A Jest and a Vengeance by E. Hoffmann Price

A bullet flattened itself against the chiseled arabesques of the wall behind Sultan Schamas ad Din of Angor-lana, spattering him with bits of lead and splinters of marble.

"Maksoud is a notoriously wretched marksman," observed the sultan as he fingered the leaden slug which Amru, his white-haired wazir, had retrieved from the tiled floor. "Still, with enough trials -- -- "

The sultan thrust his cushions a sword's length to the right, and moved just far enough to be secure against further rifle fire from the minaret of the neighboring mosque.

"With enough trials," resumed Schamas ad Din, "Maksoud may not have to wait for the British Resident to find a pretext to depose me."

"It might not have been the son of your brother," suggested Amru, as he moved the fuming nargileh to the sultan's new position, and offered him the carved jade stem. "There are several who have old grudges to settle."

"Undoubtedly," agreed the sultan. "But who else would fire from the mosque? And then miss such an easy mark!"

From afar came the throbbing of drums that muttered of revolt in the mountains.

"Rebels without and assassins within! A luxurious little coffin, this city which the Old Tiger and I built with our swords. Then with this infidel Resident, and Maksoud, who can't wait for me to be deposed -- -- "

The sultan coiled the tube of the nargileh about his wrist and drank deeply of its white smoke. Then he achieved the smile he reserved for occasions demanding the higher justice.

"By Allah and by Abaddon and by the honor of my beard! Resident or no Resident, we will convince this Maksoud of his stupidity! Amru, call me that old bandit of an Ismeddin!"

"At once, _saidi_? " queried the old wazir, as he bowed.

"No. Tonight. He's doubtless asleep now, after a hard evening's discussion with some poorly guarded caravan."

The drumming in the mountains at last ceased. But late that night, long after the outposts at Djeb el Azhár had been doubled, there came another and a different drumming, this time from the palace itself: very low, giving rather the sense of a massive vibration rather than of sound. And this deep pulsing was picked up and relayed until it crept into those very mountains where the tribesmen sharpened their curved yataghans, stuffed their scarlet saddle-bags with grain, and awaited the signal to descend and plunder, certain that they would not be pursued beyond the Sultan's borders, and safe in the assurance that the Resident was but waiting for a pretext to depose Schamas ad Din.

To one who lived in those mountains, and understood the code, the deep-voiced, far-relayed drum spoke very clearly; so that, late as it was, Ismeddin emerged from his cave, belted on a jeweled simitar that gleamed frostily against his tattered, greasy garments, and picked his way on foot along the hidden trails that led through the camps of the revolting tribesmen and to the plains below.

The darvish had heard the signal, and knew that the son of the Old Tiger was in need.

Ismeddin smiled as he heard the guttural chant of the rebels about their guard fires. But as he approached their outposts, he picked his way more warily, ceased smiling, muttered in his long beard something about the exceeding unfairness of having to contend with mounted sentries, and loosened the Ladder to Heaven in its scabbard.

Since the flat roof of the palace at Angor-lana was higher than any building in the city, the sultan was passably secure against marksmen addicted to royal targets, particularly in view of his being in an angle of the parapet that could not be reached from the minaret of the mosque. And thus it was that he reclined at ease in the shadow of a striped canopy, sipping Shirazi wine to his heart's content and his soul's damnation.

But peace and sultans are strangers. A captain of the guard clanked into the Presence, saluted, and made his report: "_Saidi_, the troops at Djeb el Azhár surprized and captured a detachment of the rebels. A ragged old man riding a stolen horse led the outpost commander -- -- "

"Ismeddin, by the Power and by the Splendor! " interrupted the sultan. "Where are the prisoners? And Ismeddin?"

"In the hall of audience, _saidi_. Abdurrahman Khan, his son, and sixty of their followers."