She turned upon Tony. “And you—you are as stupid as the djinn! Why did you never ask about your camels?” She paused suspiciously. “But—were they camels? Perhaps they also were djinn! Perhaps it is all a trick! You may be another djinn! This might be—”
Tony threw up his hands. “In my world,” he said helplessly, “ djinn are fables.”
“Your world?” snapped the girl. “How many worlds did Allah make? And if djinn are fables, why is the throne of Barkut empty?”
“On the coins?” asked Tony as helplessly as before.
She stamped her foot once more. “On the coins and in the palace! What sort of fool are you? You say you are human? Will you drink of the lasf plant?”
She fairly blazed scorn at him; scorn and vexation and at least the beginning of bewilderment. Tony tried to placate her.
“If lasf is not something spelled backwards with added vitamins, and if other humans drink it, I have no objection at all!”
She jumped to her feet and hurried to the barred gateway of the courtyard adjoining his cell. She spoke imperiously through the bars. Even a slave girl can be imperious to other slaves, on occasion. And there was always somebody passing that barred gateway, with full freedom to look in. Tony had chafed at the fact—and been reproached by his conscience for chafing—when Ghail first began her daily lessons in Arabic. Lately he had become resigned. But he still wished stubbornly that things were different.
She came back with a polished brass goblet containing a liquid. She tasted it carefully, as if its contents might be doubtful, and then offered it to Tony.
“This is lasf,” she said sternly. “It is poisonous to the djinns. If you drink, it will be of your own will.”