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Tamakh reached out and gently, with his figertips, closed the man's eyes.
    "What did you do to him?" asked Marix.
    "He is under a glamor, a paralyzing spell. He will hear .md see nothing till the sun reaches its zenith."
    "If I had such a talent, I would be the king of thieves!" Nabul said wistfully.
    They hastened through the gate, though not before Marix relieved the Faziri of helmet, cloak, spear, and shield. Nabul took four coppers from the enchanted man's purse.
    The road, white as a bolt of fine cloth, stretched out to the horizon. "The royal road to Rehajid," Jadira said. "Come; we can't be long on it."
    The city fell away behind them. They marched briskly lor half a league, but the ex-prisoners were in poor shape and tired quickly. Jadira and Tamakh rested on the sloping bank of the road. Nabul crouched nearby, muttering to himself. Marix, armed with a collection of Faziri weapons, stood on the road and watched the way back to Omerabad. While his back was turned, Uramettu padded off among knife-bladed grass.
    There would be pursuit.
    Azrel, emir of Bindra, vizier to His Magnificence Julmet III, was not a kindly man. The servants who awakened him from his nightly unsound sleep often got a beating for their trouble; of course, they received a worse lashing if they failed to waken him at the appointed hour. The physician who could not cure the emir's dyspepsia earned a flogging, and his tailor hobbled con stantly from being kicked. Yet, Azrel was the sultan's eyes and ears, the harsh but effective power behind the Eternal Throne. By war and threat of war, Emir Azrel had enlarged his master's domain from the steppes of Nangol to the shores of the Crimson Sea. By subtlety and craft he enriched the Faziri Empire beyond the bounds of any previous vizier.
    Now Azrel sat in the guardroom of the palace prison, boiling with unconcealed anger. Facing him was a tall, fork-bearded Faziri soldier in the scarlet cape and lion-etched armor of the Invincibles. The soldier's handsome yet immobile face reflected none of the emir's hostility.
    "Captain Fu'ad, you are generally known as a reliable officer. Is this not so?" said Azrel.
    "I do my best, Excellency," said Fu'ad. He wanted badly to scratch his nose, but dared not take such a liberty in front of the vizier.
    "You must do more than your best, Captain. It is bad statecraft to send a coercive note to the count of Dosen when his son is no longer in our keeping. It is bad theo-craft to promise the city priesthoods that we will suppress the heretical followers of Agma, then to allow one to escape. Am I making myself clear, Captain?"
    "Perfectly so, Great Emir."
    "Good. Good. I want no misunderstanding. It was j my name on the note, Fu'ad; it was I who signed the priest Tamakh's death warrant. It is I who will have to explain to His Magnificence these blunders. Can you imagine how much the sultan—may he live forever! — likes to hear of blunders?" The vizier's voice had grown steadily in volume and was now a scream. "I want them back, Fu'ad! The prisoner Marix alive if possible, but back in my hands, do you hear?" The dead in their
    graves could have heard Emir Azrel.
    "I will lead a troop myself," said Fu'ad. "They shall not escape."
    "take two troops. Anyone who helps them must die. I want all who are caught in their company put to the word. There is to be no mercy in this matter, Captain. Mercy is the prerogative of the sultan—may he live forever—and I am not His Magnificence."
    "My lance has never failed in his service."
    "Good. Good. See that it doesn't."
    There was a knock on the door. Azrel said, "Come." A loot soldier entered.
    Your command has been carried out, Excellency," said the Faziri.
    "Show me," the emir replied.
    The foot soldier held up his hands. In each he clutched by the hair a severed head. One was Nungwun, the guard who allowed the escape; the other was the warden-general of the prison. His crime was allowing Nungwun to allow the escape.
    "Post them in the