"Well past midnight, saidi. The sentries have been changed three times since sunset."
"And still no report!" muttered Zantut as he stroked his black beard. Then, to Humayd: "Sound recall."
The adept drew from behind the pedestal of the silver peacock a small drum, carefully tuned it, and with knuckles and the heel of his hand beat a curious, broken rhythm. The drum emitted a surprizing volume of sound for its size; yet so low-pitched was its hollow chug-chug-thump that it barely disturbed the silence of that late hour.
Scarcely had Humayd set aside the drum when there came at the door a tapping that mimicked the cadence of the recall.
"Enter!" commanded Zantut. And then, recognizing the newcomer, "What luck, Saoud?"
"Less than none, saidi. I waited at the entrance of the caravanserai across the street until my legs were knotted with cramps. And this"—he flashed from beneath his djellab a keen, curved blade—"is all too clean."
Zantut scrutinized him gravely.
"You slept!" snapped the Master.
"Not in that corner of perdition, saidi. And I reported while that drum was still warm."
"Granted!" admitted Zantut.