"Playing cards. My djinn brought them to me from a far future time. They haven't even been invented yet," said she, studying the faces of those upturned.
"What does one do with them? Not that I care," he added, remembering his carefully-built reputation for single-minded fanaticism.
"One plays many games. I might teach you one, were you not as stupid as a hog and as dull-witted as an aged camel."
"I am as intelligent as you," yowled Mufaddal. Then, since she was a mere woman, "More intelligent, blast your smirking face! Teach me a game!"
"The best one is called Poke Her," said Ramizail. "But to really play properly, we need four people."
Mufaddal threw a dish at the remaining slave, who was sitting in a corner trying to repair his belt. "Go fetch me Heraj and Pepi," he ordered. "Also bring some food. Something to munch on. And some fermented-bread beer." The slave trotted out, gripping his ravished pants.
Presently the two sorcerers came in, Heraj very glum. "What's wrong with you, lemon-lips?" asked Mufaddal.
"What'd you do with Godwin and his crew?" asked Heraj.
"You know very well."
"Yes, I know. You threw them into the jail with those captured Crusaders and the others. I don't like the risk, brother. You ought to kill the whole lot of them now. You underestimate that big Englishman. And the renegade El Sareuk is no babe, either."