Her Grace of Cumberland nodded to the brace of doormen who stood at rigid attention at either side of the entrance to the Manzana de Oro, and the four of them marched inside. At the inner door, Her Grace’s escort spoke to the majordomo. “You may announce to My Lord al-Nasir — Her Grace, Mary, Dowager Duchess of Cumberland; Lord John Quetzal du Moqtessuma de Mechicoe; His Most Serene Highness, Jehan, Prince of Vladistov; and myself, the Lord of Arcy.”

The majordomo bowed low before this magnificent company and said, “His lordship shall be so informed.” Then he glanced at the Dowager Duchess. “Your pardon… uh… Your Grace vouches for these gentlemen?”

“Of course, Goodman Abdul,” said Her Grace imperiously, and the party of four swept across the threshold.

Lord Darcy held back and, as Lord John Quetzal caught up with him, whispered, “Is he here?”

“He’s here,” said Lord John Quetzal. “I can place him within ten feet now.”

“Good. Keep smiling and follow my lead. But if he moves, let me know immediately.”

They followed Her Grace and the magnificently attired Prince of Vladistov into the interior.

The anteroom was large — some thirty feet broad by twenty feet deep — and gave no hint that the Manzana de Oro was a gambling club. The decor was Moorish, and — to Lord Darcy, who had seen Southern Spain, North Africa, and Arabia — far too Moorish. The decor was not that of a public place in the Islamic countries, but that of the hareem. The walls were hung with cloth-of-gold — or what passed for it; the archways which led off it were — embroidered was the only word — embroidered with quotations from the Qu’ran — quotations which, while very decorative because of the Arabic script, were essentially meaningless in the context.

The floor was inlaid with Moorish tile, and exotic flowers set in brazen pots of earth were tastefully placed around the walls. In the center of the room, a golden fountain played. The water moved in fantastic patterns, always shifting, never repeating, forming weird and unusual shapes in the air. The fountain was lined with lights whose colors changed and moved with the waving patterns. The water flowed down over a series of baffles that produced a shifting musical note in the air.

Well-dressed people in evening clothes stood around exchanging pleasantries.

Her Grace turned and smiled. “Shall we go to the gaming rooms, gentle sirs?”

The Prince of Vladistov glanced at Lord Darcy. Lord Darcy said, “Of course, Your Grace.”

She gestured toward one of the side doors that led off the anteroom and said, “Will you accompany me?” and led them through the arched doorway to their right. The gaming room was even more flamboyant than the anteroom. The hangings were of gold, embroidered with purple and red, decorated with scenes from ancient Islamic myth. But their beauty formed only a background to the Oriental magnificence of the room itself, and the brilliant evening dress of the people who played at the gaming tables stood out glitteringly against that background.

A number of sharp-eyed men moved unobtrusively among the gaming tables, observing the play. Lord Darcy knew they were journeymen sorcerers hired to spot any player’s attempt to use a trained Talent to affect his chances. Their job was not to overcome any such magic, but merely to report it and expel the offender. The effect of any untrained Talent present in the players could be expected to cancel out.

The Prince of Vladistov smiled broadly at Lord Darcy and said, in a very low tone, “I’ve twigged to Master Ewen meself, my lord — thanks to Lord John Quetzal’s aid. Sure and we have him now. He’s in the room to the right, just beyond that arch with the purple scribblings about it.”

Lord Darcy bowed. “Your Highness is most astute,” he said. “But where the Devil is Sidi al-Nasir?” It was a rhetorical question to which he did not expect an answer. Mary of Cumberland had assured him that al-Nasir invariably greeted members of the nobility when they came to his club, and yet there had been no sign of the Moor.

The Prince of Vladistov answered Lord Darcy’s rhetorical question. “He seems to be in his office. We can’t be sure, Lord John Quetzal and I, but we both agree that that’s where he seems to be.”

Lord Darcy nodded. “All right, we’ll work it that way.” He moved up and smiled at the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland. “Your Grace,” he said very softly, “I observe that the gentleman who was at the door has followed us in.”

She did not turn her head. “Goodman Abdul? Yes. By this time he is probably wondering why we have not gone to the gaming tables.”

“A good question, from his point of view. We shall take advantage of it. Go over and ask him where Sidi al-Nasir is. Insist upon speaking to the Sidi. You have brought, after all, a most important guest, the Prince of the distant Russian principality of Vladistov, and you see no reason why el Sidi should not greet him as he deserves. Pour it on thick. But make sure his back is toward us.”

She nodded and moved across the room toward el Sidi’s minion, leaving her three companions clustered in a group around the door that was their target.

As soon as the Duchess had distracted Abdul’s attention, Lord Darcy whispered, “All right. This is it. Move in.”

Lord John Quetzal turned and faced the crowd, watching every movement. Lord Darcy and the Prince of Vladistov moved toward the door.

“No spell on the lock,” said the short, round man with the beard. “Too many people moving in and out.”

“Very good.” Lord Darcy reached out, turned the knob, pulled open the door, and within the space of half a second he and his companion were inside, the door closed behind them.

Sidi al-Nasir conformed precisely to the description that the Duchess had given them. When he saw the two strangers enter his office, one hand reached for a drawer — then stopped. His black eyes looked down the equally black muzzle of the Heron .36 that stared at him. Then they lifted to the face of the man who carried the weapon. “With your permission, my lord,” he said coolly, “I shall put my empty hand back on top of my desk.”

“I suggest that you do so,” said Lord Darcy. He glanced at the man who sat across from Sidi al-Nasir’s desk. “Good evening, my lord. I see that you are here before me.”

Commander Lord Ashley smiled calmly. “It was inevitable,” he said in a cool, constrained voice. “I am glad to see you.” He looked toward Sidi al-Nasir. “My Lord al-Nasir,” he said, “has just proposed that I go to work for the Government of Poland.”

Lord Darcy looked at the dark-complexioned man. “Have you now, My Lord the Winner?”

Sidi al-Nasir spread his hands on the surface of the desk and smiled. “Ah, then you understand Arabic, most noble lord?” he said in that language.

“While I do not, perhaps, have your liquid fluency in the Tongue of Tongues,” Lord Darcy said in return, “my poor knowledge of the language of the Prophet is adequate for most purposes.”

Sidi al-Nasir’s finely-chiseled lips wreathed in a smile. “I am not one to contradict, most noble,” he said. “But, except that your enunciation betrays the fact that your mentor was a subject of the Shah of Shahs, your command of the speech of the Qu’ran is most flowing.”

Lord Darcy allowed a half-smile to touch his lips. “It is true that my instructor in the noble language of the Prophet of Islam came from the Court of the Shadow of God on Earth, the Shah of Persia, but — would you prefer that I spoke in the debased fashion of Northwest Africa and Southern Spain?”

The sudden shift in Lord Darcy’s accent made Sidi al-Nasir blink. Then he raised his eyebrows and his smile broadened even further. “Ah, most wise one, your knowledge betrays you. But few people of your Frankish Empire have such a command of the Tongue of Tongues. You are, then, the renowned Sidi of Arcy. It is indeed a pleasure to meet you, my lord.”