Ismeddin leaned forward in the saddle, caught the scimitar the Shareef tossed him, and buckled the belt about his waist.
Biban ul Djinni they called that desolate, narrow valley: the Valley of the Djinn. But these bearded strangers out of northern Kurdistan eagerly sought that avoided citadel where their dark monarch sat dreaming of ancient days before Suleiman learned the Word of Power; for this was the eve of the 14th of Nisan, when they could make secure for their lord forever after the triumph of that one day wherein he held absolute power over the word of Suleiman.
Ten meharis filed down an avenue dimly outlined by the stumps of shattered columns. They picked their way slowly, for the full moon had not yet risen to illuminate the desolation. Finally, at the end of the avenue, they halted. The seven soi-disant darvishes dismounted and gathered about the kneeling meharis that bore the rich takht rawan. Zantut parted the curtains and by the light of a torch looked in.
"As I expected," he announced, "she is in a trance. Ibrahaim, stand guard," he commanded. "And keep an eye on the infidel, Rankin. The rest of you, follow me."
Zantut, followed by his adepts, turned toward the black-tiled circular court at the extremity of the avenue up which they had ridden.
"Look, master! There it is, just as it was written!" exclaimed one of the adepts as he pointed out to Zantut a copper image that gleamed dully on its basalt pedestal.
"There is where Iblis sits dreaming of those broad, rich days before Suleiman—may wild hogs defile his grave!—learned the Word of Power. Stand by, brethren!" commanded Zantut.
They formed in a crescent before the image.
Zantut advanced, bearing in each hand a torch which he planted at either side of the image. Then, taking from his belt a small copper mallet, he tapped the image in various spots, each tap sounding a different note; and as he tapped, he listened carefully. Over and over he tapped, here and there; then finally announced, "The third arm; the second hand; the fourth head."