The woman looked startled, then pulled some yarn from a capacious pocket and broke off a length.
Jimena handed it to Kaprin and said, “Let its end touch the floor and shake it.”
With total faith in Grandma, the little boy did just that. The cat went stiff as a pointer, staring, then crouched down, tail-tip twitching.
“Try to keep it from her,” Grandma told him.
The cat pounced, but Kaprin managed to twist the bit of string out of the way at the last second. The cat followed, batting at the yam, and both children cried out with excitement.
“Is there a decision to be made?” Grandma asked.
“Yes, and the children have made it,” Alisande said with a sigh. “They would be devastated if we took the beast from them now. Only make sure it comes from no evil sorcerer, husband, and carries no pestilence.”
“Just a few spells,” Matt acknowledged. “No problem. We can’t just call it ‘cat’ though—at least, not if it’s going to be a member of the family.”
“If it is Abyssinian,” said Grandpa, ”we should call it Sheba, the biblical name for that land. After all, should not the royal cat be royal herself?”
“Call her after Sheba’s queen, you mean?” Grandma nodded. “A good thought—but let us use her name, not her land.”
“I didn’t know it was ever recorded,” Matt said, frowning.
“Do you not remember your Kipling?” Grandma chided. “ ‘The Butterfly Who Stamped’ ?” “Of course!” Grandpa cried, with a smile of delight. “Balkis, the Best Beloved!” The cat’s head snapped around, staring at them in amazement.
CHAPTER 5
“See how she stares!” Mama cried. “Perhaps we have guessed better than we knew.”
“You do not mean I have struck upon the name someone else has already given her!” Ramon protested.
“Let us see.” Mama patted her lap. “Come talk with me, Balkis.”
The little cat padded over to her, jumped up into her lap, reared up to set her feet on Jimena’s chest, and stared into her eyes.
“Never try to outstare a cat,” Ramon cautioned.
“I would not be so foolish,” Jimena assured him, but she looked directly into the cat’s eyes anyway and recited,
“What you are stands over you,
Glaring so I cannot see
What you show as mask untrue.
If you mean ill to any here,
Let it flare in nimbus ‘round you,
Good intentions showing blue,
Selfishness as yellow sere,
Red for meanings we should fear!”
A green aura sprang up about the cat. She blinked in surprise, then cowered, gathering herself to spring.
“Green?” Matt said. “She means us well, but is selfish about it?”
“Isn’t every cat?” Jimena returned, and stroked gently to reassure Balkis. “But her interests must coincide with our own, and therefore she means us no ill, at least, and perhaps well”
“Because if she makes the children happy, we’ll make her happy?” Matt nodded. “Enlightened self-interest—very dependable. Okay, Balkis, we offer steady food, petting when you want it, and a garden for bird-chasing and natural functions. How’s that for a good deal?”
The little cat turned to stare at him.
“She certainly recognizes her name,” Ramon said. “She could not have understood anything else you said.”
“Well, maybe the word ‘food,’ “ Matt demurred.
“Be assured that you are welcome, Balkis,” Alisande said with a smile.
“There!” Matt said. “If the queen herself says it, you know you can trust it!”
The cat mewed plaintively.
“I think she wishes to test your promise of food.” Jimena took a scrap of meat from her plate, offering it to the cat. Balkis nibbled daintily. “You shall have as much nourishment as you wish.”
Balkis stopped nibbling and looked up at the shelves of books.
The adults laughed, and Jimena said gently, “You would not find parchment and ink to your liking, little one.”
Balkis gave a mew of disappointment and went back to the meat. The others gave another gentle laugh, but Matt took on a thoughtful expression.
Little Kaprin came up and reached out to touch the cat’s head.
“Gently,” Grandma reminded, and the touch became feather-light as Kaprin said, “Good boy!”
“No, Kaprin,” Grandma said, “this is a girl cat.”
Kaprin looked disappointed. “How do you know, Grandma?”
“Because if it had been a boy cat, it would be obvious,” she said. “Your father will explain it to you when you are older.”
“Yeah, by about two hours,” Matt warned her. “I will admit that it should be a private discussion, though.”
Balkis looked up from her food to glare at Grandma, switching her tail.
“Yes, I know it is a rather intimate detail to discuss in public,” Grandma said apologetically, “but Kaprin is old enough to need to know.”
Balkis gave an indignant sniff, then thawed enough to rub her head against Grandma’s hand.
Jimena relaxed. “I have been accepted.”
Balkis pivoted and sprang to Alisande’s lap.
“Oh!” the queen cried in delight. “I too pass inspection?”
Balkis reared back, feet on Alisande’s neckline, and stared into her eyes.
“Inspection, yes,” Matt said. “Passing remains to be seen.”
Balkis rubbed her head against Alisande ‘s hand.
Alisande laughed. “Why, how is this, husband? Am I to be judged, and chosen or cast out, here in my own castle?”
“You bet,” Matt said. “Cats know they’re the real owners.”
“And no matter where they are, they can send you to Coventry in an instant,” Ramon assured her.
“Send me to Coventry?” Alisande asked, puzzled.
“Forget that you exist,” Matt explained, “and make you wonder about it, too.”
“Be glad she has accepted you, dear,” Jimena said, “or you might have had to move out.”
Balkis jumped into Matt’s lap.
“Who shall have to move out now, husband?” Alisande challenged.
Balkis gave Matt a good sniffing and looked doubtful.
Suleiman sat his horse on the plain around the city of Baghdad, watching his army file through the gate into the nearly empty town. Now and again he glanced apprehensively at the pillar of dust to the east which marked the barbarians’ progress.
“Be easy, my lord,” said the battle-worn general beside him. “They will all be inside and the gates closed and barred before the wild men come in view.”
“In, yes,” Suleiman replied, “but how shall we come out again?”
A much smaller plume of dust rose from the west. The general braced himself. Two cavalrymen broke off from the inbound column and rode up beside the plume, matching speed with it.
“Your soldiers must have approved of whoever rides,” the Caliph said, “for he still approaches, and they with him.”
“A courier?” the general guessed.
It was a courier indeed, his skin a bit darker than theirs, his robes bright with the patterns of the Berbers. He reined in his lathered horse and fell more than dismounted, then dropped to his knees, haggard with weariness. “Hail, O Father of All the Faithful!”
“Hail, steadfast soldier,” the Caliph returned. “What word do you bring?”
“Salutations from Tafas bin Daoud!” The messenger fumbled a scroll from his belt and offered it. One of the soldiers reached down, took it, and passed it to the general as the courier explained, “He greets you with love and reverence, and tells you that he has gathered a host of Moors and rides at their head to defend the holy places.”
“He is a devout son of Islam,” Suleiman said with ill-disguised relief, “and praised be Allah that he marches!”
“He will be a month and more, riding across North Africa
and Arabia to join us,” the general warned. “Can we hold the city till he comes?”
“We shall have to,” the Caliph said simply. Then he smiled with a touch of his old bravado; his teeth flashed as he said, “With Allah to strengthen us, how can we fail?”
“Let it be as He wills,” the general said somberly, “but I would be more reassured if some of the Christian monarchs had answered, too.”
“Peace be within your breast,” Suleiman told him. “They are farther distant than Tafas, and belike only now receive our summons.”
” ‘Therefore do we ask that you join us without delay in defending the city of Jerusalem, and the sites that are holy to Muslim, Jew, and Christian alike,’ ” Jimena read, and rolled up the scroll. “He ends with the usual compliments and titles, and assurances of brotherhood.”
“I thank you.” Alisande gazed down from her throne at the dusty Arabian messenger, who had been hauled up off his knees by two stout Merovencian guardsmen. They still held his arms, because his legs were likely to collapse again with sheer fatigue. The queen said to one, “Take him to a bed, and bring him food and drink—if he can stay awake long enough to take them.”
“As Your Majesty wishes.” The guardsman looked strongly disapproving of hospitality to a pagan.
“I thank you, stalwart soldier,” Alisande said to the courier. “You have ridden long and hard, and have shown great devotion to your caliph and your cause. Go now and rest, for you have earned it well.”
The man blinked in surprise at being thanked so directly by a sovereign, then detached an arm from one of the guardsmen and touched fingers to brow, lips, and breast as he bowed to the queen. He started to back away, but the guardsmen turned him around and half escorted, half carried him from the throne room.
“You are a marvel, Mother Mantrell, and a godsend,” Alisande said. “How is it you can read the Arabian script?”
“It is useful, if you wish to study the history of the Spain of our world,” Jimena told her. “Still, if they had not written in the language of Merovence, my knowledge of their script would have done little good.”
Alisande turned to Matt and asked, “What do you think of this news, my husband?”
“It has the ring of truth,” Matt told her. “The Caliph would scarcely admit weakness to a Frankish monarch otherwise.”
“That is true,” Alisande said, “and confirms the verity that I feel within me. But how can an army so distant be a threat to my Merovence?”
“Because it contains so many soldiers,” Matt said grimly, “and all of them are horsemen. Worse, they’re fanatics. They seek loot and plunder, but they think they ride in a god’s cause, and that they’ll go directly to a reward of extravagant pleasure if they die in his service.” Thinking of the Huns, Turks, and Mongols of his own universe, he assured her, “No, my dear, there’s no doubt—anything riding in off the plains of Central Asia is a very real threat, not only to the Arabian empire, but also to Europe.”
“In fact, one could find room to wonder why the Arabian empire still holds,” Ramon mused, “and has not yet fallen to the Turks.”
“I can only think that the Turks have not ridden west-till now,” Jimena said, “though it seems they are subservient to the Mongol barbarians.”
“You must tell me of these barbarians another time,” Alisande said, frowning. “For the moment, we must decide whether to march, and with how large a force.”
“Doesn’t the size of the army depend on how many Allustria, Ibile, and Latruria will send?” Matt asked.
“Even so,” Alisande confirmed. “I cannot leave my country defenseless if my neighbors keep all their armies home. Well then, we must send to King Richard in Bretanglia, Frisson the Regent in Allustria, King Rinaldo in Ibile, and King Boncorro in Latruria. But we must send some force to the Holy Land, I can feel the necessity in my bones.”
In a universe in which, when the country was in danger, the monarch’s bones ached, that was no small evidence. Alisande was queen by Divine Right, which created a bond of enchantment between herself, her people, and her land. She instinctively knew what was right or wrong for Merovence, and ignored her intuition at all their peril.
“I shall ask you to be castellans and regents again, lord and lady,” Alisande said formally to her in-laws. “Must you lead the army yourself, my dear?” Jimena asked anxiously.
Alisande hesitated.
Matt read her expression of doubt correctly. “Not until you’re sure your sibling monarchs won’t try to invade, is that it?”
“It is.” Alisande flashed him a quick look of gratitude. “I shall send my expedition under Lord Sauvignon’s command, then ride posthaste to join them if I am certain I am not needed here.”
“Should you invite the Witch Doctor to ride with them?” Ramon asked.
“Saul was never too enthusiastic about the Muslims,” Matt said. “His fascinations lay farther east.”
“India and China, you mean?” Ramon nodded. “Still, we speak of him as a wizard, not a scholar.”
“I am loath to tear him again from his wife and babes,” Alisande said.
“Why not make use of Saul here, then,” Matt said, “after you are gone and I’ve ridden ahead?”
The throne room was very quiet.
Then Alisande exploded. “I knew this would come! Am I so boring, husband, that you must take to the high road at every chance of adventure?”
“Never,” Matt said, looking directly into her eyes, “but you are so precious to me that if I can stop a threat before it reaches you, I will.”
Alisande met his gaze, but only held it about ten seconds before she melted and reached out to grasp his hand. “It seems, though, that you are forever leaving me!”
“Never willingly.” Matt returned the pressure. “And never for more than a few months every year or three. It’s just bad luck, darling, that you were born to be queen at a time when the powers of Hell are making a very good try at dragging down all the nations of Europe. Sure, we’ve managed to win the lands back so far, but they’re still trying to set us against one another.”
Alisande looked deeply into his eyes, searching for reassurance, and when she found it, closed her eyes and lowered her chin in assent. “You speak truly, husband. Nay, I must let you go forth again.” Her eyes flew open and she glared at him in command. “But only to gather information, mind you! You must not risk yourself unless it is absolutely necessary!”
“Only to protect the weak,” Matt assured her. “I may have to travel a long way to find out what lies behind this invasion, though.”
“Be of good heart, my dear,” Jimena consoled. “Lord Sauvignon and your army shall be following, if there is any real threat.”
“Even a week can be far too long a time,” Alisande countered, “when my love is in peril.”
“Hey, I’ll be safe as long as I’m behind the Caliph’s lines,” Matt cajoled. “I’ve always wanted to see Jerusalem, anyway.”
The question, though, was whether the Caliph’s lines would hold.
Holes suddenly caved in all along the eastern wall of Baghdad, and barbarians boiled out of them, small hard-muscled men with flowing moustaches and ugly hairless heads ridged with scar tissue. They shouted war-cries as they charged the inside of the gate, slashing with short heavy sabers—but they ran with a bow-legged, ungainly gait.
Archers on the wall spun about and sent flights of arrows into the attackers. Dozens of barbarians fell, but dozens more jumped clumsily over their bodies and flailed at the gate guards. The porters swung their pole-arms to block, then to counter. Two of the four fell , but a score of Arabs came pounding up to aid them, small round shields up to block the Mongols’ blows, scimitars flashing. Unlike the attackers, they hadn’t lived all their lives on horseback, and were far quicker runners.
But fifty more Mongols clambered out of the tunnels and ran toward a corral of Arabian mares. It wasn’t guarded—who would need to ward horses within a city? Too late, Arabian soldiers
saw them coming and shouted in anger, running to cut them off—but the Mongols caught the horses’ manes and sprang high, landing on their backs as though they had been there since birth, then leaned down to cut the horses’ tethers with single strokes of their curved swords. They whirled their mounts and rode down the Arabs, screaming their war-cry.
The Arabs sprang aside, though, and hurled swords, shields, anything they had, at the invaders. A dozen hit their marks, a dozen Mongols fell, but the rest charged into the fray around the gates, screaming like demons and laying about them with their swords. Their own men parted to let them through.
With cries of anger and despair, the guards set their pole-arms so that the Mongols’ prized horses ran upon the points.
The horses screamed and reared, then fell. The Mongols sprang from their backs in the nick of time and turned to face the scimitars of the Arabs with their own yataghans—to little effect; Damascus steel cut through their untempered blades. One or two Arabs fell, but more of the Mongols.
Their companions, screaming in frustration, tried to force their mounts through to the gate, but couldn’t get them over the fallen horses. They wheeled to ride away so they could turn and gallop back with enough momentum to hurdle the dead, but a squad of Arab cavalry rode down on them with howls of rage. Mongol met Arab in their natural element, the backs of horses, and proved very quickly that they were evenly matched when mounted.
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