CHAPTER XVII
THE DANCE IN THE COURTYARD
Tokalji herded us through the atrium and up the stairs into the large chamber with the apse where he, himself, slept.
"Sit," he ordered roughly, motioning to several stools. "I have something to say."
He went to a chest in the corner, and drew from it a bottle of rakia, raw Oriental brandy. I looked about for a cup as he handed it to Nikka, but my comrade, better versed in the customs of the country, deftly wiped the bottle's neck with his coat-sleeve, hoisted it for a long dram, wiped the neck again and passed it to me. I imitated him as well as I could, although a passing acquaintance with Cognac in my days as a student at the Beaux Arts and also in the A.E.F. did not save me from a choking sensation as the fiery liquid burned my gullet. Tokalji regarded me with contempt when I handed it to him, tilted the bottle bottom-up and drained the equivalent of a water-glass, with a smack of gusto.
"There," he said, setting the bottle on the floor. "We'll talk better wet than dry—although I will say, Giorgi, your friend is no great hand at the bottle. I hope he's a better thief."
"Only try him," said Nikka eagerly.
"Humph, I may! But to be frank with you, my lad, I don't want you two for a thieving job. It's something more difficult, and the reward will be in proportion."
Nikka permitted his fingers to caress the hilt of his knife.
"We should enjoy a good killing," he hinted.
"No, no, Giorgi. That will come in time, but whatever else you do, you must keep your knife sheathed in this business. As it happens, the men we are after are worth more to us alive than dead."