The House of the Falcon
"What luck?" he demanded of Abbas.
The Alaman grinned, picking at yellow teeth.
"Patience, my Excellency. Am I not a splendid man-of-business? By Allah, I am!" He slapped his girdle until it chinked. "Gold, silver. I would take no paper bank notes. We have enough"
"For a good outfit—good horses, guides, and followers?"
Abbas nodded complacently.
"Am I not Abbas Abad, who once made a fortune out of nothing in Khokand and Baku? Nay, my own men will guide us."
"How many? Are they well armed?"
"Is a beetle ever without his shell? Eh? They are as many as the fingers of two hands, less one—Sarts, godless thieves—one or two Tartars, dogs without wit but hardy—a cousin of mine who would, rip up his grandfather for a silver ring. These will suffice until we reach Kashgar."
"And this Bokharan advanced funds?" Monsey nodded toward the curtain behind which their host had disappeared.
Again Abbas patted his girdle.
"Khosh! I persuaded him, and he gave a letter to his uncle in Kashgar who will aid us—with more money. There we will have many friends, of other days."
"All this without security, Abbas?"
"Aye, Timan is generous."
"Look here!" Monsey scowled at his companion. "If you are lying, I'll stretch your hide over the doorpost of Yakka Arik."
"Excellency mine, would I embark upon a journey where I did not smell a profit at the end? Would I
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