by Paul Kenyon
"What are you doing here, Ebrahim?" she said sharply.
"The Emir has sent me to fetch you to his bedchamber."
"I'm not one of his wives. Or his concubines. Doesn't he understand that?"
The bulging eyes rolled. "Please, khanom, he is begging you. He send gift."
He untied a pouch at his waist and showed her a magnificent diamond brooch.
"Take the brooch back, Ebrahim, and tell the Emir to take a cold shower."
"Please, khanom," the eunuch pleaded. "If you don't come, the Emir will have me beaten."
"It goes with the job, doesn't it, old thing?"
He was sulking now. "The Emir will be displeased."
"Go now. I need my beauty sleep. And so does the Emir, if he's taking me hunting tomorrow."
He turned to go. She stopped him with a look. "The key, Ebrahim."
He gave her a look of feigned ignorance, but one fat hand strayed to the heavy key ring at his waist.
"The key to these chambers," she said dangerously. "I don't want any more middle-of-the-night visits." She held out her hand.
Something like fear flickered in his golfball eyes. "Please, khanom, I am responsible for the keys. I do not dare."
"Give it to me," she said brutally, "or you'll be punished."
He handed it over. It was iron, over a foot long, weighing at least a pound. She put it on the table by the side of the bed. When she turned around again the eunuch was gone. Probably to the harem to select a substitute that might fend off the Emir's wrath.
She took off her robe and slid between the cool sheets again. In one minute, she was asleep.
8
"And now," the Emir said genially, "you'll want to choose a horse for yourself."
He was in a remarkably good mood. He'd met her at the entrance to the stables, bright and chipper, tapping a riding crop against his leg, his English riding boots showing under the long robes. Penelope's respect for Ebrahim's talents soared; the girl he'd slipped into the Emir's bed last night in her place must have outdone herself.
"It's a glorious day for a hunt," she said. "Whatever it is we're hunting."
She was dressed in a riding outfit from Harrod's: houndstooth jacket nipped in at the waist, silk ascot, flaring jodhpurs and shiny boots, her hair tucked up under a foxhunting cap. The Emir's eyes followed the long, stately line of her bosom under the jacket. He sighed.
"Our quarry is more dangerous than the fox, cleverer than the gazelle, more challenging than the hare. You shall see."
Something of a chill traveled down Penelope's spine, despite the hot breath of the desert sun. There had been an unusual and furtive activity in the palace courtyard early that morning: the clink of weapons, hushed military commands, shuffling feet, the roar of engines, suddenly silenced. And once, the single muffled scream of a man in agony.
"Then I'll need your best horse, won't I?" she said.
They entered the coolness of the stables. There was a pleasant smell of horseflesh and liniment and new straw. Dozens of grooms were at work, rubbing the horses, painting the hooves with lanolin, emptying buckets, combing manes and tails.
"Here's a horse worthy of you," the Emir said.
They stopped in front of a magnificent bay gelding. A boy was wiping his lips and nostrils with a grooming cloth. He was one of the finest Arabians Penelope had ever seen.
"He is of el khamsa, one of the five original strains from the time of Mohammed," the Emir said proudly.
"But there's a sixth strain, isn't there?" Penelope said. "And it's found only in the royal stables of Ghazal."
"Not quite," a smooth rich voice said behind her. "The Emir exports one from time to time to other Arab countries. But it's always a gelding."
She turned. Le Sourd was standing there, in riding breeches and an open-necked shirt, the wires sprouting from the buttons in his ears. There was a holstered revolver at his waist.
"The sixth strain is known as el issadsa," Le Sourd went on. "It's a legend in this part of the world. There's many a sheik who'd give his right hand to own one."
"A sheik did give his right hand last year," the Emir growled. "The dog bribed one of my stable boys to steal the seed of one of my stallions. He was waiting in the desert with a mare to be impregnated. The sheik's hand I cut off as a thief. The boy I punished more severely."
Penelope could imagine. She shuddered.
"Stealing the semen of stallions is an old custom among the Arabs," Le Sourd said. "That's how the Arabian breed spread. Horses have always been the Arabs' most prized possession. A Bedouin chieftain, even today, will take his favorite mare inside his tent at night to keep her from being stolen."
"I'd like to see one of these el issadsa horses," Penelope said.
The Emir's pride struggled with his reluctance, and after a moment he said, "Besyar khob, come with me."
He led the way through a partition into another part of the stable. The concrete floor gave way to clay. The stalls were made of cedar, with a fragile latticework bordering the tops. Penelope followed the Emir to one of the stalls.
"El Fahda!" the Emir proclaimed.
The Arabic name meant "silver." He was a superb beast, bigger than the average Arabian, with a silky-white coat. He had a noble head and a long, sensitive face, with dark, intelligent eyes. The chest was deep and powerful, the legs unusually long and well muscled, without an inch of deviation.
Penelope was unable to speak for a moment. The white stallion was enough to take your breath away.
She turned to the Emir. "I'll give you a million dollars for him," she said.
He laughed. "What would I do with a million dollars?"
Le Sourd said, "Money is an embarrassment to the Emir. He has too much of it."
Penelope bit her lip. "At least let me send my mare here to be serviced. I'll do anything."
The Emir was enjoying himself. "I do not need money, you do not need a diamond brooch. The only thing of value in this world is friendship."
"Does that mean your Highness might reconsider?"
His heavy eyelids drooped. He made a show of examining the horse.
El Fahda snorted and pawed the ground. Before anyone could stop her, Penelope slipped the bolt and let herself into the stall. She put her arms around the white stallion's neck, and he whinnied with pleasure.
"He's a love," she said. "This is the horse I'll ride on the hunt."
The Emir gave a violent start. "What?"
"Your Highness isn't afraid I'll steal his semen? It wouldn't be much good by the time I got it to Kentucky."
Le Sourd's expression was amused. "She's right," he said. "El Fahda and the Baroness have fallen in love with one another. No other horse in your stables is good enough for a woman like this." He turned to Penelope, his eyes twinkling. "El Fahda is the Emir's own mount. He's the one his Highness always rides to the hunt."
Penelope turned to the Emir with a bland smile. "Oh, in that case it's terribly generous of your Highness to give him up for the day. What a nice thing for you to do for me!"
The Emir turned without a word. "Walada!" he shouted, clapping his hands. A stable boy hurried up. "Saddle El Fahda for the lady," he said.
* * *
The hunting party was already drawn up in the forecourt. There were soldiers in tan uniforms and checkered headcloths, lounging in front of a row of covered Land Rovers and armored halftracks. The kennel master and his assistants were there, struggling with the straining salukis. The royal falconer was busy supervising the strapping of cadges, wooden frames holding the birds, to the shoulders of the bearers.
The Emir's guests were mounted on their horses, laughing and talking among themselves. There were about a dozen of them, mostly young, animated men in expensive Western-style hunting clothes, though all of them still retained Arab headdress. There were a couple of older men in the traditional robes among them, conversing gravely with one another.
Penelope took a closer look and got a shock. One of them was the sheik
she'd manhandled on the airplane.
Their eyes met for a moment. His hands tightened on the expensive hunting rifle he carried, and he looked away.
The Emir didn't offer to introduce her to the other members of the party. As an unveiled woman, she was an affront to them. But she noticed that the young Westernized Arabs were sneaking furtive looks at her. One or two of them would be sure to try to start a conversation with her if he could get out of the sight of his companions.
Le Sourd rode his horse up beside hers. As an unbeliever — a Frank and a Nazarene — he wasn't too popular either.
"You look magnificent, Baroness," he said. "No one's ever ridden El Fahda before, except the Emir. I've never seen him so spirited."
"Thank you, Octave," she said. "What's this coming?"
A procession of camels was filing into the courtyard, led by a bunch of villainous-looking Bedouins in black robes. An uneasy silence came over the young men of the hunting party. Everybody turned to look.
There were wooden cages strapped to the camels' humps, swaying precariously with the stiltlike strides of the beasts. A revolting stench came from the cages, like rotten meat.
Penelope squinted against the sun to make out the shapes in the cages. They came closer, and something obscene and misshapen moved behind the bars.
Hyenas! She could see the scruffy, striped fur and the bushy tails tucked between the hind legs. She could see the doglike muzzles and the clever eyes blinking in the sunlight. They were big animals, about five feet long and weighing some two hundred and fifty pounds, and you could see that the camels didn't like carrying them.
Penelope turned to Le Sourd with a grimace of distaste. "Is that what we're hunting?" she said.
Le Sourd looked uncomfortable. "No," he said. "They're coming along to clean up the scraps."
The white stallion tossed his head and pawed the ground. He didn't like the hyenas either. She patted his neck to calm him.
"Do all of the Emir's hunts include this revolting feature?" she said.
"No, not all." He glanced uneasily to see if the Emir had overheard.
"Just what are we hunting, darling?" Penelope said.
He lifted a riding crop and pointed it at the armored halftracks. "They're in there," he said. "They'll be released after we get into the desert."
"A turkey shoot, is it, darling?"
"They'll be given a head start," he said. "The Emir is a sportsman."
"Yes, isn't he?" she said dryly. "The falcons and the dogs and his friends with their rifles. And if that doesn't do the job, a filthy pack of hyenas to tear what's left of the poor creatures apart. What are they, darling? The Emir doesn't seem to like them very much."
"He doesn't," Le Sourd said shortly.
She opened her mouth again, and there was the sound of motors opening up. The soldiers climbed into the Land Rovers. They were carrying automatic rifles.
The Emir led the procession, riding his blond-maned stallion with practiced ease, chatting in the saddle with the two older sheiks. The young men broke up into groups of twos and threes and followed. Penelope kept on the outskirts, where she could see everything. The cadgers, wearing their unwieldy falcon frames on their shoulders, flanked the hunting party on the right, within easy call of the Emir. The salukis were riding somewhere behind, in a couple of the Land Rovers. There were those mysterious covered vehicles with the imprisoned prey. And following at a discreet distance, the black-robed Bedouins and their camels with the hyena cages.
The greenery surrounding the palace gave way to the harsh sands of the desert. The sun, still low, was an angry red ball. They maintained a sedate pace, but the horses' hooves sent up puffs of dust that Penelope could taste. She was tempted to wrap her silk ascot around her face, the way the men were beginning to drape the folds of their headcloths, but she left it where it was. Time enough later, when it got really bad. She'd be damned if she'd show any weakness where that bastard of a sheik from the airplane could see it.
It was a joy, riding the white stallion. He moved smoothly between her legs, an oiled machine. She hardly needed to use the reins at all. He was incredibly responsive just to the touch of her knee. There never had been a horse like this one.
The morning grew hotter. The sands were a dazzling emptiness that after a while seemed to shimmer and move like a vast white sea. Penelope pulled the visor of her jockey's cap down to shield her eyes. She noticed that the young men had grown quiet. The desert was a million years old, and man was a brief intrusion in it. She looked up and the sun was near its zenith, a round hole looking into the fires of an unimaginable furnace behind the sky.
A shout came from ahead. "Tedar tohaf henah!" The Emir had reined in and raised a hand. The Land Rovers and halftracks pulled up and shut off their motors. An army of retainers debarked, and with amazing speed began to construct a camp. A lavish silk pavilion went up on poles, and folding tables were arranged under its shady canopies.
The men dismounted. While the younger members of the hunting party went off behind some convenient dune, the Emir and the older sheiks squatted in the sand, spreading their skirts. Penelope began to appreciate the utility of those voluminous Arab robes. The men rose, almost in unison, and stepped away from the wet spots in the sand that were drying up as she looked at them.
She dismounted and wandered over to the pavilion. A servant had appeared magically to take the reins of her horse, and another was hurrying over with a bucket of water.
The tables were spread with a midday snack of cheeses and dips and thin Arab bread, with cold chicken, bowls of fruit and plates of disgustingly sweet little confections. There were tall beady pitchers of iced tea and the cold lime drink called loomey. Penelope looked with compassion at the steel-plated halftracks, baking in the sun, thinking what it must be like for the poor animals inside.
"Oh, they'll be given water before they're let loose," Le Sourd said, with that uncanny ability he had for guessing her thoughts. "The Emir wants them to give him a good run. It's no fun otherwise." He helped himself to some eggplant dip on a fragment of thin bread.
Penelope sipped her iced tea, letting it trickle down her parched throat. "I did get the impression that his Highness is an animal lover," she said, straight-faced.
Le Sourd laughed. "Yes, he dotes on his salukis and his horses, and of course his falcons. He loves them as if they were his children."
"Oh, how many children does his Highness have?"
"Three hundred and forty-seven at last count. The surplus boys are generally castrated to keep them out of the line of succession. An imperfect man can't aspire to the throne, according to the Koran."
"And the Emir is perfect?"
"In every way that counts. The world is going to hear more from him shortly."
"Oh?"
"Yes, the Emir has aspirations."
"What kind of aspirations?"
"To assume the caliphate of the entire Moslem world."
She was startled. "I don't want to seem skeptical, darling, but Ghazal is a very small kingdom. There must be more plausible candidates for the caliphate."
"Napoleon came from a little place called Corsica. Alexander the Great came from Macedonia and went on to conquer the world. Hitler was an Austrian. Mohammed himself came from a backwater called Mecca, not very far from here, and his followers went on to rule a good part of civilization."
"All of them established a power base first."
"And so will the Emir."
She took another sip of her iced tea. "The Emir doesn't get along with his neighbors very well," she said.
"That won't matter, shortly," Le Sourd said.
"Why not?"
He smiled with his perfect little teeth and changed the subject. "Try some of this chick-pea dip," he said. "It's one of the best things in the Arab cuisine."
The young men of the hunting party were crowding the tables now, helping themselves to food, chattering in the assertive Arab manner. They all looked quickly at Penelope and turn
ed away, as if they'd been caught doing something indecent. Perhaps they were. If they'd been caught looking at the unveiled face of one of their friends' wives, it would have been roughly equivalent to rape. It was a strange sensation for Penelope. American men sometimes looked at your bust that way, turning away with a guilty flush.
A bulky older man in robes shouldered his way to the table and took away a plate, not looking at her at all. It was the sheik of the airplane.
"He doesn't seem to like you very much," Le Sourd said.
"No, he doesn't, does he? Who is he?"
"That's Sheik Zakar. He's head of one of the loyal tribes that support the Emir. Those are his Bedouins over there."
Penelope followed his gaze to where the black-robed tribesmen were camped with their camels and the caged hyenas. They were having a repast of their own, sitting cross-legged on a large frayed rug in the sand, dipping their hands into a communal pot of some greasy mess. They'd been placed well downwind of the Emir's silk pavilion.
"They seem a fun bunch."
"They trap the hyenas for the Emir's special hunts. And a lot of their young men go into the Emir's household troops."
A spine-chilling sound drifted from the cages, somewhere between a demented human laugh and a coughing bark. The camels shuffled uneasily. Penelope didn't blame them.
"The hyenas are getting restless," Le Sourd said. "They've been kept hungry for the hunt. So have the hawks and the salukis."
"Oh look, darling! I think we're about to begin!"
The tables and food were disappearing as magically as they'd arrived. There was a lot of activity around the armored halftracks. There was a soldier standing at attention at the sealed tailgate of each vehicle. Soldiers with submachine guns were facing the doors, waiting.
The Emir was over there, talking to the officer in charge. The officer nodded stiffly and barked an order. The soldiers unlatched the tailgates and stepped back quickly.