“I—with Gotha? But—”
“Did I not tell you I would help you?”
“How can you?”
“I shall buy her for you.”
“What with—since you have no money?”
“But you have the jewels. And did not Timur Bek offer to arrange the matter with the Khan?”
“Yes.”
“There you are. Timur Bek will be your intermediary with the Khan—and I shall be your intermediary with Timur Bek. Hand over the jewels. I shall hurry to Gulabad, sell the jewels, talk to Timur Bek, have him buy the girl, then return here with her and—”
“No!” came Omar the Black’s loud bellow.
“No?”
“No, indeed!”
“Why not?”
The other smiled thinly.
“Would you leave meat on trust with a jackal.”
“In other words, you do not trust me?”
“Neither with the jewels, nor with the girl.”
“And perhaps,” was the shameless admission, “you are wise. But—well, there is another way.”
“Yes?”
“We shall both go to Gulabad.”
“I—with a price on my head?”
“On your black-bearded head, don’t forget. But who, tell me, will recognize this same head—without the beard?”
“Oh”—in a towering rage—“dare you suggest that I should—”
“Shave off your beard? Right.”
“Impossible! Why, by the Prophet the Adored, this beard,”—he ran a caressing hand through it—“has been my constant and loyal companion in joy and in sorrow. It is the pride and beauty of my manhood.”
“The pride and beauty will grow again.”
For quite a while they argued, until finally Omar the Black gave in.
But he cursed violently while scissors and razor did their fell work. He cursed yet more violently when, having announced that the stallion was strong enough to carry the two of them, he was informed by his twin brother that such a thing was out of the question.
For, opined Omar the Red, here was he himself most splendidly clad as became a gentleman of High Tartary. And here was the other, in stained and odorous rags—a very scarecrow of a man. It would seem strange to people, whom they might meet, to see them in such an intimacy, astride the same horse.
Better far, he said, for the other to run sturdily in back of the stallion, with outstretched hand, like some importunate beggar crying for zekat! zekat! zekat!—alms for the sake of Allah.
He clapped his brother heartily on the back. “It will be safest for you,” he added. “Besides, you will see more of this fine broad world, walking on your two feet, than cocked high and stiff upon a saddle.”
Omar the Red laughed.
* * * *
So, on an evening almost a week later, did Timur Bek laugh, back in Gulabad, when—for at first he had not recognized him, with his beard shorn off—he learned that this smooth-cheeked man was Omar the Black.
“Here you are,” exclaimed Timur Bek, “with your face as soft as a girl’s bosom!”
He laughed more loudly. “Oh,” he cried, “if Gotha could see you!”
Omar the Black swallowed his anger.
“She is still here?” he demanded.
“And pining for you, I have no doubt.”
“And—your promise?”
“I have not forgotten it.”
Timur Bek went on to say that he was ready to open negotiations about the girl’s purchase with Yengi Mehmet. He would do it tactfully and drive as good a bargain as he could.
“I know, of course,” he added, “that you have the jewels.” He smiled. “The Jew, Baruch ben Isaac ben Ezechiel, made a great ado about it. Swore that nineteen tough Tartars, armed to the teeth, broke into his shop and assaulted him!”
“Nor,” said Omar the Black, “did he lie—exactly. For am I not the equal of the nineteen toughest Tartars in the World? Very well. My brother and I shall sell the jewels. Do you know a place—oh—a discreet place where we—”
“Can sell the jewels? Not necessary.”
“But—”
“The Khan likes precious gems as much as minted gold.”
“Still, he may suspect—”
“He will not listen to the evil voice of suspicion—if the jewels be rich enough. If they be rich enough, his left eye will look west, and his right east. Let’s have a look at the loot.”
The other reached into his breeches. He poured the gems in a shimmering stream on a low divan; and Timur Bek licked his lips. He said:
“It may take a good many of these trinkets to—”
“Nothing too much to buy me my heart’s desire. Here—take half the stones!”
Timur Bek coughed.
“There is also,” he said, “the matter of the money which I borrowed from the Khan, giving the little slave-girl, whom I love, as security. You were going to help me pay back the loan—remember?”
“I do. And I shall keep my word.”
“The sooner, the better—for you.”
Omar the Black frowned. “Eh?”
“This girl, you see, has the Khan’s ear. I need her assistance. Loving me as I love her, she is anxious to return to me. And so, unless I buy her back, I am afraid she—”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Omar the Black interrupted impatiently. “Here—take another fourth of the stones. Surely it will be enough.”
“Not quite.”
“But—”
“Thirty thousand tomans I borrowed. It will take the rest of the stones to—”
“All right!” with a sigh. “Take them all!”
Timur Bek’s hands were about to scoop up the jewels, when Omar the Red cried:
“Wait!”
He touched his brother’s knee.
“You are forgetting our agreement,” he told his brother. “You were going to use some of the treasure to pay off your old debts, so that we can return home and—”
“I have not forgotten.”
“Why—”
“Listen!” Omar the Black winked slowly at his twin brother. “That time I broke into the Jew’s shop, I was in a hurry. I took only half the jewels. The other half is waiting for you and me.”
He turned to Timur Bek:
“When will you speak to the Khan?”
“Tonight. At once.”
Timur Bek left his house. He went round the corner to the garden gate of Yengi Mehmet’s palace.
There,