“These seem reasonable assumptions,” said Haroun, “but how is it possible they can all be true and yet Ibn Saran neither fallen nor in chains?”

“There is another kasbah nearby, that of his confederate, Tama,” I said.

“It could not be reached across the desert,” said a man.

“Yes! Yes!” cried Haroun. “Come with me!” Followed by many men, carrying lamps, be descended to the pits and dungeons and storage areas below the kasbah. An hour later, beneath a trap door, And behind what appeared to be shelving in a small underground storage room, we found the door.

Broken open, it proved to lead to a dark tunnel. This tunnel provided a communication, under the desert, with the neighboring but small kasbah of Tarna, the desert chieftainess.

“Ibn Saran,” said a man, “is doubtless in the kasbah of Tarna.”

“But we have not invested that kasbah,” moaned a man.

“Thus,” cried another, “Ibn Saran has slipped through our lines. He will then flee from the kasbah of Tama. We have lost him.”

“I think not.” smiled Haroun.

The men were silent. Then his vizier, Baram, Sheik of Bezhad, spoke. “How can it be that we have not lost him, Pasha,” he asked.

“Because,” said Haroun, “the kasbah of Tama is invested.”

“That is impossible,” said Suleiman Pasha, leaning on a man, a scimitar still in his hand. “No Aretai are there.” Other pashas, too, spoke. The Char had not invested it, nor the Luraz, nor the Tajuks or the Arani, or the others.

“By whom, Pasha,” asked Suleiman, “if not by Kavars, and not by Aretai, and not by we others, is the kasbah of Tarna invested?”

“By a thousand lances, a thousand riders of the kaiila,” said Haroun.

“And whence did you procure these thousand lances?” asked Suleiman.

Haroun smiled. “Let us discuss these matters over small cups of Bazi tea at the end of the day,” he suggested. “There are more important matters to attend to at the moment.”

Suleiman grinned. “Lead on, sleen of a Kavar,” he said. “You have the audacity of Hassan the bandit, to whom you bear a striking resemblance,”

“I have been told that,” said Haroun. “He must be a dashing, handsome fellow.”

“That matter may be discussed over small cups of Bazi tea at the end of the day,” said Suleiman, looking narrowly at Haroun.

“True,” said Haroun.

Hassan then turned and led the way into the tunnel. Hundreds of men, including myself, followed him, many bearing lamps.

It was on the height of the highest tower of the kasbah of Tarna that Hassan, I close behind him, cornered Ibn Saran.

“Comrades!” said Ibn Saran. Then he lifted his scimitar.

“He is mine,” said Hassan.

“Beware,” I said.

Immediately the men engaged. Seldom had I witnessed more brilliant play of the scimitar.

Then the two men stepped back from one another, “You fight well,” said Ibn Saran. He stood unsteadily. “I could always beat you,” he said “ “That was years ago, said Hassan.

“Yes,” said Ibn Saran, “that was years ago.” Ibn Saran lifted his scimitar to me in salute.

“One gains a victory,” I said. “One loses, an enemy.”

Ibn Saran inclined his head to me, in Taharic courtesy. Then his face went white, and he turned, and staggered to the parapet of the tower. He fell to the desert below.

Hassan sheathed his sword. “I had two brothers,” he said. “One fought for Priest-Kings. He died in the desert. The other fought for Kurii. He died on the tower of Tarna’s kasbah.”

“And you?” I asked.

“I thought to remain neutral,” he said. “I discovered I could not do so.”

“There is no neutrality,” I said.

“No,” be said. Then he looked at me. “Once,” he said, “I had two brothers.” He clasped me about the shoulders. There were tears in his eyes. “Now,” he said, “now I have only one.

We had shared salt at Red Rock, on a burning roof.

“My brother,” I said.

“My brother,” he said.

Hassan shook himself. “There is work to do,” he said. We hurried down from the tower, to the wall below. There I saw, from the wall, on the desert below, prisoners being herded back to the kasbah, men who had attempted to flee the walls and escape into the desert.

Herded at the point of a lance, bound, was Abdul, the water carrier. At the point of another lance, too, herded, ropes on his neck, between two kaiila, staggering, bloody, was Hamid, who had been the lieutenant to Shakar, captain of the Aretai. Shakar himself rushed forth from the kasbah to take charge of the miserable Hamid. Hamid, whatever might be his guilt in the matter of the striking of Suleiman Pasha, had obviously fought with the men of the Salt Ubar, and had raised his blade against his own tribe, the Aretai.

Other prisoners, too, were being brought back from the desert. Haroun’s lances had well invested the kasbah.

Hassan and I went down to the yard of the kasbah.

Startled was I to discover in the courtyards, mounted in the high saddle of the kaiila, the leader of Hassan’s mystery lancers, who had invested the kasbah of Tarna. He swept aside his wind veil.

“T`Zshal!” I cried.

He, bearded, grinned down at me from the saddle, a lance in his hand.

“I sent,” said Hassan, Haroun, high Pasha of Kavars, “a thousand kaiila, a thousand lances, supplies, to Klima. I thought such men might prove useful.”

T’Zshal raised the lance. The kaiila reared. “We shall not forget the Kavars, Pasha,” said T’Zshal.

I feared that Hassan had made a terrible mistake. Who would dare to arm such men?

T’Zshal turned the kaiila expertly. He had once been of the Tahari, and then, with a scattering of sand, men following him, returned to the desert, again to supervise his men in their encircling ring of will, steel and kaiila flesh.

Hamid and Abdul knelt in the sand, bound.

Hassan held his blade to the throat of Hamid. “Who struck Suleiman Pasha?” he inquired. Hamid looked up at him. Suleiman and Shakar stood near. “It was I,” said Hamid.

“Take him away,” said Suleiman Pasha. Hamid was dragged away.

“How did you know it was he who struck me?” asked Suleiman.

“I was there,” said Hassan. “I saw it.”

“Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars!” cried Shakar.

Hassan smiled.

“No!” he cried. “There were none there but Aretai, Ibn Saran, Hakim of Tor and”

Shakar stopped.

“And Hassan the bandit.” said Hassan.

“You!” cried Suleiman, laughing.

“Surely you did not think there could be two such handsome, dashing fellows?” asked Hassan.

“Kavar sleen!” laughed Suleiman.

“Do not be too broadcast with my additional identity,” requested Hassan. “It is useful at times, particularly when the duties of the pasha become too oppressive.

“I know what you mean,” said Suleiman. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“I, too, will guard its nature,” said Shakar.

“You are Hakim of Tor, are you not?” asked Suleiman, turning to me.

“Yes, Pasha,” I said, stepping forward.

“Grievously did we wrong you,” he said.

I shrugged. “There are still pockets of resistance to be cleared up in the kasbah,” I said. “I beg your indulgence, that I may be excused.”

“May your eye be keen, your steel swift,” said Suleiman Pasha.

I bowed.

“And what of this small sleen?” asked Shakar, indicating the small Abdul, who knelt, cowering, in the sand.

“He, too,” said Suleiman Pasha, “let him be taken away.

A rope was put on the throat of Abdul and he was dragged whimpering from our presence.

I looked to the central building of the kasbah. Within it, here and there, in rooms, men still fought.

“Find me Tarna,” said Suleiman Pasha. “Bring her to me.” Men rushed from his side. I did not envy the woman. She was free. She had broken wells. Prolonged and hideous tortures awaited her, culminating in her public impalement, nude, upon the walls of the great kasbah at Nine Wells.

The men of the Tahari are not patient with those who break wells. They look not leniently upon this crime.