Page:The Magic Carpet Magazine Volume 03 Number 03 (1933-07).djvu/91

 At last, exalted by the richness of his fancies, Mahjoub spoke.

"Aywah! Aywah! Aywah!" he intoned. "This is my day of days, and I am the lord and master of destiny!"

The darwish paused, and solemnly contemplated a vista of splendors, then continued, "Mahjoub has met destiny at the crossroads!"

"Allah and again by Allah!" swore Nureddin. "My uncle's voice and gesture as well as his face."

And then, to the officer in command of his escort of soldiers and footmen: "ThowThrow [sic] that fellow into jail. Maybe he'll learn to smoke that stuff in private."

The soldiers pounced on the darwish like a wolf pack.

"Hear with all your ears! See with all your eyes!" he chanted as his escort hastened his march with well-directed kicks. "Mahjoub is master of thrones and crowns!"

Nureddin yawned to conceal his elation, and signalled to his retainers as he wheeled his horse about and rode to the palace. As he rode, he heard the sonorous declamation of the darwish.

"Praise Allah, a happy omen!" exulted Nureddin. "That hasheesh-smoker sees his destiny as clearly as I see mine."

night Nureddin waited in the alcove that faced the brilliantly lighted reception hall of the palace. From time to time he peeped between the curtains that concealed him, and contemplated with satisfaction the flasks of 'araki that the sultan and Ali Agha, the red-bearded Albanian captain of irregulars, had emptied. The imposing array of liquor yet to be consumed predicted progress in the right direction; and Nureddin, taking this into account with the capacity of the drinkers, had estimated how long it would be before he could start his march to his uncle's throne. As a final touch to the perfection of his scheme, he had armed himself with a revolver stolen that day from Ali Agha, so that the assassination would without a trace of doubt be charged to a drunken quarrel between the sultan and his cup companion.

"So you'll take the chief wazir's head tomorrow?" remarked the Albanian as Shams ud Din poured himself a stiff drink and with a pious "Bismillahi" drained it at a gulp. "But, my lord, what's that father of many little pigs done now?"

"Nothing at all," replied the sultan, after extinguishing the scorching fires in his throat with a slice of cucumber and a spoonful of curds. "Wallahi! And that's the beauty of the idea. This city is a nest of traitors lying awake nights hoping to find me asleep at the wrong time. But when they see Zayd's head on a lance-shaft by the Herati Gate in the morning, every one of the horde of plotters will be discouraged by the thought that I uncovered a scheme so secret that he had not heard a whisper of it. Thus each will suspect his fellows, and they won't be able to get concerted action against me."

"Mashallah!" marvelled the Albanian. "There is craft for you."

"Mashallah!" said Nureddin to himself as he fingered the butt of his revolver and peered between the scarcely parted curtains, "and if that is craft, then he is indeed the forgotten of Allah!"

"One has to be subtle," agreed Shams ud Din. "Since I can't trust my spies, nor the spies I set to watch my spies—by the way, I have a great notion to take a hand at it myself, and see what those fellows are doing tonight, and how many are taking bribes for bringing me false reports."

"I take refuge from Satan!" exclaimed