"Will they come?"

Roxane laughed again, her eyes merry. "They are already here, Father, in the dining hall. Come, let us go to them."

"Jalal?" A whisper came in the darkness. The Tanukh turned, still keeping one eye on the street below him. A figure in dark robes edged forward along the rooftop.

"Shh:," Jalal hissed at the other man, then beckoned him over. The younger man, one of the Palmyrenes who had come with Mohammed out of the ruin of that city, slithered over the tiled roof to join him.

"What is it?" Jalal's voice was barely audible, his mouth close to the boy's ear.

"There are men moving in the other alley," the Palmyrene answered. " Thirty or forty of them."

"Armed?" Jalal turned back to watch the street. It was a narrow alleyway in the older part of town at the base of the hill. Here, in a warren of alleys and overcrowded two-and three-story buildings, were the dwellings of the Quryash. The riches of the Bani Hashim and their estates outside of the city, and their town houses on the upper slopes of the hill, trickled down here, but not enough to keep the stink of tanneries and the smell of too many people from pervading the stones and walls of every building. After the attack on Tihuri and Sayyqi, the captain had sent them down here, among his relatives and blood kin. Jalal felt much better here, where anyone who was not Quryash was viewed with suspicion and even hatred. The Tanukh were outsiders, too, but they followed a well-loved Quryash lord, and that counted for a great deal. A strong watch was kept, too, for the captain was wondering if his enemies would dispense with secrecy.

Now, maybe they had waited long enough. Jalal cocked an ear- yes, he could hear the sound of running feet. He reached behind him and pulled his bow forward. It was a stubby, recurved weapon, like those favored by the Huns on the cold northern steppe. Jalal sat up on the sloping roof and tugged his quiver of arrows over to rest against his leg. The Palmyrene boy sat up, too.

"Lad, go downstairs quickly and wake everyone. Tell Shadin that they are going to attack on this side, too. Then stand ready. This will be some cruel work."

The boy nodded and scrambled away across the roof. Jalal ran a thumb along the curve of the weapon and bent the upper arm down. With a quick motion he strung the bow and slid his left hand into the groove of the armrest. Without looking he found a triangular-headed arrow in the quiver and drew it to the string, pulling back almost to his chin. He sighted down the street. The sound of running feet was growing closer.

Mohammed entered the room, an airy enclosure off of the main hall of the house, surrounded on three sides by light frames holding ricepaper screens printed with subdued images of mountains and clouds. A low table had been set with food and drink. Two men were already seated there, at opposite ends, with cups of wine set in front of them. Neither seemed to have touched the drink. Roxane entered and bowed to each man.

"Dear Uncle," she said to the man on the right, "welcome to my house, and blessings upon you and your family."

Uncle Tafiq, a gaunt man with a long hawk-nose and thinning black hair, made a barely perceptible bow to Roxane and did not even look at Mohammed. He was dressed in long black and gray robes of a traditional cut. He sat again, his back stiff and straight, nervously pulling at a pointed black beard. Mohammed smiled a little, but noted that his brother-in-law's hand was very close to the hilt of a saber that was thrust into his robes.

"Master Uri, of the noble ben-Sarid," continued Roxane, bowing to the other man. "Welcome to my house, and blessings upon you and your family."

Uri stood, his narrow face wreathed in a big smile. He was thin, too, but it was the whipcord well-muscled fitness of middle age. He had a thin nose and sharp eyebrows and wore his curly hair cut short- it was the custom among his tribe- with a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. He bowed to Roxane and stepped past her to crush Mohammed in a huge hug. "My friend! It has been far too long!"

Mohammed smiled back, his humor improving greatly with the open joy on his old friend's face. He clasped Uri's hand and made a sharp bow.

"Uri the rascal, plague of the markets, now the chief of the benSarid- a chief, by the gods, a chief! Well done, my friend."

"Sit, please!" Roxane said, and shooed them back to their seats. She glided to her own, with her back to the door, as was most polite, and sat, her gown swirling about her. Mohammed sat opposite, facing the doorway, with Tafiq on his left and Uri on his right. He inclined his head to his daughter and smiled. She caught his look and smiled back.

"The first course," she said, "is a light fruit compote- oranges and raspberries, with some lemon to keep it from being too sweet." She clapped her hands, and two comely serving maids entered the room bearing engraved silver trays with small glass bowls. Mohammed accepted the bowl, marveling at the clarity of the glass, and waited for the hostess to take the first bite. Roxane plucked a wedge of orange from the bowl and bit it daintily in half.

Jalal breathed out as he released, the taut bowstring singing at his ear, and snatched up another arrow from the quiver. It, too, was in flight before the first had torn into the upper shoulder of one of the hundred men running down the street. The man screamed as the blackfletched shaft gouged through his shoulder and splintered against bone. Blood welled up around the shaft, and the running man crashed into one of his fellows. The crowd of men raised a great cry, then another suddenly choked as the second arrow pierced his throat above the gorget of his shirt of scale mail. He staggered and fell, blood spurting from his neck. The men behind him stumbled and fell, crashing into his thrashing body.

Jalal fired again, now standing upright, shooting down into the narrow street. The first rank of men had reached the door of the house, axes and mallets already swinging against the oaken planks. His arrow plunged down and sank into the crest of one of the axemen's helmets with a tinny clang. The man swung his axe again, biting a thick chunk of wood away from the door, but then his vision blurred with a red film, and he sagged to one side, dead on his feet. More men pressed at the door, their spears a bright thicket. Jalal switched targets, firing as fast as he could into the crowd. The silence of the middle night was rent with shouts and screams.

More Tanukh ran up the stairs from the house and lined the edge of the roof. Each man bore a bow like Jalal's, and a boy followed him with baskets of arrows. Somewhere behind him, Jalal could hear the clangor of blades on metal, doubtless in the other streets. He fired again, his arrow vanishing into the surging tide of men in the street. Arrows began to flash out of the sky, and more of the attackers fell.

Jalal could smell smoke and the bitter tang of blood in the air.

"This is the second course," Roxane said, handing a silver platter to her uncle. "Please, dear Uncle, take two of the quail- they are very sweet and stuffed with nuts and have a honey glaze." Tafiq frowned, but slid two of the tiny birds onto his plate to rest among the rice and flatbread that was already there. The Bani Hashim passed the platter to Mohammed, who smiled at him politely and took it.

"You see?" Roxane said, when the platter had passed around the table. "We can sit and break our fast; we can share a meal as family and friends without ill coming of it." She inclined her head to Tafiq, and smiled prettily. "Uncle, is not a house at peace a pleasant house?"