He waited a moment and shouted again, adding a few words in Arabic. The call had scarcely died in the air when a figure emerged out of the darkness of the cave mouth. The man was a dark-skinned Moor, shabbily dressed, his clothes stiff with grease and dirt, his beard matted and long, his hair unkempt. His fat belly hung over his drooping belt, and the sleeves of his cloak flapped in rags about his hands as he stared warily out at the three visitors.

He spat into the dirt at his feet before making bold to answer. Prince Hasan addressed the man sharply, and to Cait's surprise the burly fellow straightened and made a curt bow. Hasan spoke again, whereupon the man disappeared.

'He is one of Ali's men,' Hasan explained. 'He is meant to be on watch, but -' he lifted a hand equivocally, 'you can see how it is.'

'Is Thea here? Did you ask if -' Cait began, but the prince cut her off.

'Hush, Ketmia,' he warned quietly. 'All in good time.'

They waited in silence for the guard to return. When he did, it was with three other men, one of whom, taller than the others, appeared slightly better dressed and reasonably more alert. He bowed and addressed the prince politely, moving out from the mouth of the cave for a closer look at the visitors. Prince Hasan spoke to him the while, raising his voice in demand when the guard appeared to take an interest in the two accompanying the prince. A few paces from Cait, he swung around sharply and moved to Hasan's side, offered another bow and hurried into the cave once more, leaving the others behind to stare dully at the visitors until their leader returned; appearing at the cavern entrance, he motioned the newcomers to follow him.

'The danger is past,' said Hasan, visibly relieved. 'It appears Ali Waqqar will be pleased to receive us in his lair. Do you wish to accompany me, or would you rather wait here?'

'We will attend,' said Rognvald.

'Very well.' Prince Hasan swung down from the saddle. 'Follow me. But see you keep your wits about you.'

Cait dismounted and followed the men into the cave, regretting her decision at once. The entrance opened on to a high-ceilinged chamber, the walls of which were streaked grey with bat dung; a fair few of the grotesque creatures hung in wriggling clusters from the rocks overhead. On one side of the chamber, a winding passage led deeper into the heart of the mountain. The lower walls of the passage were damp and reeked with the sour stench of stale urine. Nor was that all. As they moved further into the cave, she encountered other odours too-the acrid tang of horse sweat, the earthy ripeness of manure and human dung, and the putrid stink of rotting meat-all of them so rank and malignant as to make her eyes water. Pressing a hand to her mouth, she hunched her shoulders and hurried on. Ahead of her she heard Rognvald mutter something under his breath as they passed by one particularly malodorous heap of refuse.

The passage ended in another doorway carved in the rock. Bending almost double, they stooped beneath the grimy lintel and stepped into a large dome-like room which was lit by the blaze of a log fire barely contained within a crude hearth in the centre of the cavern. Haunches of meat were sizzling on wooden spits placed around the perimeter of the hearth, filling the air with oily smoke. Water trickled down one wall to fill a small pool made of rocks and mud. Beside the pool were a half-dozen enormous earthenware jars; several large grass baskets were stacked here and there along the wall, with a few well-made wooden caskets among them-containing plunder, no doubt, from raids or other nefarious doings.

At first glance the room appeared to be deserted, but as Cait looked around she began to see human forms in the quivering shadows along the arching walls and upper ledges; what she had first taken for lumps of stone were in fact men, wrapped in cloaks and turbans and sound asleep. There were others sitting quietly slumped in attitudes of drunken stupor, oblivious to events around them.

In all, she estimated there were perhaps twenty or so, and the sight of them infuriated her: to think that these indolent sots were the brigands who had killed five good men and carried off her sister. Now that she saw them again at last, she fairly squirmed with the urge to draw her sword and separate their odious bodies from their worthless souls. It took all her strength of will to keep her hand from the blade at her side and walk on by with averted eyes. For Alethea's sake, she did just that.

The visitors were led to a place on one side of the hearth where skinned pine logs formed benches of sorts near a slab of rock upon which had been spread a fine rug and a satin cushion-this, Cait guessed, was where the outlaw chieftain held court. They sat down, and after a short wait three more bandits entered the chamber. One of them cried out as he entered: 'Hasan!' It was, Cait thought, a greeting of particular intimacy.

The guests turned to see Ali Waqqar step quickly around the hearth fire and approach the prince with open arms. Cait regarded the bandit with keen interest, and felt unexpected relief in the certainty that she had never seen the man before; he was not among those who attacked her camp that day.

A man of imposing height-made more so by the elaborate turban of gleaming blue satin on his head-he walked with the eager, rolling gait of a man hurrying from one dissipation to another. Closer, Cait could see the tell-tale signs of long and habitual overindulgence: a muscular frame now thick and flabby, loose wattles about the neck, dirt ingrained in the lines of his face and beneath fingernails; once-handsome features bloated. His clothes were of good quality, but filthy, and the cuffs of his sleeves and the hem of his mantle were threadbare. In all, his appearance proclaimed a man much come down in the world-and yet, he still possessed the arrogant confidence of a warrior.

The prince rose to receive the homage of the bandit and it was then that Cait realized the dealings the prince admitted to having with Ali Waqqar were of a more familiar kind than he had led her to believe. The recognition produced a perverse sort of hope that the apparent amity between the two men would lead to release for her sister and Abu.

What was more, she could see from his expression that Rognvald discerned this, too, for his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared with suppressed anger. Cait quickly averted her gaze lest he see that she did not share his indignation at being deceived.

Hasan and the outlaw leader stood gripping each other's arms for a moment and exchanged a few pleasant words. Then the prince turned and said, 'Allow me to present my friends: Lord Rognvald of Haukeland, and Lady Caitriona of Caithness.'

Ali Waqqar stepped before them; Rognvald rose as he was introduced, his face impassive-magnificently so, Cait thought, considering what she had seen only a moment before. Whatever he felt at the sight of the marauding brigand, there was now no visible sign at all.

And then it was her turn. She made no move as the bandit chief turned from Rognvald and made a slight bow before her. To her horror, he reached down and took up her hand. She writhed inwardly from his touch but, emboldened by Rognvald's poised example, forced a thin smile and lowered her head demurely.

Prince Hasan spoke a few words to the bandit, who nodded his head in assent, and then, in the manner of a hosting lord, clapped his hands. A dirty boy appeared, bearing a battered silver tray containing an ill-matched assortment of small golden cups. The bandit took up one and indicated that the others should do likewise. Raising his cup, Ali exclaimed, 'My friends, though my cave is a stinking hovel unfit for nobles of your obvious rank and refinement, you are welcome here. I drink to your health.'

To Cait's surprise, his Latin was polished and smoothly spoken. She wondered whether he had stolen it along with everything else he possessed. She put the cup to her lips and sipped daintily, unwilling to taste even the smallest morsel of the brigand's rude hospitality.