Jimgrim Series. Talbot Mundy

care a row of imitation pewter shucks about any man’s ambition, or any woman’s past. My job in the world is to do what I’m able to do, and I’m going to prevent war in this land if I get killed doing it and have to ruin you in the bargain! Now, are we set?”

      “I think you’re a fool,” she said, “and you think me a villain. We’re strange partners! Very well, let’s try.”

      Promptly he handed her an envelop, sheet of paper, and his fountain- pen.

      “Write first, then, to Ibrahim ben Ah. He knows your hand, I suppose? Tell him there is news of a British force coming over the border, and that he must stay at that oasis in readiness to attack after Ali Higg has taken steps to draw the British in the right direction.

      “Say he may have to stay there a week or ten days, and that he is to enforce the death penalty on any of his men who dares try to leave the oasis. Tell him that secrecy as to his present whereabouts is the all-important point. For that reason strangers may be made prisoner and held until further orders. The messenger who bears this is to be sent back with an answer immediately.”

      “How much of that is true about a British force?” she demanded. “Are you trying to trap those men?”

      “None of it’s true. No, they’re safe. You write, and I’ll sign it with your seal.”

      She hesitated, but I don’t know whether from caution or from a genuine dislike to deceive her husband’s loyal henchman. But there was no way of getting out of it except by blunt refusal, involving the threatened escort into British territory and deportation. So she wrote, and Grim sealed the letter: He handed it to Ali Baba.

      “Select the most trustworthy of your sons, O King of Thieves, give him the fastest camel, and let him ride with that to the oasis. Bid him ride hard and overtake us with the answer.”

      “Do you think my sons have wings?” asked Ali Baba.

      “Not unless devils are winged!” laughed Grim. “It is a simple matter —just there and back again.”

      “Not so simple, Jimgrim! It is written that in the desert all men are enemies. What if he should meet a dozen men?”

      “The letter will be his pass. He must take a chance returning.”

      “Wallahi! A letter? A pass into Jehannum possibly! By Allah, Jimgrim, a man needs more than a letter in these parts. He needs brains —age—influence—experience. Nay! If any is to take that letter, let me do it. I am old, and they hesitate to kill an old man. I am wise in the desert ways, not rash. And if they do kill me, then it is only an old man’s body bloating in the sun.

      “Besides, I am cunning and can give wise answers, whereas those sons of mine might take offense at an insult, or recognize a blood enemy at the wrong moment. Nay, it is I who must take that letter.”

      Grim clapped him on the back.

      “Good, my father; you shall go. Take one son with you to look after your comforts.”

      He turned that suggestion over in his mind for several minutes, but shook his head finally.

      “I go alone. They would ask me why two men bring one letter. Moreover, they might send the one back with an answer, retaining the other as hostage; for it is the way of the devil to put suspicion in men’s minds. Two men would double their doubt, just as two stones weigh the twice of one. And I will not take the best camel, but the worst one.”

      “Why?”

      “Write me a second letter. Have the woman write it, and you affix the seal. Give order that they are to provide a swift, fresh camel in exchange for my weary beast. I shall make a great fuss about the beast they provide, rejecting this and that one, thus causing them to believe in me, since men without proper authority do not act thus, but are content with anything so be they can only escape unharmed.”

      So the second letter was written; and in the rising, scorching heat old Ali Baba set off, mounted on the meanest of the baggage beasts, whose hump was getting galled, so that he wasn’t likely to be of much use to us within a day or so.

      Then we all got under the shelter of the low tents to give the other camels a rest and wait for evening, and I think Jael Higg slept, but I don’t know, for we gave her a tent to herself; she refused point blank to share one with Ayisha.

      And Ayisha, I know, did not sleep. She came in the noon glare to the tent I occupied with Narayan Singh and entered without ceremony, slipping through the low opening with the silent ease that comes naturally to the Badawi. She squatted down in front of us, and I awoke the Sikh, who was snoring a chorus from Wagner’s “Niebelungen Ring.”

      For a moment I thought he was going to resume the night’s flirtation, but there was something in the quiet manner of her and the serious expression of her face that he recognized as quickly as I did. All her imperious attitude was gone. She did not look exactly pleading, nor yet cunning; perhaps it was a blend of both that gave her the soft charm she had come deliberately armed with.

      Of this one thing I am absolutely sure; whatever that young woman did was calculated and deliberate; and the more she seemed to act on impulse the more she had really studied out her move.

      Narayan Singh checked a word half-way, and we waited for her to speak first. Her eyes sought mine, and then the medicine-chest. Then she looked back at me, and I made a gesture inviting her to speak.

      “You told me,” she said at last, “that you have poison in that box that would reach down to hell and slay the ifrits. Give me some of it.”

      “Ya sit Ayisha. I need it all for the ifrits,” I answered.

      “I will make no trouble for you,” she said; and for a moment I suspected she meant to kill herself.

      “You are young and beautiful,” I told her. “The world holds plenty of good for you yet.”

      At that she flashed her white teeth and her eyes blazed.

      “Truly! Allah puts a good omen into your mouth, miyan!* Yet little comes to the woman who neglects to plan for it. Give me the poison. I will pay.”

      I was about to refuse abruptly, being rather old-maidish about some things and not always ready with a smile for what I don’t approve; but Narayan Singh interrupted in time to prevent the unforgivable offense of preaching my own code of morals uninvited.

      “Tell us who is to be poisoned,” he demanded.

      “That is none of your business,” she answered calmly.

      “But the poison is our business,” said the Sikh. “We make terms. If the person to be poisoned is an enemy of ours, well and good; you shall have it and we shall be gainers. But Allah forbid that we should hasten the death of a friend! Is it for Jael Higg?”

      “No, for I see that to poison her would be to incur the enmity of Jimgrim. Already he takes counsel with her; did he and she not lay their heads together in your presence after morning prayers?”

      “For whom, then? For Jimgrim?”

      “God forbid! Shall I woo a dead man? Nay! You say you will give me the poison if I tell? You swear it? Then it is for the Lion of Petra. Thus I shall win the love of Jimgrim. And Jael, being without a man, will run away to Egypt, where her money is.”

“Bismillah!” swore the Sikh. “I see no reason why I should not get an angry husband out of the way so simply! But remember, Ayisha, you must slay me in turn if you hope to have Jimgrim for husband. By my beard and the Prophet’s feet*, it is I who will have you to wife, if I have to burn kingdoms first!”

      “Give me the poison first, and we shall see,” she laughed.

      “Very well; leave us for a while, Ayisha. I will persuade this master of mine, who has a vein of caution, since he lacks the zeal of love. I will bring you the stuff when he and I have talked it over.”