"What do you want, offspring of a leprous unwed camel?"
"May you live a thousand years, Mufaddal, my brother."
"This is a noble sentiment. Did you interrupt my eating—that is to say, my meditation—to wish me long life, imbecile?"
The sorcerer looked meditatively at his left forefinger, which turned into a blue snake and hissed at the big dirty man across the laden cloth. Mufaddal jumped and said hastily, "This, of course, is only my rough manner of speaking, Heraj, and naturally you know you are my favorite brother and may come in any time you like."
"Yes. Well, I was going to say, Mufaddal, that complications are lifting their ugly heads in this business of the plague ship."
"What? Are the rats not loaded into the hold, and the job accomplished with but seventeen fellahin bitten? Did we not slay the seventeen before they could come near anyone? And is the ship not as sound as any ship that sails the Mediterranean, having new sails and a new mast, and her belly caulked no later than last month?"
"Ah, very true," agreed Heraj.
"Does every rat not carry at least one flea, cleverly infected with the plague by your own subtle methods?"
"Fleas and rats are as deadly as any Saracen blade, and the grisly death they carry will spread far and wide when they are let off the ship on the coasts of England."
"And lastly, is all not in readiness to sail come the day after tomorrow?"