Ismeddin smiled as he heard the guttural chant of the rebels about their guard fires. But as he approached their outposts, he picked his way more warily, ceased smiling, muttered in his long beard something about the exceeding unfairness of having to contend with mounted sentries, and loosened the Ladder to Heaven in its scabbard....
Since the flat roof of the palace at Angor-lana was higher than any building in the city, the sultan was passably secure against marksmen addicted to royal targets, particularly in view of his being in an angle of the parapet that could not be reached from the minaret of the mosque. And thus it was that he reclined at ease in the shadow of a striped canopy, sipping Shirazi wine to his heart's content and his soul's damnation.
But peace and sultans are strangers. A captain of the guard clanked into the Presence, saluted, and made his report: "Saidi, the troops at Djeb el Azhár surprized and captured a detachment of the rebels. A ragged old man riding a stolen horse led the outpost commander——"
"Ismeddin, by the Power and by the Splendor!" interrupted the sultan. "Where are the prisoners? And Ismeddin?"
"In the hall of audience, saidi. Abdurrahman Khan, his son, and sixty of their followers."
"Very good, Ismail," exulted the sultan. "We will pass sentence at once. Announce me to the court."
The older lords of the court, stout, white-haired ruffians, companions of the Old Tiger, knew well what the Old Tiger's son contemplated when he appeared in the hall of audience. And the younger lords knew the tradition, and beamed in anticipation of old glories revived.
Each of the two chief executioners had three assistants, standing a pace to the left and three paces to the rear; and all were fingering the hilts of their two-handed swords.
There would be notable dismemberments, and a surprizing scarcity of rebels long before evening prayer. As for Abdurrahman Khan——