Two stern-faced, armored guards challenged them as they approached the gate. Unlike Ravan, a city that relied on commerce for its livelihood, Tarass did not have a steady stream of visitors coming and going all day long. Farmers came in the morning to sell their wares at the bazaars, and left in late afternoon when the bazaars closed; any other pattern merited suspicion.
For once it was Leila, rather than Prince Ahmad, who rode to the front of the group and addressed the guards. “I am Princess Leila, niece to His Sovereign Majesty, King Rasbul. I am on urgent business of His Majesty. Let me and my retinue pass.”
The younger of the guards did not recognize her name, but the older one thought for a second before a flicker of recognition lit up his face. “I remember a Princess Leila,” he sa
