All at once someone got it in his head to fire on the Fishbowl. As the sun breathed its last and fled over the horizon, a few shots clattered against the protective glass.

Though his first instinct was to duck away, Omay did not flinch. He could not show weakness. For the moment weakness was displayed, he would be lost. The crowd would swarm the palace, killing him, his advisers, his servants.

Instead, Omay watched the melee with curious detachment. He even leaned closer to the glass. Soldiers forced their way through the throng. With the butts of their rifles they subdued the lone gunman, beating and kicking him. He was dragged away quickly, lest others grow sympathetic for the single brave protester. As the dust settled back to the ground in the wake of the man's scuffing feet, the crowd regained its previous air of defiance. Not directed at Omay, but again directed at the hated West.

He had been ready to leave before the shooting started, but afterward Omay lingered on a few minutes longer. It would not be seemly for him to give even the appearance of fear.

Although the palace was air-conditioned, it remained hot in the Fishbowl. The sun was gone now. Bright floodlights from the palace and surrounding buildings washed Rebellion Square in sheets of stark white.

His back was coated with sweat. He felt weak from standing. At long last Omay stepped back inside his royal residence. It was cooler in his private suite. He took a special, secret elevator from his bedroom down to a lower floor.

As he passed through the great audience chamber, which was nestled amid a vast complex of offices immediately below his personal residence, Omay's thoughts lingered on the man who had been brave enough to take a shot at his nation's ruler. The sultan would send word that the offender was not to be mistreated. More than likely the protester's actions were an objection to the direction in which the sultan had taken Ebla over the past fifteen years. The truth was, Omay agreed with the man.