THIRTY-TWO
The guards took an eternity to carry all the cushions out of the tent, or so it seemed, before they set up a bedroll big enough for a bridal couple.
Two men rolled the former sheikh in the blood-soaked carpet beneath him, then lifted the grisly bundle between them.
"Wait!" A third man made them set their burden down and open it.
By all that was holy, why? Philemon wanted to scream.
The third man pulled the knife from the sheikh's breast, wiped the bloodied blade on his own robes, then held it out to Philemon. "Your blade, Honoured Sheikh."
It was a pledge of fealty, however informal, and Philemon had accepted enough in his time as Prince of Tasnim to know not to refuse. Gingerly, he took the knife and nodded.
It was a small blade to have taken the life of such a larg
