"Why are you doing this to me, Messer Lorenzo? I mean no harm." "And I intend to see to it that you _do_ no harm in this place, Messere of Trebizond," Lorenzo shot back. He waved to the guard. "To the guardroom, Ahmad." _May a thousand afrits hound this infidel to his death_, thought Daoud angrily. "And what will you do with me, Messer Lorenzo?" "I will examine you further at my leisure, after I have passed all these good people into the city." One violet-sleeved arm made a flowing gesture toward the waiting throng. Daoud noticed that the tiny firewood seller, who had already passed by the guards, had paused at the inner portal. He shook his head sadly and touched forehead, shoulders, and chest in that sign Christians made to recall the cross of Jesus, their Messiah. _Why, I believe he is praying for me. That is kindly done._ Ahmad, the guard, pointed his spear at Daoud and jerked his head. Daoud stood his ground. "What of my silk? If you keep it, I will truly have no honest business in Lucera." Lorenzo smiled. He stuffed the lengths of silk and the mirror back into the pack and held it out to Daoud. "There is not enough here to be worth stealing. Take it, then." "And my sword?" Lorenzo laughed gruffly. "Forget your sword. Take him away, Ahmad." They had missed the precious object hidden in a pouch tied in his groin. And they missed the Scorpion, the miniature crossbow devised by the Hashishiyya, its parts concealed in the hem of his cloak. Nor did they have any idea that the tie that held his cloak at the neck could be pulled loose to become a long strangling cord, flexible as silk and hard as steel. Daoud pulled his hood back over his head, shrugged into the pack under his cloak, and began walking. Every step he took sent a jolt of anger through his body. He would like to use his strangling cord on the man responsible for this blunder. The news might well travel northward that a blond merchant had been arrested trying to enter Lucera. And if that man should later appear at the court of the pope, there might be those who would remember hearing of him and wonder why he had gone first to the pope's enemy, Manfred von Hohenstaufen. His first feelings of anger became a cold turmoil in his belly as he thought what could happen if his mission failed--El Kahira leveled, its people slaughtered, Islam crushed beneath the feet of barbarian conquerors. He must not let that happen. The narrow street he walked on was lined with circular houses, their brick walls a warm yellow color. The conical roofs were covered with thin slates. A Muslim sword maker looked up from his forge to stare at Daoud and his guard as they passed. Veiled women with red pottery jars on their heads stopped and looked boldly into his eyes.