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The Jakifi assassin was fast, and he started to come out of his semi-crouch immediately with an upward stab. The stranger darted back, but only a step, and his long poniard began to thrust out and down.
    This first motion was the feint, designed to draw the assassin's dagger farther to the side. The next part of the move did the "damage"; the young man in black simply flicked his wrists and changed the direction of his blade in mid-stroke. He aimed high as Zameer Dey was straightening up, drawing the slender tip of his blade diagonally across the front of the Jakifi's silk turban. The slash, aided by the upward movement of the assassin's body, sliced through several layers of the thin cloth. The easterner sprang backward just as the turban-cut ran its course, apparently content to let matters develop instead of trying to continue the infighting.
    The remnants of the turban promptly began to cascade down around Zameer Dey's face, revealing in the process that he wore a spiked tarboosh underneath. That was of no import, but if he did not break off his countermove and get rid of the cloth, the distraction would make him vulnerable to attack. The Jakifi leaped backward, yanking the tattered cloth up and away with his left hand as he did so. His metal cap, no longer fixed firmly by the turban, fell off the side of his head and landed on the floor in front of him. The clattering noise of its fall was drowned out by Zameer Dey's voice.
    "Filthy, diseased son of a dozen unnatural fathers!" the assassin cursed, his swarthy features distorted and even more darkened by rage.
    "Know me as Gord of Greyhawk, you slinking murderer," the young man replied with neither expression nor force as he lowered into a crouch. "The last man you will ever attempt to slay by treachery and poison."
    The Jakifi began his next move before his opponent had finished speaking. With his first step, his left foot struck the fallen helmet and sent it spinning on a low arc toward the young man. He continued the lunge, following the helmet's path and moving in to finish the fight. But the young man who had just named himself Gord of Greyhawk was not there to receive either the spiked helmet or the curved blade. Instead he shot his body upward and out, somersaulting over the attacker's head. Turning and twisting in mid-air, Gord landed facing the assassin's back. By the time his feet hit the ground, Gord's dagger was already penetrating the space between Zameer Dey's shoulder blades. Almost faster than the eye could follow, Gord withdrew the dagger and once more drove it in to the hilt. The man coughed once, weakly, then sprawled face down, dead. His blood began to run over the bright tiles and smooth marble of the floor.
    Dead silence enveloped the wine house. Not even the mercenary fighting men from the east had expected this startling finish to the duel. The Kettites and other westerners were in shock, for they had anticipated an easy victory for the Jakifi killer. Then the stillness was broken.
    "Kill him!" The shout came from the Kufteer, Shah of Wadlaoo, Vizier to the Caliph of Jakif.
    This time the command was obeyed not by a single assassin but by the half-dozen men who formed the Shah's personal guard. They had slowly started to move from their position along the back wall of the establishment during the contest between Zameer Dey and the foreigner. Now, as the crowd frantically parted to let them through, they sprang to do their lord's bidding, confident that their superior numbers would tell.
    The foremost of the onrushing guards was a giant sporting a bulbous turban and diaphanous pantaloons. He wore a byrnie of chainmail adorned with thick breast chains and swung a monstrous tulwar one-handed as if it were a willow wand. The remainder of the Vizier's guardsmen trotted several paces behind, ready to follow up their leader's rush even though the giant warrior alone seemed more than sufficient to handle the slight Ourmi dog who had dared to slay the