The Sword of Aradel by Alexander Key Page A

one of those places!”
    â€œI—I hope not—and I really don’t think so. Remember those words she gave after the formula? There was docteur le grande , which we must have heard wrong—”
    â€œI remember. Docteur is teacher, and why would she refer to a great teacher? It doesn’t fit. Besides, it’s French.”
    â€œWell, mouseion isn’t French, and we all agreed it was what Cerid said and meant. It has to be right, for mouseion is a place for the muses—which naturally is where people go to sing or recite poetry, or maybe hear the minstrels and troubadours.”
    Brian looked doubtful. “This doesn’t seem to me like a city that cared much for poetry. As for minstrels and troubadours …”
    He stopped suddenly and peered around. “What’s happened to Tancred?”
    â€œDon’t worry about him. He flew up when we fell, and he’s off somewhere looking things over. Oh—here he comes!”
    The nightingale appeared as she spoke and settled again on her shoulder, making harsh little twitterings as if he did not care for what he had seen. At the same moment a group of oddly dressed youths in sleeveless brown jackets drifted around the corner at the edge of the crowd. There was the hint of a swagger in their movements, but they proceeded warily, their restless eyes seemingly taking in everything around them. Brian, ever watchful, caught sight of them first. Uneasiness shot through him as one of the youths paused abruptly and pointed at Merra.
    â€œHey, dig the chick wit’ th’ boid!”
    Instantly the group crowded close, staring at Tancred while one of them asked questions in a sharp, nasal voice. “What kinda boid’s that? You got ’im trained, huh?”
    â€œPhooey, I don’t dig feathers,” said another. “Lookit the sword this fancy cat’s wearing! It’s got rocks on it!”
    â€œYeah? An’ who says they’re for real?”
    â€œThey’re real enough, Dippy. That thing’s worth bread!”
    â€œWell, whaddaya know!” said the lean one called Dippy. He jabbed a finger at Brian. “Take it off, you! Give!”
    Brian stared at him, only half comprehending. Another brown-jacketed youth said, “Wake up, fancy boy! When Dippy says give, you better give, and fast. You dig?”
    Brian shook his head, more in confusion than understanding, and was rewarded by a vicious slap followed by the prick of a knife at his throat. It astounded him to realize that he and Merra were actually being attacked by thieves on a busy street, in plain view of scores of people who were passing only a few feet away. No one paid any attention to what was happening; or, if they saw it, they preferred to turn their heads and hurry on.
    Even so, his astonishment did not delay his almost instant response to the prick of the knife. He had been drilled in it so many times by Brother Benedict that his reaction was automatic. His head jerked back and to the left as his left hand shot up to knock the weapon aside. At the same moment he kicked his opponent in the stomach with all his strength. Dippy and the knife were propelled backward into the crowd. In perfect timing with the kick, his right hand reached for his sword.
    These swift and practiced motions gave him all the room he needed to draw his sword and use it. But just before his fingers touched the hilt, some instinct made him stop. One of the youths abruptly cried, “Here comes a pig!” and the brown jackets scattered and melted away in the crowd.
    Now Brian glimpsed a heavily built man in a visored cap who had just come around the corner. An official or a guard, he guessed, noting the club at the man’s belt and the badge on the blue jacket. Was he looking for the thieves who had just disappeared?
    Apparently he was, for he stopped and stood scowling at the packed crowd moving past. Finally he shrugged and turned. Merra met his