A jest and a vengeance

The drumming in the mountains at last ceased. But late that night, long after the outposts at Djeb el Azhár had been doubled, there came another and a different drumming, this time from the palace itself: very low, giving rather the sense of a massive vibration rather than of sound. And this deep pulsing was picked up and relayed until it crept into those very mountains where the tribesmen sharpened their curved yataghans, stuffed their scarlet saddle-bags with grain, and awaited the signal to descend and plunder, certain that they would not be pursued beyond the Sultan's borders, and safe in the assurance that the Resident was but waiting for a pretext to depose Schamas ad Din.

To one who lived in those mountains, and understood the code, the deep-voiced, far-relayed drum spoke very clearly; so that, late as it was, Ismeddin emerged from his cave, belted on a jeweled simitar that gleamed frostily against his tattered, greasy garments, and picked his way on foot along the hidden trails that led through the camps of the revolting tribesmen and to the plains below.

The darvish had heard the signal, and knew that the son of the Old Tiger was in need.

Ismeddin smiled as he heard the guttural chant of the rebels about their guard fires. But as he approached their outposts, he picked his way more warily, ceased smiling, muttered in his long beard something about the exceeding unfairness of having to contend with mounted sentries, and loosened the Ladder to Heaven in its scabbard....

Since the flat roof of the palace at Angor-lana was higher than any building in the city, the sultan was passably secure against marksmen addicted to royal targets, particularly in view of his being in an angle of the parapet that could not be reached from the minaret of the mosque. And thus it was that he reclined at ease in the shadow of a striped canopy, sipping Shirazi wine to his heart's content and his soul's damnation.

But peace and sultans are strangers. A captain of the guard clanked into the Presence, saluted, and made his report: "_Saidi_, the troops at Djeb el Azhár surprized and captured a detachment of the rebels. A ragged old man riding a stolen horse led the outpost commander----"

"Ismeddin, by the Power and by the Splendor!" interrupted the sultan. "Where are the prisoners? And Ismeddin?"

"In the hall of audience, saidi. Abdurrahman Khan, his son, and sixty of their followers."

"Very good, Ismail," exulted the sultan. "We will pass sentence at once. Announce me to the court."

The older lords of the court, stout, white-haired ruffians, companions of the Old Tiger, knew well what the Old Tiger's son contemplated when he appeared in the hall of audience. And the younger lords knew the tradition, and beamed in anticipation of old glories revived.

Each of the two chief executioners had three assistants, standing a pace to the left and three paces to the rear; and all were fingering the hilts of their two-handed swords.

There would be notable dismemberments, and a surprizing scarcity of rebels long before evening prayer. As for Abdurrahman Khan----

Old Ismeddin, ragged and grimy among the glittering captains, smiled as he thought of an ancient score.

And then the Resident appeared to take his customary station at the left of the throne. He whispered in the sultan's ear; but not even the fan-bearers behind the throne could hear what he said.

The captains exulted at the great rage that flamed in the sultan's eyes as he rose from the dais. But the captains gaped stupidly when the sultan spoke.

"Take these sons of flat-nosed mothers back to their cells. I will deal with them later."

The court dispersed.

The lords and ministers escorted the sultan to his apartments. The brazen doors closed softly behind him, so that they did not see him hurl his turban to the floor, did not hear his simitar clang against the tiles, rebound, and clatter into a corner. Nor did they hear the Resident, materialized at the height of the storm, expostulate: "But, your Majesty, you may have them hanged, you know--have all of them hanged, in public--roll of drums and all that. But one simply can't have these dismemberings and impalings, you know. Barbarous, and uncivilized, and all that."

Then the sultan, as he twice struck together his hands: "Amru, an order: release the rebels! And to each, his own horse and a robe of honor!"

The Resident endured the sultan's eye for a full moment, and admirably concealed his alarm. Then he left the Presence, conscious of duty well done, even if in the shadow of a bowstring with a running noose: enraged princes do forget themselves, and the sanctity of Residents.

But Schamas ad Din issued no further orders. He and his nargileh fumed and bubbled on the flat roof of the palace....

Then the calm voice of Ismeddin: "A thousand years, saidi."

"And to you, a thousand," returned the sultan, as he rose to greet his old friend.

The darvish declined the honor of sharing the sultan's seat.

"Hard rocks are my cushions, saidi," he protested, as he squatted, cross-legged, at the sultan's feet. But he accepted the stem of the nargileh and solemnly inhaled its white fumes.

Amru set out fresh wine and withdrew; for that grimy wanderer from the mountains was closer to the sultan even than an old and trusted wazir.

"I summoned you last night to help me devise a quiet and effective way of dealing with my brother's son. Need I say that since Maksoud is a friend of the Resident, I need help?"