not true, it will not help him. In a thousand years he would
never guess the truth."

"No. The only way I can protect those close to me is to admit nothing."

Erculio shook his head, and his black eyes were liquid with sadness.
"What a pity. Your case is hopeless, then. Ever since I saw you in
Lucera I have felt sorry for you. How can El Malik expect one man to
change the course of nations? You are like a man trying to hold apart
two ships about to collide." He sighed. "I have done all I can for you.
I have hurt you as much as I can without doing you permanent injury--so
far. There is only one other service I can perform for you."

"What is that?" said Daoud, though he felt sure he already knew the
answer.

"You would not want to reveal under torture that you are an agent of the
Sultan of El Kahira, and provoke the very crusade you were sent here to
prevent. You would not want to give your friends away. If you break, I
will see to it that you die before you might speak."

"I will not break," said Daoud. "And when it is all over, and d'Ucello
has killed me, he will at last come to believe that I was telling the
truth. Because he believes that no one can hold out against torture to
the very end. But promise me one thing."

"Insh'Allah, anything."

"If you must cripple me, see that I do not leave this dungeon alive."

Understanding and respect glowed in the black eyes peering at Daoud over
the edge of the rack. "As you wish, My Lord."

He knew he should be grateful that he had this man here to guarantee him
a decent death. But a great sadness came over him at the thought that
his life must end miserably in this dungeon. He had always hoped that he
would meet his fate amid the glory of jihad, holy war.

_Well, this is jihad of a kind._

* * * * *

The respite was over. Erculio fell upon Daoud with renewed vigor,
driving needles under his toenails and fingernails and beating him with
a whip of knotted rawhide cords that tore open his back. Daoud felt the
blood running down his sides and pooling underneath him. The little man
took a red-hot poker and pressed it, hissing, against the scar made by
the Tartar's arrow and Lorenzo's knife. That, Daoud realized, would make
it impossible to tell what sort of wound it had been.

The pain seemed to be happening to someone miles away as Daoud converted
it to ripples of light passing through his body. He understood that
Erculio was applying