decrepit diesel generator in its shed at the back of the palm grove had
ceased. It was so much a part of the oasis night that they noticed it
only when it was silent.
Their eyes adjusted to the faint starlight that came in through the
terrace doors. Duraid crossed the room and took the oil lamp down from
the shelf beside the door where it waited for just such a contingency.
He lit it, and looked across at Royan with an expression of comical
resignation.
'I will have to go down-'
Duraid,' she interrupted him, 'the dog!'
He listened for a moment, and his expression changed to mild concern.
The dog was silent out there in the night.
'I am sure it is nothing to be alarmed about.' He went to the door, and
for no good reason she suddenly called after him.
'Duraid, be careful!' He shrugged dismissively and stepped out on to the
terrace.
She thought for an instant that it was the shadow of the vine over the
trellis moving in the night breeze off the desert, but the night was
still. Then she realized that it was a human figure crossing the
flagstones silently and swiftly, coming in behind Duraid as he skirted
the fishpond in the centre of the paved terrace.
'Duraid!' She screamed a warning and he spun round, lifting the lamp
high.
'Who are you?' he shouted. 'What do you want here?' The intruder closed
with him silently. The traditional full-length dishdasha robe swirled
around his legs, and the white ghutrah headcloth covered his head. In
the light of the lamp Duraid saw that he had drawn the corner of the
headcloth over his face to mask his features.
The intruder's back was turned towards her so Royan did not see the
knife in his right hand, but she could not mistake the upward stabbing
motion that he aimed at Duraid's stomach. Duraid grunted with pain and
doubled up at the blow, and his attacker drew the blade free and stabbed
again, but this time Duraid dropped the lamp and seized the knife arm.
The flame of the fallen oil lamp was guttering and flaring. The two men
struggled in the gloom, but Royan saw a dark stain spreading over her
husband's white shirt front.
'Run!' he bellowed at her. 'Go! Fetch help! I cannot hold him!' The
Duraid she knew was a gentle person, a soft man of books and learning.
She could see that he was outmatched by his assailant.
'Go! Please! Save yourself, my flower!' She could hear by his tone that
he was weakening, but he still clung desperately to his attacker's knife
arm.
She had been paralysed with shock and indecision these few fatal
seconds, but now she broke free of the spell and ran to the door.
Spurred by her terror and her need to bring help to Duraid she crossed
the terrace, swift as a cat, and he held the intruder from blocking her
way.
She vaulted over the low stone wall into the grove, and almost into the
arms of the second man. She screamed and twisted away from him as his
