They did not turn down any side passage. This last corridor led directly to the spacious entrance of a very large room, empty of furniture or anything else except at the far end, where, beneath a canopy under the domed ceiling high overhead, a very wide, big man sat on cushions with trays, cups and beakers around him.

He was, thought Jim, as they got closer in the great room, not merely big but almost unbelievably huge. Not only that, but his face was almost buried under an amazingly full, fluffy, white beard that seemed to start right under his eyebrows and bury his features-chin, neck and all-in a beard that would almost make a mattress for a bed. The only thing really visible was the red interior of his mouth, as he picked up some morsel and it disappeared into that aperture.

He wore a turban on his head and a massive, overflowing gown of silk in purple and red that made him seem even bigger. It must, thought Jim, take at least four of his servants to help him even get to his feet.

It was just at this juncture that he was a little startled to hear Brian’s voice, low-pitched and hoarse in his ear.

“Is that this fellow with the heavy purse?” muttered Brian. “There’s something false about all this, James. As if I’d seen him somewhere before.”

“Where?” Jim would have asked, but they were already too close to the massive owner of this establishment for any further low-voiced conversation.

“O, Murad of the Heavy Purse,” said ibn-Tariq, “these are those I have spoken to you of: Baiju the Mongol, Sir James and Sir Brian-the noble Franks.”

“They are welcome, very welcome!” said Murad. “Am I right, my guests, that you, being unknowing of Allah, believe yourselves free to drink alcohol?”

Jim suddenly noticed that Baiju also had a flagon. Not only that, but he was already drinking out of it in a way that would have it emptied in a few more seconds. Ibn-Tariq had not said anything; so Jim supposed it was up to him or Brian to answer.

“You are right, Murad of the Heavy Purse,” he said. “We thank you for this wine, it being a familiar drink to us.”

“I wish my guests to be pleased and furnished with whatever brings them pleasure,” said Murad. “I appreciate my food and drink-and I wish all others to appreciate theirs too. As Allah has commanded, I feed all those who are truly hungry who come to my door; and to the best of my guests I offer their choice of my food.”

“All know that, O Murad of the Heavy Purse,” said ibn-Tariq, while Jim was still hunting for a polite form in which to make an answer.

“It is well,” said Murad. “O Franks, I understand you are looking for a Frankish slave; and my great friend ibn-Tariq is aiding you in this search. I myself will do what I can to help. What sort of man would he be?”

“When I last saw him, some years ago,” said Brian, “he was an erect man somewhat taller than I, but not as tall as Sir James, here; with black hair just beginning to go gray, a small mustache, a high, arched nose and a jaw that came to a point in front. A scarred and somewhat small jaw, for the rest of his features, which were big-boned and strong.”

“A search shall be made,” said Murad. “I have connections and affairs with many people; and the search shall be an extensive one. We will hope that it finds what you need.”

“Are not the ways of Allah marvelous, Murad, my friend?” said ibn-Tariq. “That the emirs of the caliphate of all Egypt should need information which possibly these Franks can supply; and they should be led directly to you, who are in a best position to answer the Franks’ own need to find this long-lost other Frank?

“It is so,” said Murad. And a small brown dog came out from somewhere behind him and sat down, beside the cushion on which he rested, looking directly at Jim. “The wonders of Allah are beyond all men’s comprehension.”

“But perhaps some of the wonder may be guessed at,” said ibn-Tariq.

“Egypt is by rights the source and headwater of a mighty empire and so destined to be. The caliphate with its many emirs does not always move as swiftly as it might. Perhaps the time has come for another like Sala-ad-Din was-may Allah keep him forever in His arms-a Kurd as thou art a Kurd, O Murad. Some master of wisdom and possessor of infinite courage, who will lead us into this new empire.”

“Blessed indeed, be the name of Sala-ad-Din,” answered Murad. “It would indeed be well to think that someone like him might arise again, and even that he might be a Kurd. But we must not look beyond the present moment.”

While this flowery speech was going on between the two men, Jim was looking at the brown dog and the brown dog was looking back at him. It was a ridiculous situation.

He could not say to the dog, “What are you doing here?” in spite of the fact that he was sure that the dog he was looking at was none other than Kelb, still in his canine shape.

Likewise, he could not say, “Kelb, I told you not to show up again unless you were called by me.” And in fact something suggested that if the two of them were alone together, even then it might not be wise. There was an air of insufferable arrogance about the dog’s yellow eyes, which were meeting his unblinkingly at the moment.

There had to be, of course, an outside chance that the dog was not Kelb. Small brown dogs were small brown dogs, particularly when they had obviously been pushed around by circumstance; and were scruffy and unkempt, with short hair.

But if it was Kelb, then what possible connection could he have with Murad? Jim looked into that question and saw possible different answers stretched out apparently without limit.

He gave up on it, for the moment. There was no point in exercising his imagination on it now. He returned his attention to Murad and ibn-Tariq. The compliments were still flowing back and forth between them.

“If Sala-ad-Din were to be once more among us,” Murad was saying, “he could do no better than appoint you as his Vizier, ibn-Tariq-“ Murad was saying. But Jim missed the last of that particular verbal flourish, because Brian had just caught his elbow between thumb and middle finger and was digging those two fingers into his flesh to attract his attention.

Brian had an iron grip, and it would have been hard to ignore this example of it in any case; but Jim only glanced sideways out of his eyes, enough to see that Brian, although he had hitched himself a little closer to Jim, was also pretending to look straight forward and listen to the dialogue between ibn-Tariq and Murad. However, he was also now close enough so that he could murmur out of the comer of his mouth to Jim.

“James!” he said. “That server, just going back into the wall. Look quickly.”

Without turning his head, Jim slanted his gaze swiftly over in time to catch a glimpse of a relatively tall but bent man with gray hair, thin almost to the point of emaciation, going into the wall. Before he could see more, the wall closed behind him.

Jim thought swiftly.

“We’ll have to wait, Brian,” he murmured back. “Wait until he comes out again.”

“But he hasn’t come out before this!” said Brian urgently. “He may not come again!”

“Give me a chance to break into the conversation,” he said to Brian, and resolutely returned his attention to ibn-Tariq and Murad.

Their talk had wandered off to matters dealing with Sunnis and Shi’ites-which, as Jim vaguely remembered from the days of his twentieth-century education, were the two major sects of Islam. In fact, if he remembered rightly, the Sunni were the orthodox, and perhaps by far the largest sect; but the Shi’ites were numerous enough to be formidable. At the moment, Sunnis were being spoken of with approval and Shi’ites not so. Jim got the strong impression that both Murad and ibn-Tariq belonged in the Sunni camp.

“-A change is coming, O Murad,” ibn-Tariq was saying, “I tell thee. We must be ready; and there is no time like that which is now.”

He paused and Jim jumped in quickly, before Murad could speak again.

“If you will forgive me, O Murad of the Heavy Purse and ibn-Tariq,” he said, “a remarkable thing has just happened. My friend Sir Brian and I have just seen a man that greatly resembles the one we seek. He was dressed as one of your servants, O Murad of the Heavy Purse, and has but a few moments ago left us through that entrance there.”

He pointed to the wall that had now closed up again to Murad’s right.

“A servant of mine? Are you sure, Frank?”

“I cannot be sure,” said Jim. “Neither can Sir Brian. Would it be possible to have the man back so that we can look at him?”

“Indeed, this is a time of wonders,” murmured ibn-Tariq, stroking his neat mustache.

“What manner of man was he?” demanded Murad.

“He was elderly-more elderly than any of the others who have served us since we have been here,” said Brian. “He is gray-haired, somewhat stooped and thinner than I remember him; but he is very like Sir Geoffrey, the man we seek, if he is not indeed Sir Geoffrey himself.”

“In my own household!” said Murad. He clapped his hands three times.

The door through which Jim and Brian had seen the man they were interested in disappear opened again; but this time what came out was a tall old man with a wispy white beard and a tall staff, with some sort of gold ornamental top on it. He salaamed, bowing very low to Murad.

“Is there something in which Murad of the Heavy Purse needs to be served?” said the old man.

“Yes,” said Murad. “There has been, within a short time here, a servant who came into the room, more elderly than any of the other servants, stooped and gray-haired, which two of my guests think they recognize and would like to see again. Find that man and send him back out here again.”

“The command of Murad of the Heavy Purse will be obeyed,” said the bearded man. He backed into the aperture in the wall, which closed upon his exit.

“I knew him very well,” said Brian, “though it was some years back and I was younger then.”

“Well, we will soon see,” said Murad.

“How art thou called?” demanded Murad.

“I am called ‘the Nasraney,’ “ said the man in a rusty, worn-out voice.

“Thou art a slave, then,” said Murad. “So much the better. Look toward those who sit before me, so that they may see your face clearly,” said Murad.

“Geronde...”

The man seemed stunned. He had not returned Brian’s embrace. Jim was feeling a strange uneasiness. There was nothing wrong with what was happening-in fact, it was probably the most fortunate thing in the world; but it came very, very close to being a whopping coincidence-that they should meet ibn-Tariq, who knew Murad of the Heavy Purse, who just happened to have as one of his household slaves the one man they were seeking for in all of the Near East.

“Sir Geoffrey, speak to me!” Brian was saying.

“Perhaps,” said Jim, “this is all a little too much for a man who has not seen one of his own kind for some years. Perhaps if Brian and I could have some time alone with him...”

“Whatever wits he had are gone,” said Baiju harshly.

“More likely it is simply the suddenness of meeting someone he used to know from a long time back,” said ibn-Tariq. He turned to Murad. “Perhaps this suggestion of Sir James is not unwise. O Murad, of thy mercifulness and great generosity, wouldst thou allow this slave to be alone with your two infidel guests, here?”

“Let it be so,” said Murad, with a dismissive wave of his hand. He looked at the man with the beard and the staff and made a motion with his finger. The man with the staff stepped forward to Brian.

“Follow me,” he said. The slave turned automatically, Brian went with him, and Jim jumped hastily to his own feet and joined them.

They were led back to the entrance of the large room, and there a portion of the wall opened up again, and they were ushered through into a narrow corridor, but one still richly furnished, that led them a short distance to a small room furnished the same way. Here the bearded man stopped and took a step back from them.

“You will stay here until Murad of the Heavy Purse summons you,” he announced, turned on his heel and walked out.

As the sound of his feet died away on the stone surface of the corridor they had just come along, the slave gradually raised his eyes to Brian.

“Is it really you, little Brian?” he said, in a broken voice. “Brian, you are you, aren’t you? You are real?”

“Sit down, Sir Geoffrey,” he said. He almost had to push the man into a seated position on a cushion, where the older man automatically crossed his legs in eastern fashion. Jim and Brian sat down with him.

“Brian,” said the man, in a wondering voice, “do you recall going looking for hobgoblins in one of our chimneys, and getting stuck? Geronde came screaming to me, sure that something terrible had happened to you. I had to climb into the chimney myself to get you out.”

“I remember it well,” said Brian, chuckling. “And well I remember the beating you gave me for doing such a foolish thing.”

He put up his one hand and lightly stroked one side of Brian’s face.

“And now you are a man and a knight, with scars!”

Sir Geoffrey nodded.

“And then the Easter that...” Brian went off into a flood of reminiscences. Jim stood aside, forgotten. Sir Geoffrey was nodding to everything Brian suggested, but Jim could not be sure whether he really remembered all that Brian mentioned, or was just agreeing to keep the flow coming. His face looked happy.

There was nothing for Jim to do while the two renewed their acquaintance. It was probably just as well, thought Jim. Finding Sir Geoffrey was not the end of all their problems. In a sense it was just the beginning of them.

Murad had spoken of Geoffrey as a slave. That meant that he was property that Murad owned. Would Murad let him go? Probably. But, what kind of enormous price might he not ask, now that he must have gathered that getting Sir Geoffrey back and taking him home to England must mean a great deal to Sir Brian, and supposedly to Jim as well?

Jim moved restlessly about the room, his mind searching for a point from which to attack the several problems that had presented themselves to him all at the same time. Brian still had most of the capful of gold coins he had received as the winner of the tournament. The coins were now sewn into the padded vest he wore underneath his chain mail shirt; and since, as commonly done, the vest had been sewn directly to the chain mail, the weight of the gold coins, hopefully, would be masked by the weight of the steel shirt.

By English standards, it was a princely sum. But what would it look like to someone like Murad, who evidently was the equivalent of a billionaire-judging by this place, these servants and the submissive attitude ibn-Tariq had been showing to him? Even assuming the gold pieces, perhaps with Jim’s money added, were enough to buy the freedom of Sir Geoffrey, the three of them would still be far from European friends, or any other help in this city.

How, to begin with, would they pay the expenses of their trip home? How, indeed, would they even be able to get out of Palmyra and back to Tripoli, where Brian could possibly find some English or connections that would lend them enough to get home on? From what he had seen of this land, credit was not something that came easily to strangers-come to think it, credit never came easily to strangers anywhere, he reminded himself.

Then there was the matter of ibn-Tariq and Baiju. The fact that they both had been on the caravan was now somewhat explained by the fact that there seemed to be some kind of political business between them with this matter of the Mongols of the Golden Horde coming down from the north into Lebanon and the attitude toward this of either the Mamelukes, or the Egyptian caliphate-or perhaps the last two were one, and ibn-Tariq represented them both.

It could be that both ibn-Tariq and Baiju might have prices of their own to demand for the freedom of Sir Geoffrey. Baiju had not simply supplied them with camels and brought them from the Assassins’ fortress to this city with such speed because he was a generous soul.

Nor, in spite of his repetition of the word “friends,” was ibn-Tariq simply a fountain of generosity. Moreover, ibn-Tariq was entirely too well connected, and in exactly the right place at the right time too often, for Jim’s present peace of mind. Could it be possible that ibn-Tariq had somehow already known they were searching for Sir Geoffrey?

But if so, how? And, if so, had he planned to lead them to Geronde’s father, so that he could set some price on his assistance in getting Sir Geoffrey into their hands?

It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that ibn-Tariq, who seemed the most polished of politicians and possibly one of the most clever individuals that Jim had met here in the fourteenth century, had gotten word from Cyprus of an English knight searching for Geoffrey. But why should that interest the Egyptian?

But if he had such an interest, having learned this much, ibn-Tariq could then have joined the caravan and tried to pump Jim for further information. Failing in this, he might then have somehow arranged with Hasan ad-Dimri to have Brian and Jim kidnapped and brought into the White Palace.

But could he have foreseen their escape from there?

Baiju, according to what the Mongol had said, had learned from abu al-Qusayr where to wait for Jim and Brian and on what day and at what time. That suggested something very strongly. Which was that abu al-Qusayr had known ahead of time they would be taken to the White Palace, but then escape by the tunnel. If he had somehow known this-he was a senior legal magician, after all-though he pointedly mentioned scrying would not show the future-he might have told Baiju to provide some help for Jim. That was the sort of thing Carolinus might do...

Jim’s head began to spin. I’ll stop thinking about it, he told himself, and come back to it later.

In his wanderings around the room, Jim had half-unconsciously drifted into examining the walls that surrounded them. With the exception of the entrance, the walls showed no openings. There were not even windows to be seen, and the only light came from several torches burning around the room, although these shed a remarkable amount of light for their size and the activity of their flames. Jim found himself running his hands along the walls as he passed, absently feeling for any difference.

He had seen both the wall in the first room where he had met Baiju and ibn-Tariq in this house, and the wall behind Murad of the Heavy Purse, open and reveal a space through which a servant could enter the room. It was not beyond possibility that this room had something like that. And if it did...

His mind was only absently considering this possibility when he felt under his fingers a slight vertical edge, the almost invisible upper side of a joint between two of the carefully fitted stones of the wall. He stopped and ran his fingers up and down it-finding it continuous, stone to stone, from floor level to just above his head.

Now that he knew what he was looking for, he could see that the joint also ran crosswise from its highest point, over to another line that descended again to the floor. The outline of a possible secret door was made less obvious by the fact that this wall, like all the others he had seen in the rooms where he and Brian had talked with ibn-Tariq and Murad, was faced with square slabs of polished marble; and the lines where they joined, both vertically and horizontally, helped hide the joint his fingers had discovered.

But finding the doorway was one thing. To open it could be a more difficult matter. He tried pressing and pushing at the slab which faced the door, and running his hand up and down just inside the joint on either side.

He was not sure exactly when he touched the place that opened it, but suddenly the stone facing before him moved back some six inches and then without a sound supped sideways. Unthinkingly he stepped into darkness, and then hastily on out to the daylight two steps farther on.

He had expected to find only some sort of secret passage, hidden in the thickness of the wall between this room and whatever was next to it. Instead, he now came out into another room, this one with one side plainly open to fresh air, or whatever else was beyond being hidden by several layers of filmy curtain.

Excited, he went across and tried to part the curtain just enough so he could see through it. By gathering almost a full armful of sheer cloth, he managed it finally; and what he saw beyond was a sort of interior courtyard with a fountain in the center, and trees growing around it.

The trees were not very tall, but were heavily laden with what seemed to be oranges and lemons, some half-ripe, and some clearly ready for picking. Over-topping these trees and beyond them, Jim could see what apparently was an exterior wall, protecting this garden spot-and he thought as he peered through the tree trunks that he could see a green door at ground level in the wall that might lead to freedom.

His happiness over this discovery suddenly tripped and dropped into a cold sensation more like despair.

Even if they did escape, how could they take a valuable slave from Murad of the Heavy Purse and hope to hide with him? Particularly in this city where Murad evidently had so much power, and undoubtedly many people to search and locate them. In fact, they could almost surely not leave even this part of Palmyra without being seen; and once they were seen, Murad would hear of it.

He was struggling to pull himself back up from this sudden fall of spirits, when suddenly two wafts of smoke came through the curtains between him and the garden as if the curtains were not there; and also coming through the cloth as if they were not there, riding on the smoke, were Hob and Angie on one, Geronde on the other, riding with another hobgoblin.

The smoke deposited Angie and Geronde on their feet on the floor directly in front of Jim. The two hobgoblins stayed, perched where they were.

“Jim!” cried Angie, wrapping her arms around him.

He kissed her gratefully and heartily; then, remembering, came up for air long enough to say over her shoulder, “Geronde, we found your father. He’s in the next room.”

“You found him?” Geronde stared, and Angie suddenly let go of Jim and stepped back.

“You did, Jim?” said Angie. “That’s marvelous. Let’s go to him right now!”

“There’re some complications-“ Jim was beginning, but even as he said this, he saw Brian and Sir Geoffrey enter the room through the still-open wall door, looking inquiringly in the direction of the voices. Brian raced to Geronde.

“Look, Geronde!” Brian was saying, a moment later, as he came up for air. “We have Sir-“

But Geronde had stiffened, and a cold look had come over her face as she stared at the elderly man. She broke in now, icily, before Brian could finish talking.

“That’s not my father!” she said.