“You shall die slowly!”
Then the hands tightened again, bit by bit.
Tony had not lately taken any systematic exercise greater than that of punching buttons in an automat restaurant. It was hardly adequate preparation for a knock-down, drag-out with a djinn. He clawed at the strangling hands with complete futility. Then a strange calmness came to him. Perhaps it was resignation. Possibly it was a lurking unbelief in the reality of his experiences, somewhere in the back of his mind. But being strangled, even if it were illusion, was extremely uncomfortable. He remembered a part of the basic combat training he had received before being assigned to sit at a typewriter for the glory of his country’s flag. An axiom of that training was that nobody can strangle you if you only keep your head. All you have to do—
Tony did it. Because being strangled is painful.
He reached up with both hands, and in each hand took one—just one—of the djinn’s sinewy fingers. One complete human hand is stronger than the single finger of even a djinn. Tony peeled the single fingers ruthlessly backward. Something snapped.
The djinn howled and hooted like an ambulance. Tony hastily repeated the process. Something else cracked. The djinn howled louder, and let go. There were dim shoutings and rushing in the corridors of the palace. But Tony remained alone, gasping for breath, in the high-ceilinged room with this creature who said he was Es-Souk the betrothed of Nasim. By now Tony remembered Nasim only as a beaming misty face and a pudgy human figure which had seemed exclusively pink skin. Es-Souk swelled to the size of an elephant, beating his breast and hollering.
Tony coughed. His throat hurt. He coughed again, rackingly.
The monstrous, and now unhuman, figure sneezed. The blast of air practically knocked Tony off his feet. Then Es-Souk uttered cries which were suddenly bellowings of terror. He sneezed again, and the silken bed sheets flapped crazily to the far corners of the room.
Then the djinn’s figure melted swiftly into a dark whirlwind which poured through the window. There were poundings on the door, but Tony paid no attention to them. He reeled to the window and stared out.
A shape fled in panic among the stars. It was a whirlwind of dark smokiness, but the stars were very bright. It showed. The whirlwind which was the djinn Es-Souk fled in mortal terror—or perhaps immortal terror—from the neighborhood of the palace of Barkut. And as it fled, it paused and underwent a truly terrific convulsion. Lightnings flashed in it. Thunder roared in it. The whole sky and the countryside were lighted by the flashings.
When a whirlwind sneezes, the results are impressive.
Chapter 7
Tony was wakened by the firing of cannon. His heart sank. An attack of some sort upon the city of Barkut? His conscience expressed bitter satisfaction at the possible impending consequences of his misdeeds, all done against his conscience’s advice. But Tony listened to the cannon-shots. They were fired at regular intervals. Which might mean a salute, or might mean something of a ceremonial nature, but certainly didn’t mean guns being aimed and fired as fast as they bore on their targets.
He got out of bed and dressed. He had folded his trousers carefully and put them under the mattress of his bed. The result would not have satisfied him in New York, but here it was the nearest approach to a crease in his pants he’d had since his arrival. He put them on. He felt better. He began to tuck in his shirt tails.
The door opened. His breakfast, evidently. Two dark-skinned slaves carried a gigantic silver platter on which was piled the better part of a roasted sheep. Fruit. Coffee. Bread, which was in thin, flexible, doughy sheets more suited for the wrapping of packages than the making of breakfast toast. With the two male slaves came two slave girls in garments quite appropriate for indoors in a hot climate. They were gauzy and not extensive. One of the girls carried some kind of musical instrument. They smiled warmly upon Tony as he finished tucking in his shirt.
“Your breakfast, lord,” said one of them brightly. “The City rejoices in your victory.”
“Victory?” said Tony. “What victory?”
“The defeat, lord,” said the prettier of the two slave girls, “of the djinn who was sent to slay you who are the hope of Barkut. The cannons fire and the people dance in the streets. There will be decorations and fireworks.”
Tony’s conscience was skeptical. He shared its view. But the cannon boomed, nevertheless. Tony’s neck was sore this morning, and he had cold chills down his back at odd moments. Breaking the djinn’s fingers had been a sound Army trick, but this Es-Souk had immediately afterward swelled to the size of at least a hippopotamus, and as soon as he stopped roaring he’d have tackled Tony again, and then there’d have been nothing but a blot left of Tony. Tony still didn’t know what had made Es-Souk sneeze or flee in such palpable bellowing terror. Tony’s conscience said, with something of the bite of vitriol, that the djinn had doubtless sneezed from an incipient cold, and that these two slave girls weren’t any too well protected against draughts, either.
He regarded them interestedly as the great silver platter came to rest on folding legs, convenient to his bedside. The two male slaves bowed deeply and departed. The booming of cannon continued. The two girls stayed.
“Hm…” said Tony. “You two—”
“We serve you, lord,” said the girl with the musical instrument. She seemed quite happy about it. “I play and Esim dances, or she plays and I dance, and both of us carve your meat and pour your sherbet and serve you in all ways.”
Tony regarded them again. Slave girls. Unveiled. Very sketchily attired. Very pretty. A charming idea of hospitality. Ghail had nicer legs, but—
His conscience snarled at him.
“So the cannon fire because of my victory!” he observed, reaching out for coffee.
One of them passed it to him, reverently.
“Aye, lord,” she said brightly. “Never before in the history of Barkut has a man defeated a djinn in single combat. Were they not so stupid, we had been their subjects long ago.”
He drank the coffee. So nobody before had ever defeated a djinn in single combat? In that case, maybe some sort of celebration was in order. But he gloomily wished he knew how he’d done it. He scowled.
“You seem sad, lord,” said the one called Esir, anxiously. “Esim has made a song of your victory. Would you wish that she sing to cheer you?”
Tony grunted. His conscience observed warningly that he did not know anything about the local domestic habits. Perhaps, despite the veils and swathing robes women wore in the streets, it was an old Arabic custom to provide strictly musical entertainment with breakfast in a guest’s bedroom.
“You two are slaves?” he asked, as one of them anticipated his reach for an orange and swiftly halved it for him and handed it to him with a tiny golden spoon for him to eat it with.
“Aye, lord. Your slaves,” said the two in unison, beaming.
Tony strangled on his first spoonful of orange pulp. They pounded his back anxiously. He coughed and blinked at them.
“You mean—”
“You came to Barkut without attendant, lord,” said Esir, happily, “and it was not fitting. So the Council gave us to you, with horses and other slaves, that you might be suitably served. And all of us, your slaves, wished to kneel to you immediately, but Ghail the slave girl said that you had told her you did not wish to be disturbed last night, and therefore we only waited your summons—which did not come.”