SINISTER CONFERENCE
The enormous bodyguard which Joan Lyndell had brought with her on the visit to the house of unfortunate Shallalah El Auwal, had seemed unnecessarily large at first; but now, as the return trip was started, it began to look as if the force was not overly adequate. They had scarcely left the walled compound which enclosed the house they had visited when it became apparent that word of their presence there had spread, and with ominous results.
There was a throng outside, an ominous multitude which gorged the streets. There were only men in the crowd. These stared sullenly at the array of guards. Some muttered under their breath; others yelled out maledictions.
“They say that the Mystic Mullah has spread the word that the mother of every man in Tanan will have her life taken by the green soul slaves unless I am slain, the Khan Nadir Shar deposed from power, and Doc Savage and his men slain,” advised Joan Lyndell.
Ham fingered his sword cane uneasily, eying the ominous street crowds. He fished under his voluminous garment and made sure that no folds of cloth were in the way, should he want to draw his machine pistol suddenly.
Joan Lyndell ordered their guard forward. The latter formed themselves in to a thin spearhead and forced a way through the streets. The throng gave way, but many yells jarred out, and occasionally a stone or a short spear came through the air.
“I can see why the Mystic Mullah wanted to do his fightin’ here instead of in New York,” Monk said grimly.
Monk’s pet pig, Habeas, emitted a series of uneasy grunts, as if his porcine mind comprehended their danger.
“You’d better throw that hog away and get ready to run,” Ham advised. “Our escort seems to be getting cold feet.”
This was true. The spearhead of soldiers was shrinking, literally wearing itself away against the crowd. Watching, Monk and Ham saw one guard after another seize his chance and duck away into the throng.
Joan Lyndell called out angrily, but it had no effect. The guards continued to desert. There was a worried expression on the young woman’s face now, and she carried her automatic pistol in plain view.
“These guards were trained by my father,” she said grimly. “I had hoped they would be faithful.”
Monk put Habeas Corpus down so as to have both hands clear.
“They don’t intend for us to get back to your house,” he told the young woman.
She nodded. “We will head for the castle of the Khan Nadir Shar.”
She rapped a sharp order. The guards who remained hesitated, then swung sharply to the left and dived into a narrow street. The throng of Tananese had not expected this, and angry shouts went up.
“Bet they had an ambush arranged ahead,” Monk offered.
“Imshi bil ’agal!” Joan Lyndell called sharply to their escort. “Go more swiftly!”
* * * *
The escort swung into a trot. This side street was narrow, not pleasing to eye or nostril, and was populated largely by yaks, donkeys and dogs. There was a chill wind blowing down from the mountains which enwalled Tanan, and steely clouds in the distance suggested snow.
Along the street, prayer strips fluttered in the wind and prayer wheels spun like toy windmills. Underfoot, grimy snow was packed hard by the pad of innumerable yaks, the shaggy Himalayan ponies known as tats, and human feet shod in clumsy felt boots.
The way began to lift, surmounting a hill. This prominence was surmounted by an extremely large building, portions of which they began to glimpse through the spaces between houses. This had been pointed out earlier to Doc and his men as the official yamen, or palace of the Khan.
“Look!” Monk grunted suddenly, and pointed out a certain figure mingling with the populace who were slowly closing in on them again. The figure was that of a giant brown man of unprepossessing features.
“Doc!” Monk breathed. “He’s keeping an eye on things.”
They lost sight of Doc Savage shortly, and did not again sight him before they came out in a wide open space which surrounded the walls of the yamen. They raced madly across this area.
A few arrows discharged from short, stout bows hissed about them, or struck in the quilted armor of the guards without doing harm. Ham dodged wildly and let a spear go past. Then they were crowding over an ancient drawbridge and through an embrasured wall.
The Khan Nadir Shar himself met them, and when they were over the draw, he sprang out and, his hook-nosed face livid with rage, bellowed at the throng. Some of these yelled back. Then they slunk away.
“Six months ago, no man in Tanan would have dared raise his voice against me,” the Khan said grimly. “It is very bad. I fear for our safety.”
Lifting his voice, the Khan called out loudly, and a moment later a stocky, utterly ferocious-looking man came striding up. He wore, instead of the conventional robes of the Tananese, a long pushtin, a fleece-lined leather coat of the type popular with the Russians.
His head was entirely bald and exposed to the rigors of the chill air. Strapped to his middle were two revolvers; a pair of cartridge bandoleers crisscrossed his chest, and a very modern automatic rifle was slung over one shoulder. Two short daggers and a stubby sword completed the picture of a walking arsenal.
“This is Mihafi, commander in chief of my army,” said the Khan. “Of his loyalty, I am certain.”
* * * *
Monk and Ham studied Mihafi, and were not greatly impressed. This, they recalled, was the individual whom Oscar Gibson claimed had tortured him into admitting falsely that he was one of the Mystic Mullah’s agents.
Mihafi, for his part, gave Monk and Ham a somewhat too elaborate bow and an oily greeting in Tananese, which they could not understand.
“He affects me like carbolic acid,” Monk told Ham when they were alone.
Mihafi went about the business of posting the castle guard with hardboiled efficiency. Whenever he detected a sign of sullenness among the guards, he immediately detached the guilty individual and ordered him booted through an embrasure into the moat, from which the unlucky one might climb if too many of his bones were not broken. The moat was frozen solid.
Projecting from the walls of the castle were rows of steel spikes. These sloped downward, and were intended to prevent any one scaling the walls. Men were put to touching up the needle points of these spikes and greasing them with yak tallow, so that they could not be used as hand holds.
Fires were lighted in the court, under huge kettles which were filled with lead to be melted, that it might be poured down on the heads of any so reckless as to try to scale the walls. Too, ancient flame-throwers of the Chinese type were prepared—hollow tubes filled with a concoction of sulphur and other substances which would spew flame and molten liquid upon the attackers.
“Looks like a party,” Monk offered dryly.
Mihafi, having overseen these preparations, confronted Monk and Ham, bowed with what he thought was military snap, and spoke in several different dialects and languages. When he tried bod-skad, the language of Tibet, he made himself understood.
“It is a wise turtle which grows a thick shell, and a smart tiger which sharpens its claws,” he imparted. “We are now ready for these dogs who have given their souls to the Mystic Mullah.”
“You are doing well, O Man Without Hair On His Head,” Monk admitted.
Mihafi looked as if he did not care for the form of address.
“This mighty bronze man who came with you—where is he now?” he asked.
“Search me,” said Monk, then did his best to translate that into bod-skad.
Mihafi looked disappointed. “The fox that is wise retires to his den when the dogs begin barking,” he said.
“Doc can take care of himself,” Monk grunted.
Mihafi’s ugly features took on a more ferocious aspect.
“This one who is named Oscar Gibson, where can he be found?” he questioned.
Monk tried his hand at the Oriental method of making replies.
“He who tries to know all things only makes himself dizzy,” he stated.
Mihafi walked off looking puzzled, as if not sure whether he had been given a hint to stop his questioning.
* * * *
Mihafi entered the palace of the Khan, and his evil face took on an expression of cupidity as he surveyed the richness of the furnishings. He paused to finger a rug which had come from Turkestan, and over which an entire family of skilled rug makers had probably labored for years. He lifted a small gold image, judged its weight, and held it to the light that he might examine the jewels which encrusted it.
He went on past the little cubicles which housed the slaves of the Khan’s household. Slavery still existed in Tanan, open bartering being carried on with human beings as the merchandise. Raiding the ferocious hill tribes for young captives who would bring a good price on the market, was a popular source of income to the violent young warriors of Tanan who could devise no other means of getting money. Such forays had laid the foundation for many a Tananese fortune.
Deeper into the castle, Mihafi penetrated. The passages were dark, and he produced a candle of yak tallow and lighted it by the ancient method of flint and steel. Going on, he came to a massive door crossed by heavy iron bars. He blew out the candle.
The door rasped faintly in the intense darkness as Mihafi opened it and passed through. After that, an intense silence and an infinite blackness swallowed him.
The quiet persisted for perhaps five minutes. Then the door gritted open again and some one came in. Shortly afterward, there was another arrival, and another, until fully a dozen persons had let themselves into the shadowy chamber.
The silence was not interrupted for a time. Then a volley of sharp gasps sounded.
Hanging in the air, apparently in the center of the gloomy subterranean room, the hideous green face of the Mystic Mullah had appeared. It revolved slowly, as if it could penetrate the darkness with its lurid eyes and view those who were present. The first words added to that impression.
“You are all here, my faithful,” the macabre voice of the Mystic Mullah intoned. “That is well, for we must lay plans.”
“The people of Tanan have been aroused as you directed,” said one of those present. “They are as a flock of sheep who hear the howling of the wolves. At a word, they will fall upon those that rule and tear them to pieces.”
“It is well,” murmured the Mystic Mullah. “But it is also an unwise farmer who destroys his entire crop because there are a few weeds. He would better pull the weeds.”
“Truly, your wisdom is great,” said the other. “But what do you mean?”
“This bronze man, Doc Savage, must be slain,” said the Mystic Mullah. “He is a devil with the strength of a tiger and the cunning of one who has lived long in perilous ways.”
“We are here to be told how to kill this bronze man?” the other questioned.
“No,” the Mystic Mullah stated monotonously. “That has been arranged. You have been brought here to be told that the white woman, Joan Lyndell, is not to be harmed or molested.”
Utter silence indicated that this proclamation was totally unexpected.
“This lowly one craves the light of knowledge,” muttered a voice. “Why is she not to be touched?”
“Because it is she who will slay the bronze man,” announced the Mystic Mullah. “Go, you who are faithful, and see that you harm the white woman not.”
There was stirring in the darkness, and those who had gathered there began filing away. They did not strike lights, and none saw the face of any of his fellows.