what you mean by these that are called English.”

“I was speaking of England,” said Brian, speaking the word slowly, and pronouncing the word slowly and more loudly. “England.”

“My friend is speaking of a lord from his own country,” said Jim. “And that country is England-an island not far from the land of those you call the Franks.”

“Are you sure?” asked Jim. “Couldn’t there be one around in this city who you haven’t heard of?”

The server shook his head.

The server went off; but his place was almost immediately taken by Baiju, who sat down next to Jim on a cushion in the niche where they were seated, and drew his legs up in cross-legged position. He reached out and helped himself from their bowl of food.

“Now what do you plan?” he said to them.

“The fact is,” Jim said, “we’re looking for someone who might be here in Palmyra. He-“

“When did you do that?” asked Jim.

“Oh, one of the times in the caravan, when you were talking with that wordy fellow ibn-Tariq-or should I call him a gentleman?” said Brian.

He was still looking at Baiju, who shook his head and went on eating.

“We are at something of an impasse,” Brian told him. “Leave the food alone for a moment, if you please, Mongol, and give us your attention. There is reason to believe that he is in this town; but we have no idea of how to go about searching for him.”

“Look!” said Baiju, pausing only briefly as far as feeding himself went, and staring at Jim and Brian. “Look-and ask to see if anyone else has seen him.”

“We just did,” said Jim. “We asked the server here who brought us this food. He said that if there was someone like that in Palmyra, he would know it because those who pass through here on caravans and by other means usually stop and eat here; and the word gets out of any strangers in the land.”

Baiju gave a momentary short sound that was somewhere between a cough and a laugh.

He looked around the room, and focused on the server who was busy with some people in another niche a quarter of the circle around.

“Come!” shouted Baiju.

In the other niches, the men in flowing robes eating there stopped, looked at him, looked at each other and spoke to each other in low tones which were unintelligible to Jim and Brian sitting in the booth, but which were pretty clearly-judging by the hand gestures and the facial expressions-either shocked or contemptuous statements about Baiju’s manners. The server deliberately kept on doing what he was doing for a few moments, as if he had not heard, then turned and almost ran across the room to Baiju, all smiles.

“My master called?” he asked.

“Tell me,” said Baiju abruptly, “are there any Frankish slaves in Palmyra?”

“Assuredly, there are, master,” said the server. “But how many, or to whom they belong, I could not tell you. Who keeps track of slaves?”

“I have not, O master,” said the server. “I could ask those who pay attention to such things if they know of any such? Perhaps in a day or so I would hear.”

“He will reward thee,” said the Mongol. “It will not be a great reward. But it will be a certain one if you have found the slave I speak. Do you understand?”

“Indeed, understanding comes clear to me, O generous and beneficent master,” said the server, salaaming. “Is there any other thing I can do for you?”

“Yes,” said Baiju, “bring us more of what was in this bowl.”

“Yes, master,” said the server. He took the empty bowl and hurried off.

Baiju leaned back against the padded wall of the niche. He sighed contentedly, looked at Jim and Brian and belched.

Brian had grown accustomed to this eastern way of expressing satisfaction with the meal. Jim had learned to control his face at this, but he still winced inside; even though he knew that here it was a way of saying, “That tasted good!”

Baiju grinned at them, a fierce and sardonic but undeniably humorous grin.

“Ibn-Tariq is here,” he said. “I caught sight of him earlier in the day, before you were down.”