‘Umar, welcome,’ Al Mualim had said, wrapping his robes around himself, feeling the early-morning chill in his bones.

‘Master,’ Umar had replied, his voice low and his head bent.

‘You’ve come to tell me of your mission?’ Al Mualim said to him. He lit an oil lamp on a chain then found his chair, settling into it. Shadows flitted across the floor.

Umar nodded. There was blood on his sleeve, noticed Al Mualim.

‘Was our agent’s information correct?’

‘Yes, Master. I made my way into their encampment and, just as we were told, the gaudy pavilion was a decoy. Salah Al’din’s tent was nearby, a much less conspicuous accommodation.’

Al Mualim smiled. ‘Excellent, excellent. And how were you able to identify it?’

‘It was protected, just as our spy said it would be, with chalk and cinders scattered on the perimeter so my steps would be heard.’

‘But they were not?’

‘No, Master, and I was able to enter the Sultan’s tent and leave the feather as instructed.’

‘And the letter?’

‘Pinned by dagger to his pallet.’

‘And then?’

‘I crept from his tent…’

‘And?’

There was a pause.

‘The Sultan awoke and raised the alarm. I was only just able to escape with my life.’

Al Mualim indicated Umar’s blood-stained sleeve. ‘And that?’

‘I was forced to cut a throat in order to make good my escape, Master.’

‘A guard?’ asked Al Mualim, hopefully.

Umar shook his head sadly. ‘He wore the turban and vest of a nobleman.’

At which Al Mualim closed tired and sorrowful eyes. ‘There was no other option?’

‘I acted rashly, Master.’

‘But otherwise your mission was a success?’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘Then we shall see what transpires,’ he said.

What transpired was the exit of Salah Al’din and the visit from Shihab.