The magician replaced the domed lid and, taking up one of the blue silks, covered the basket with the cloth. He called out to the boy inside, who answered. He called out again, and the boy answered likewise; he called a third time, and before the boy could make his reply, Sinjari whipped away the cloth and, throwing off the lid, thrust the torch inside.

Cait, fearing the boy would be burned, threw her hands before her face. Otti leaped to his feet and prepared to charge to the boy's rescue – and was restrained with difficulty by Haemur and Abu-while the others cried out in dismay for the child's sake. But the magician, impervious to their anguished shouts, stirred the torch around and around, filling the basket with flames.

Then, withdrawing the torch, Sinjari placed his foot against the basket, and kicked it over. The wicker vessel rolled lightly aside. Both boy and rope were gone-and in their place, a real, living snake, its skin glistening dully in the torchlight as it slithered slowly into the courtyard. The crowd gasped and drew back in fright.

Stooping to the serpent, Sinjari seized the beast by the tail and picked it up. Holding it at arm's length as it writhed in the air, he began to spin it-gently at first, but with increasing speed, he spun the creature, its sinuous length blurring in the flickering torchlight. Then all at once, he stopped and… Behold! It was a serpent no longer, but a handsome wooden staff, which he tapped on the ground three times with a solid and satisfying thump.

Next, he raised the staff and held it across his outstretched palms. He elevated it heavenward once, twice, three times, whereupon there was a sharp, resonating crack. The staff snapped in two, spouting sparks and plumes of flame from the broken ends. The flames showered tiny glowing embers of gold which bounced on the ground with a fizzing sound, creating a curtain of white smoke. And when the smoke cleared, there, standing before Cait's astonished eyes were the two small boys, unharmed and neatly dressed as before.

The gathering cheered and applauded, and Cait laughed and clapped her hands with delight. Otti dashed forward to examine the two young lads and their mysterious basket, as al-Farabi congratulated the renowned conjurer on his extraordinary feats. Cait turned to speak to Rognvald and found him looking, not at the spectacle before him, but at her.

For an instant his eyes held hers, and then he smiled and glanced away, leaving the distinct impression that he had been subtly appraising her. Before she could think what to say to this, al-Farabi clapped his hands for silence. 'My friends!' he called, with Abu's help, 'Jalal Sinjari has kindly consented to apply his skills as a seer for us this evening. Please, remain seated and he will come among us.'

The magician bowed and proceeded to the reclining diners. Pausing before one of the merchants, he said, 'You wish to know whether your sojourn in the city will bring an increase in fortune. I tell you, friend, it already has!'

There were murmurs of approval from the others in the party, and he turned to the man beside him, and said, 'Your wife will not thank you for bringing home the servant girl. Unless you marry her and make her a wife, you will not have a moment's peace.'

The man sputtered with chagrin, but his friend roared with laughter. 'He has seen through your cunning plan, Yusuf!' he cried. 'Marry the girl!'

The magician moved on, and was soon standing before Cait. Pressing his palms together, he bowed respectfully to her. 'Most noble lady,' he said, speaking through Abu, 'you are as lovely as the jasmine that blossoms in the night. Please, give me your hand.'

Enthralled, Caitriona extended her hand to him. Taking it in both of his own, Sinjari pressed it, and then turned it over. He traced the lines of her palm lightly with a finger and Cait saw the merriment die in his eyes. He stared at her palm and then looked into her face. His touch grew instantly cold.

'Your other hand, please?' he said, glanced at it, thanked her, and stepped away abruptly, saying, 'A long and happy life awaits you, good woman. Allah wills it.'

Dismayed and confused by this brusque dismissal, Cait felt the colour rising to her cheeks. Aware that the others were watching, she smiled weakly and tried to shrug off the waves of distress rising around her. After all, she told herself, it was only a ruse, a trick for entertainment's sake-like the snake and disappearing boys-the sly deception of a practised performer.

And yet, despite all that reason assured her, she could not shake off the feeling that Sinjari had seen something in her future that had caused him to abandon what he had been about to say.

The magician moved on, foretold a few more futures – the innkeeper would have another son before the year was through, and one of the merchants would become an amir-and then quickly thanked his audience for their most gratifying praise and attention, and dismissed himself. Ibn Umar al-Farabi walked with him to the doorway and bade him farewell. While the two men talked together, Cait, unable to resist, summoned Abu and, when Sinjari took his leave, she followed him out into the yard.

'A word, sir, if you please,' called Abu on her behalf.

The conjurer turned. 'Ah, I expected as much.' He smiled wanly. 'Accept my humble admonition: do not persist in your enquiry. Sometimes it is better not to know.'

'I understand,' replied Cait, through Abu, 'but I must know.'

'Noble lady, a seer glimpses only shadows, nothing more. What can I tell you that you could not guess?'

'Please.'

Sinjari sighed. Taking her hand once more, he turned up the palm and gazed into it. After a moment he began to speak in a low, solemn voice that caused Cait's skin to tingle with stark apprehension. 'You have placed yourself in great jeopardy,' he said. 'Already the forces of chaos and destruction gather about you-they soar like vultures circling in the air, waiting for their feast.' He regarded her sadly. 'If you persist in the way you have chosen, death will mark you for his own. Death is a shrewd and pitiless hunter. None escape his snares.'

She pulled her hand from him as he finished, and thanked him for telling her, then bade him good night and turned away.

'It is not too late to turn aside,' the magician called after her. 'The future is written in sand, not stone.'

'Forget the woman, I say. She is nothing to us.'

Commander de Bracineaux regarded his companion with a stony basilisk stare. 'She has stolen the pope's letter.'

'She might have stolen the pope's golden chamber pot for all the good it will do her.' Felix d'Anjou leaned his long frame against the stone rail of the balcony and, eyeing the fruit in the glass bowl on the table before him, drew a knife from its sheath at his belt. The red-and-blue striped sunshade rippled lightly in the breeze, as if it were struggling to exhale in the stifling heat of the day.

'She has the letter and she has gone to Damascus.'

'My point exactly,' replied Baron d'Anjou, spearing a ripe pear on the point of his dagger. He cut a slice from the soft flesh, and lifted it to his lips on the edge of the blade.

'Are you finally insane, d'Anjou?' enquired the Templar commander. Inert in his chair, his white tunic open to the waist, sweat was rolling off him in drops that spattered the dusty tiles like fat raindrops on hard desert pan.

'Perhaps,' allowed the baron judiciously. 'But it occurs to me that if she has gone to Damascus it can mean but one thing.'

'Which is?'

'She does not have the slightest idea what she has stolen.' D'Anjou cut another slice from the soft fruit, ate it, and tossed the rest over the rail into the garden below. 'That is to say, the woman has no idea of the letter's value, or what it means. She is nothing but an opportunistic thief-and not a very clever one at that. Probably she cannot even read.'