surrender."

De Gobignon stared at him. "You will be throwing your life away."

"No," said Daoud. "I am giving my life to God."

He could not help anyone now. Not Manfred, not Baibars, not Sophia.
Like Manfred, he had only one choice left to him. The manner of his
death.

"Very well, Messer David," said the young count. He swung himself down
from his charger. At his gesture one of his men pulled the horse away.

"Monseigneur!" a young man called from the circle of Frenchmen that
surrounded them. "Victory is already ours. Don't risk your life to fight
one God-accursed Saracen."

"I am the Count de Gobignon," said Simon quietly, "because I uphold the
honor of my house."

De Gobignon turned to de Verceuil, who still sat on his horse holding
his bloody mace in his hand. "Kindly clear the field, Cardinal."

"I shall see that you have the last sacraments if the infidel kills
you," said de Verceuil with a curl of his lip. He yanked his charger's
head around, drove his spurs deep, and rode off, the circle of men on
foot parting for him.

Daoud gazed at the young man before him with a feeling that was very
like love. He had once hated Simon de Gobignon. Now he felt him almost a
son, or a younger brother, or another self. If he had ever wanted to be
someone like Simon, he did not now. He had penetrated such mysteries and
known such ecstasies as de Gobignon never would. He had heard and heeded
the words of the Prophet, may God commend and salute him. He had served
Baibars al-Bunduqdari and been taught by Sheikh Saadi and Imam Fayum
al-Burz. He had fought for Manfred von Hohenstaufen and had loved Sophia
Karaiannides. And soon he would stand face-to-face with God in paradise.

"I do not challenge your honor," he said.

The Frenchman was already moving into a combat stance, a slight crouch,
an exploratory circling of the tip of his sword.

"But even so I fight for my honor," Simon said.

"It is right that you should know whom you are fighting," Daoud said,
raising his saif. "I am Emir Daoud ibn Abdallah of the Bhari Mamelukes."

"Mameluke," said de Gobignon softly. "I have heard that word."

"You shall learn what it means," said Daoud. He did not want to kill de
Gobignon, but he would if he had to, because the young man deserved
nothing less than the best fight of which he was capable.

They moved slowly around each other. Under that purple and gold surcoat
the Frenchman was wearing mail armor from his toes to his