Dealing with the sentry was his job. It wasn’t difficult; the poor devil was tired and not expecting trouble. Ramses took him from behind with an arm across his throat, hit him hard in the pit of the stomach, and chopped him across the back of the neck as he toppled forward. By the time he had dragged the limp body under a tree, Nefret was moving down the string of horses, whispering in their ears and stroking their necks. When she reached the last in line, she untied the rope that passed through their bridles.

So far there had been no sound except a few soft, interested whickers from the intrigued equines. Now they had to move fast and noisily. Nefret scrambled onto one of the horses while Selim gave Sir Edward a hand up and mounted another. Except for Nefret’s mount, the animals were stirring uneasily. One of the sleeping men sat up. Ramses tossed the dangling reins over the lead horse’s neck and vaulted onto its back. It turned its head to give him an astonished stare.

“Wrong man, I know,” Ramses said in a conversational voice. “Think of it as a temporary inconvenience.”

There wasn’t time to adjust the stirrups. He dug his bare heels into the animal’s flanks and urged it into a trot. It responded to the touch or the English voice, or both. The entire camp was now awake; shouts and curses echoed through the night, and someone fired a rifle. Someone else let out a stream of oaths directed at the idiot who had fired it. By that time the entire group of horses was in motion, following their leader and urged on by Nefret, who brought up the rear yelling and smacking assorted equine rumps with a leafy branch. Her hair had come loose from its scarf; it streamed out behind her, silvered by starlight. Sir Edward was hanging on, though he didn’t look happy. Selim looked very happy. This was the sort of adventure he had had in mind all along, a wild ride with the enemy in hot pursuit.

The pursuit consisted of one trooper, running as fast as his long legs would carry him, waving his arms and calling out. The horses broke into a gallop and the plaintive cries of “Mary! Mary, love, come back!” faded into the night.

A real and vindictive pursuit would not be long delayed, however. They did not slacken speed until they were near the ruins where the others were ready and waiting. None of them wasted time in conversation, though Ramses saw the look of resignation on his mother’s face. She was not an enthusiastic horsewoman, and was accustomed to the smooth gait of their Arabians.

“Sorry, Mother,” he said, offering his hands to help her mount. “Will you be all right?”

“Certainly.” It was the answer he had expected.

Esin couldn’t manage it, though. She had ridden only in England, with a proper lady’s saddle. Declining Selim’s eager offer of assistance, Nefret mounted the girl in front of her.

“We’re leaving a trail a blind man could follow,” Sir Edward said, as they started off two by two. “And now we’ve got the Australians after us.”

“This was your idea,” Ramses pointed out.

“So it was. I hope I’ll live long enough to regret it.”

The clipped accent sounded odd from that vagabond figure. There hadn’t been time for Ramses to assimilate Sir Edward’s sudden reappearance, and there were a hundred questions he wanted to ask.

“What are you doing here? I was under the impression that you had given up a life of crime.”

“I can’t imagine what gave you that impression” was Sir Edward’s bland reply. “But my present job isn’t criminal in nature. People give other people medals for doing it.”

“Usually after the ‘other people’ are dead.”

Sir Edward let that one pass. Ramses tried another tack.

“Why is Sethos in Gaza? He’s no traitor, I’m certain of that now, but what the hell is he after?”

“You’ll have to ask him that.”

They reached their destination just before dawn. Ramses had expected a tumbledown ruin or a mean little house; instead he saw high walls rising up against the paling sky like those of a castle or a fortress. The heavy gates were closed. Sir Edward called out and after an interval one of the leaves of the gate opened and a man peered out. He let out an exclamation when he saw the group.

“They are friends,” Sir Edward said. “Friends of the Master.”

He led the way into an open courtyard with a well in the center and a roofed arcade on the right side. It was a fortress, and a strong one. The walls were twelve feet high and eight feet thick. A small two-storied structure within the enclosure must be the living quarters.

“Go ahead into the house,” their host said, indicating this building. “Straight through and up the stairs to the saloon. I’m afraid you’ll find us ill-prepared for guests, but Mustafa and I will see what can be done in the way of food and drink.”

He drew the other man aside. Leaving his father to assist his mother, and Selim the girl, Ramses edged toward the pair. He caught only two words: “No message?” and saw Mustafa shake his head.

Mustafa looked like the sort of man who would be employed by Sethos – burly, black-bearded as a pirate, and wary. He shot a suspicious look at Ramses, and Sir Edward turned.

“This is the notorious – er – famous Brother of Demons, Mustafa,” he said in Arabic. “You have heard of him.”

“Ah!” Mustafa held out a hand. “We will shake hands as the English do, eh? It is an honor to meet you. And so the others are…?”

“The even more notorious Father of Curses and his family,” Ramses said. “If you will forgive me for failing in courtesy, may I suggest that there are important matters to be dealt with before we exchange additional compliments? The horses, for instance. Their owners will want them back.”

Mustafa threw his head back and let out a bellow of laughter. “You stole them? Well done. They will fetch a good price.”

“Control your mercantile instincts, Mustafa,” said Sir Edward. “They must be returned eventually. We – er – borrowed them from the Australians.”

“Hmmm.” Mustafa stroked his beard. “A pity. But you are right, the Australians are fierce fighters and they love their horses.”

Ramses stroked the friendly muzzle that had come to rest on his shoulder. “Take care of them, will you, Mustafa? Rub them down and water them.”

“If you have handled that to your satisfaction,” said Sir Edward, “shall we go in? Your mother will be waiting in the saloon for us.”

“No, she won’t,” Ramses said.

The saloon was an elegantly appointed apartment at the front of the house. I recognized Sethos’s refined tastes in the furnishings – cushioned divans, carved screens, and low tables of brass and copper – but it was clear at a glance that this was a bachelor establishment. There was a bird’s nest in one of the window embrasures, and dust covered every flat surface.

“Dear me,” I said. “This won’t do. Let us see what the rest of the house is like.”

“He told us to wait here,” Nefret said. She was supporting Esin, who looked as if she was at the limit of her strength.

“I have no intention of waiting for a man to make the necessary arrangements,” I replied. “That girl should be in bed. Let us find one.”

Two of the small rooms behind the saloon had obviously been used as sleeping chambers. Various articles of masculine attire hung over chairs and chests. The beds were brass, in the European style, rather at odds with the rest of the furnishings, but with comfortable mattresses and sheets and pillows. Selim and I straightened the crumpled bedding and put Esin on the bed. I did not bother removing her clothing, since it did not appear that the sheets had been changed for several weeks.

Sir Edward and Ramses were in the saloon when we returned to that room.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” the former inquired politely.

“I found a bed – yours, I believe – and got Miss Sahin tucked in. The poor child was worn out. Now, where is the kitchen? A nice hot cup of tea would be just the thing.”