Max Allan Collins

fountain.

Then the sorceress—her long hair streaming with water, her golden skin beaded with droplets— whirled at Mathayus, no longer in the grip of their shared predicament, her regal bearing returning in full force. Her long-nailed fingers turned to claws and her hands flew toward the assassin's face.

Mathayus gripped her wrists, tight, hard, even as she exploded in fury.

'How dare you touch me!' she snarled. 'Your head will ride a post, your eyes will feed the birds, your entrails will be strung from the highest—'

He yanked her close, as if to kiss her; but instead he spoke softly, if firmly, his message for her, not the gathering crowd.

'Sorceress,' he said sweetly, 'I am an Akkadian engaged to kill you.'

Her eyes flared, outrage wedded with fear.

'Now I find myself in a position where you are of more use to me alive,' he said, 'than dead.... Try not to give me cause to change my mind.'

She said nothing, her chin high... but trembling, perhaps with the chill of the water ... perhaps from something else.

'I suggest we find you something to wear,' he said. 'You may catch cold in your bare skin ... and more unwanted attention.'

A few coins bought bedouin robes and scarves from a washerwoman, and within minutes the Ak­kadian and his hostage were at the front gates of Gomorrah, which was conveniently understaffed at the moment. Apparently those horns pealing general alarm had summoned the bulk of the gate guards to other duty.

So it was that Mathayus the Akkadian and Cas­sandra the Sorceress—wrapped in the robes and scarves of simple desert people—departed from the city of Gomorrah, unimpeded, walking past the guards, seemingly lost in a lovers' embrace, made no less intimate by the dagger the assassin held to the witch's side.

As for the Akkadian's 'partner,' the little horse thief had already benefited from the slack attention of the guards at the undermanned gate. Leading a camel as he was, looking deceptively respectable, Arpid had tagged along with a wealthy fellow astride a horse.

Beyond the gates, Arpid attempted to turn the wealthy traveler into a customer, offering the vile creature Hanna to him for a mere forty duranas. It wasn't that the thief couldn't use a ride, even when provided by a beast like this; but the camel was uncooperative, would not allow him to mount her. Better to let someone else beat sense into the animal, while Arpid would buy a horse, a decent mode of transport, even if he would have to sneak back into the city to do it.

The wealthy rider, however, was ignoring him.

'Did I say forty duranas?' the thief asked hum­bly. 'Sir, what I meant to say was thirty. Have you ever seen its like? These white camels are rare, good sir. . . .'

No response.

And Arpid could barely pull the stubborn creature any farther.

He yelled to his potential customer: 'Why, at that price, this camel is practically stolen!'

No sale.

'Come on, you fleabag,' Arpid said to Hanna, yanking on the camel's reins, doing his best to make her move.

But Hanna's only response was to bellow'—a loud, indignant, honking cry ...

... that echoed across the harsh landscape to where the Akkadian and his beautiful hostage trudged along, in their bedouin garb.

'Stop,' Mathayus told her, raising a hand.

She obeyed.