The House of the Falcon
turned from Aravang to hurl his knife. Seeing the flash of steel, Iskander swayed aside, so that the hurtled blade barely tore the skin of his side, pinning his cloak to the matting. He wrenched himself free at once, but Abbas had vanished into a curtained archway. Nor was the innkeeper any longer to be seen.
Iskander cast a brief glance at the two bodies, moving slowly on the floor and shot a question at Aravang. The big native bared his fine teeth in a smile and shook his head. Then the Arab took Edith by the arm.
Revolver in hand, he led her out of the serai. The white stallion had galloped free during the struggle. Iskander strode through the alley, followed by Aravang, whose strong frame seemed able to stand upright and walk in spite of the stabbing it had endured.
Edith was silent, feeling very much as she had felt once when her father caught her playing truant from school and escorted her home. Dim forms emerged to look at them and the dog pack gave tongue.
They passed under grotesque wooden arches, between tumble-down huts, across a turgid canal on one of the curving Chinese bridges, and came to the shadowy bulk of a waiting carriage.
Into this Iskander thrust Edith with scant ceremony. There was a roomy space about the rear seat, covered with straw. Aravang lay down at once and Iskander, who had jumped upon the front seat beside the driver, called back softly for Edith to sit in the straw until they were free of the town.
With Aravang beside her, she would have no chance to leave the carriage. But Edith did not intend to try. What she had seen in the eyes of Abbas and his men had struck deep into her consciousness.
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