“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.”