The Talbot Mundy Megapack. Talbot Mundy

of some sort, but I made no move to help him out.

      “What shall we say?”

      I was as interested in the result of his appraisal as he was in making it. Whether complimentary or not, another’s calculated judgment of your character is a fascinating thing to wait for.

      “I think you will be getting full value. I shall introduce you to all the notables,” he said at last. “To a man of your temperament it will be a privilege to attend the council, and to know in advance all that is going to happen. There will be no objection to that, because it is already decided you will remain in El-Kerak until after the—er—raid. The notables will understand from me that your mouth is sealed until after the event. You shall be let into our secrets. There—is that not equitable?”

      It was shrewd. I did not believe for a minute that he would let me into all their secrets, but he could not have imagined a greater temptation for me. Since I would not have taken his word that black was not white, I did not hesitate to pretend to agree to his terms.

      “I must have an interpreter,” I said. “Otherwise I shall understand very little.”

      “I will supply you an interpreter—a good one.”

      “No, thank you. Any man of yours might only tell me what he thought correct for me to hear. If I’m to get a price for my services, I want the full price. I want to hear everything. I must be allowed to bring my own interpreter.”

      “Who would he be?”

      “I don’t know yet.”

      “That man Ahmed, for instance? I have been told he is one of your party. Ahmed would do very well.”

      “No, not Ahmed.”

      “Who then?”

      “I will find a man.”

      He hesitated. If ever a man was reviewing all the possible contingencies, murder of me included, behind a mask of superficial courtesy, that man was he.

      “He should be a man acceptable to the notables,” he said at last. “I ought to know his name in advance.”

“I must have unfettered choice, or I won’t attend the mejlis.7”

      “Oh, very well. Only the interpreter, too, will have to remain afterward in El-Kerak.”

      I looked at that curtain again, for it was moving in a way that no draft from the open window could account for. But at last the movement was explained. Before Abdul Ali could speak again a man stepped out from behind it, crossed the room, and went out through the door, closing it silently behind him. He was a man I knew, and the last man I had expected to see in that place. I suppose Abdul Ali noticed my look of surprise.

      “You know him?” he asked.

      “By sight. He was at Sheikh ben Nazir’s house yesterday.”

      “That is Suliman ben Saoud, a stranger from Arabia, but a man of great influence because of his connection with the Ichwan movement. If you are interested in our types that man will repay study.”

      “Good. I’ll try to study him,” said I.

      It was all I could do to keep a straight face. So Jimgrim was the source of Abdul Ali’s inspirations! I wondered what subtle argument he could have used to make the sheikh so keen on baiting his hook with the school proposal. His nerve, in waiting behind that curtain until he knew his scheme had succeeded, and then walking out bold as brass to let me know that he had overheard everything, was what amused me. But I managed not to smile.

      “What time is the mejlis?” I asked.

      “At noon.”

      “Then I’ll go and hunt up my interpreter.”

      Ben Nazir came out with me, in a blazing bad temper. He was as jealous as a pet dog, and inclined to visit the result on me.

      “Very polite, I am sure! Most refined! Most courteous! In your country, sir, does a guest reward his host for hospitality by talking in a language that his host can’t understand? Perhaps you would rather transfer your presence to Abdul Ali’s house? Pray do not consider yourself beholden to me, in case you would prefer his hospitality!”

      I tried in vain to pacify him. I explained that the choice of language had been Abdul Ali’s, and offered to tell him now in French every word that had passed. But he would not listen.

      “It would not be difficult for a man of your intelligence to make up a story,” he said rudely. “Abdul Ali can talk French. If it had been intended that I should know the truth that conversation would have been in French. Shall I send your bag to Abdul Ali’s house?”

      “No,” I said. “Give it to Anazeh. He is answerable for my safety until I reach Palestine again. Thank you for a night’s lodging.”

      He walked away in a great huff, and I set out for the house of Abu Shamah, using my scant store of Arabic to ask the way. Mahommed ben Hamza was lolling on the stone veranda, gossiping with half a dozen men. He came the minute I beckoned him.

      “I’ve seen Jimgrim,” I said. “You’re to come with me at noon to the mejlis as my interpreter.”

      He grinned delightedly.

      “And see here, you smelly devil: Here’s money. Buy yourself a clean shirt, a new coat, and some soap. Wash yourself from head to foot, and put the new clothes on, before you meet me at the castle gate ten minutes before noon. Those are Jimgrim’s orders, do you understand?”

      “Taht il-amr! (Yours to command)” he answered laughing.

      I went and bought myself an awful meal at the house of a man who rolled Kabobs between his filthy fingers.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      “Who gives orders to me?”

      The wonderful thing about Moab is that everything happens in a story-book setting, with illustrations by Maxfield Parrish and Wyeth and Joe Coll, and all the rest of them, whichever way you look.

      Imagine a blue sky—so clear-blue and pure that you can see against it the very feathers in the tails of wheeling kites, and know that they are brown, not black. Imagine all the houses, and the shacks between them, and the poles on which the burlap awnings hang, painted on flat canvas and stood up against that infinite blue. Stick some vultures in a row along a roof-top—purplish—bronze they’ll look between the tiles and sky. Add yellow camels, gray horses, striped robes, long rifles, and a searching sun-dried smell. And there you have El-Kerak, from the inside.

      From any point along the broken walls or the castle roof you can see for fifty miles over scenery invented by the Master-Artist, with the Jordan like a blue worm in the midst of yellow-and-green hills twiggling into a turquoise sea.

      The villains stalk on-stage and off again sublimely aware of their setting. The horses prance, the camels saunter, the very street-dogs compose themselves for a nap in the golden sun, all in perfect harmony with the piece. A woman walking with a stone jar on her head (or, just as likely, a kerosene can) looks as if she had just stepped out of eternity for the sake of the picture. And not all the kings and kaisers, cardinals and courtezans rolled into one great swaggering splurge of majesty could hold a candle to a ragged Bedouin chief on a flea-bitten pony, on the way to a small-town mejlis.

      So it was worth a little inconvenience, and quite a little risk to see those chiefs arrive at the castle gate, toss their reins to a brother cut-throat, and swagger in, the poorest and least important timing their arrival, when they could, just in advance of an important man so as to take precedence of him and delay his entrance.

      Mindful of my charge to keep Anazeh sober, and more deadly afraid of it than of all the other risks, I hung about waiting for him, hoping he would arrive before Abdul Ali or ben Nazir. I wanted to go inside and be seated before either of those gentry came. But not a bit of it. I saw Anazeh ride up at the head of his twenty men, halt at