“Yes, but in finding her, it might become sensitized to the two of them, and when you combine them …”
“Which their children have!” Balkis nodded. “I begin to understand why I was sent to you. Ring, waken your inner light when you are nearest the Princess Lakshmi!” She began to tum backward. Again the ring glowed most brightly when it pointed due west, then faded as she went on to the north.
“We can’t program it any better than that,” Matt said. “Try for the kids now.”
“Program?” Balkis looked up, alert and hungry for knowledge.
“Telling it what to do,” Matt explained. “Try.”
“Ring, glow when you discover the direction in which the children of Princess Lakshmi and Prince Marudin lie!” Balkis commanded, and held the ring out at arm’s length as she turned again. It began to glow as she neared north, glowed more and more brightly until, when she pointed it toward the northeast, it glowed so brightly that Matt marveled it didn’t burn her finger—but she seemed to feel nothing, only kept turning. The glow started to dim, and died away by the time she pointed due east.
“Northeast,” Matt said, musing. “Well, that’s what we had guessed—but it helps to have it confirmed.”
“It helps mightily to know they are still alive!” Balkis said fervently.
Matt looked down at her, surprised, and saw a very real dread there in her eyes—one she hadn’t dared recognize until she had proven it baseless.
“Yes,” Matt said slowly, “that is good to know.” Suddenly, he wished the ring were sensitive to his own kids. He had never let himself consider the possibility that they might be dead, but he knew the reputations of kidnappers. As soon as he had some time alone, he’d have to try a scry.
“What lies in the northeast?” Balkis asked.
Matt shrugged. “The Mongols’ homeland, and Arjasp.”
“Nay, there is more than that.” Balkis frowned. “There must be, for I feel it pulling at me when the ring glows brightest.”
Matt stared down at her, wondering, and was about to offer an idea when a crash sounded in the distance. They turned, staring down the broad avenue, and saw that the western gate had boomed open, spilling barbarian horsemen into the city from which they had ventured to attack the Arabs.
“They are routed!” Balkis cried. “The Caliph has won!”
“That is good,” Matt said. “But this isn’t a good time for a pretty girl to be watching, veiled or not. How about stepping back into the side street?”
“Wisely thought.” Balkis retreated behind the comer of the wall, and Matt stepped over between the street and the girl. A minute later a black-and-white cat strolled out between his ankles, tail twitching as she watched the warriors come trotting down the broad avenue. As they passed, Matt caught snatches of conversation, liberally interspersed with cursing.
“That traitorous djinni!” one warrior brayed. “How dare he turn upon us in the thick of battle!”
“It was the djinna who bewitched him!”
“Nay,” cried a third soldier, “for he turned upon us ere she came!”
“Flay the sorcerers!” bawled a fourth as his foam-flecked pony rode by Matt. “They made him tum upon us! They called the djinna to aid him!”
“Cannot our own sorcerers hold the Arab magicians at bay?” howled a fifth. “Let them practice their spells upon one another!”
“Nay!” cried a sixth. “Let us practice our archery and our lancing upon them!”
“I don’t like that kind of talk,” Matt told Balkis. “Once they start shooting magicians, who knows where they’ll stop?”
Balkis mewed agreement.
Then came a barbarian on a tall horse, far taller than the Mongolian ponies, though his features were those of the khans. His armor was gorgeous, his helmet chased with gold, and his temper absolutely foul. “I shall have their heads!” he bellowed. “What sort of incompetent sorcerers has the high priest given me, that they cannot keep control of their own djinn—nay, even with the very lamp that held him!”
“At least they kept the five lesser spirits leashed,” called a younger and somewhat less splendidly costumed man beside him.
“Only five!” the general roared. “Only five minor djinn against two Marids! How can they think to preserve us from such might?”
A man in midnight-blue robes rode behind him, protesting, “It is a spell beyond our ken, O Khan! Only the Arab priest himself could counter it!”
Then they were gone, riding on down the street, but Matt felt claws in his calf. “Ouch!” He looked down, ready to scold—and saw the emerald glowing, a glow that faded even as he watched. Balkis looked up at him and meowed impatiently.
Matt took the hint and lifted her up to his shoulder. She set the leg with the ring under his headcloth to hide it and said into his ear so that no one else would hear, “It glowed when that sorcerer passed! Can he be a spirit disguised?”
“Possible,” Matt said slowly, “but it probably just means that he still controls five djinn.”
“If that is his specialty,” Balkis said, “perhaps he knows where to find two very small djinni.”
“He might at that,” Matt said, following her thought about Lakshmi’s children. “Excellent idea, Balkis. Let’s just saunter along after that crew.” He strolled down the street, not seeming to hurry, but actually eating up the ground at a very good pace. He was impressed with Balkis’ intelligence. Obviously she had more going for her than a saturation in magic.
“Perhaps they are bound to the mosque,” Balkis offered.
“I was kind of thinking that, too,” Matt said. “After all, if they’re going to blame it on the old high priest, they’ll want to chew him out right away.”
“And they will find him dead.”
“Should be an interesting sight,” Matt said. “Let’s go have a look.”
They arrived minutes too late—the general and his aides were boiling back out of the mosque, faces gray. “Slain!” one cried.
“I have rarely seen so many wounds in one man,” cried another.
“Aye, even in battle.” The general shuddered. “And his guards burned to cinders! What can have happened here?”
“Magic,” said his chief aide, his face grim. “Magic far stronger than his—but how can such be possible?”
They were silent, considering the question. Then one warrior offered, “Ahriman is displeased with us.”
“As well he might be, for this loss in battle!” But the general now looked frightened.
“Shall we abandon the city?” another aide asked. “We can slay all its people as offerings to Ahriman before we go.”
“There is not that much time, if we are to retreat,” the general said, scowling, “and if we are to stay, we shall need the services of the people. Let them live; we shall hold them hostage in case the Caliph besieges us.”
“But should we stay or go?”
“Our sorcerer has not come out,” the general said grimly. “No doubt he seeks to placate Ahriman, to learn what the god wishes of us. Let us wait to hear his answer.”
Matt stepped back into the shadow of an alley and told Balkis, “That means we have to take him out the back way, if there is one.”
“And make one if there is not,” the cat agreed.
Matt lifted her off his shoulder and down to the ground. “You stay here while I go in and bring him out.” He slipped the wand out from under his robe. “Use this if I don’t.”
“Use it yourself,” the cat snapped. “If you would not beard the high priest without me to help, you should not dare his minion!”
Matt sighed. “Everybody’s gotta get in on the act. Okay, we saunter around to the back of the mosque as though we’re going home. Ready?”
“Lead on,” Balkis replied.
Matt stepped out and strolled down the street, hoping the officers would be so involved in trying to fix blame that they wouldn’t see him.
Behind him, he heard a shout.
CHAPTE
R 22
Matt kept on walking. Boots clattered on the cobbles behind him. A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and spun him about. “You, Arab! What are you doing here?”
It was one of the aides, and two more were coming up behind him, leaving the rest of the party to stare anxiously at the archway. Matt gave the man his best idiot’s smile. “I came to worship, effendi.”
“Did you now!” The Tartar stared at him narrow-eyed, searching his face for a sign of malice. Apparently he was a better horseman than an intriguer, for he pushed Matt away with a grunt. “Well, there will be no more praying this day! Away with you now!”
“Don’t let him go so easily,” his mate objected. “We could do with a little fun.”
Matt went cold inside.
“Aye, an Arab like the ones who beat us today!” The third aide spun Matt about and slammed a fist into his belly. Matt doubled over, pain making him limp, as the man stepped aside for another, who straightened Matt with an uppercut. Matt saw stars, heard a roaring in his ears, felt the blow to his chest, then heard the howl of pain. When the stars cleared, he realized he was leaning against the wall of the mosque, and the man who had hit him was still howling, shaking a hand that was beginning to blister with an ugly burn. His comrades stepped in, faces stormy, to finish the job, but one thought surfaced through Matt’s sea of pain. He reached into the robes over his breast and drew forth the wand, crying,
“Befriend me!
Defend me!”
The wand spat sparks, a fountain of sparks that set the Tartars’ clothes on fire. Matt stood staring, mind beginning to work again as he watched the men hopping about howling, swatting at burning patches of cloth in a sort of dance.
“Quickly! Follow!” said a mewing voice.
. Mind triumphed over matter, or at least pain, and Matt remembered who spoke with meows. He turned and stumbled after Balkis.
At the back of the mosque the cat stopped by a small door, barely large enough for Matt, and said, “I have found it—but can you open it?”
“I think so.” Matt jabbed the wand into the keyhole. They heard a muffled explosion, then silence broken only by the howls of burning Tartars. Matt pulled the wand out—and the door swung open.
“Quickly!” Balkis urged. “Those Tartars will come for you soon, and their bums will bring them with rage!”
“They’ll be in hot pursuit,” Matt agreed, and stepped through the doorway. He pulled the panel shut behind him and groped down the darkness of a passageway. Behind him, he heard angry shouts and boots clattering on pavement; then the noises faded.
“Quickly!” Balkis’ voice hissed ahead of him. “Why are you so slow?”
“Some of us can’t see in the dark,” Matt grunted. He felt doorways to either side of him as he moved on down the passage and wondered what behind-the-scenes facilities he was passing—wondered also if they were original, or a conqueror’s additions.
Then he could see light in the archway at the end, and stepped out into the vast open space of the mosque.
He was behind the old Arab’s throne, in an excellent position to see the junior sorcerer’s face where the man knelt over his master, sprinkling powders and chanting verses. Matt’s hair tried to stand on end, for he understood the words the man was saying. He was trying to bring the dead back to life, to summon the soul that was already gone.
And it came. Air thickened above the corpse, and the old Arab’s face appeared. The junior sorcerer took one look and flinched away, screaming, hands raised to block the vision from his sight.
Matt wondered what could be so horrible. Then the vision became completely clear, and he saw the flames that wreathed the head.
“Look upon me, Gasim, as you wished to do,” the hollow voice bade the junior sorcerer. “See the torment with which Ahriman rewards his followers!” Suddenly the head tilted back and an unearthly scream ripped from its mouth. “I … I shall not, my master!” the ghost gasped. “I shall speak no truth, I shall … shall …”
“Who … who has brought you to this pass?” Gasim cried. Matt knew what was coming. He pulled out the wand and ran toward the man.
The ghost materialized an arm and hand, spearing out at an impossibly backward angle at Matt. “They did!”
Gasim looked up, face working in fear and anger. He raised his hands and began to chant.
“I shall take the younger!” Balkis stood beside him in human form. She pulled the wand from Matt’s hand and pointed it toward the living man, chanting a quick verse in Allustrian. Matt heard the man shout, but he didn’t stop to look, only turned to the ghostly face, trying to ignore the hollow eyes and the grimace of pain as he shouted,
“The day doth daw,
The cock doth craw,
The channering worm doth chide.
‘Gin you must be back to your place,
In sair pain ye maun bide.”
The face screamed again, leaning back—and back, and back, till it was only a line of darkness, then gone.
Matt whirled around to see Gasim flat on his back, arms wrapped about his chest, legs crossed, lips working but making no sound. Balkis stood over him, brandishing the wand like a club. “What shall we do with him?”
“Get him out of here before those Tartars get curious about the screaming!”
Even as he said it, five stocky shapes darkened the doorway. They saw only a man, a girl, and their own sorcerer lying supine. Scimitars hissed out, and they came on at the run.
Matt grabbed Balkis’ wrist with his free hand. “Quick! Get a hand on that sorcerer!” He swirled the wand to draw an imaginary circle around the three of them, chanting,
“Oh, to be in a brook’s grove now,
Where the lowest branch and the brushwood sheaf
‘Round the elm tree bole are all in leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough!”
The mosque started to grow dim around them. The shouts of the Tartars came closer and louder, but so did the roaring in Matt’s ears. A hand seemed to touch his arm, then instantly let go, and he thought he heard a scream fading into the distance but couldn’t be sure. The whole world appeared to heave and tilt, and so did his stomach, but he managed to choke it down.
Then things steadied, sunlight enveloped him, he heard something chirping nearby, and he staggered, then caught himself.
Balkis didn’t. She overbalanced and fell into the mud beside the brook.
Matt dropped to a knee and helped her up. “Sorry. That’s the roughest ride I’ve had yet. Must have been the aura of sorcery in the place.” Then he broke off, staring, and bit his lip to keep from laughing, for though her veil was clean, Balkis had fallen with her face in the mud.
She wiped it off with both hands. “Faugh! What manner of place is this?”
“Oh, a really pretty place, once we’re here.” Matt’s knees suddenly went weak; he sat down. “The brook makes very pretty music, too. It’s just that it has muddy patches here and there.”
Balkis looked around her and saw the beauty of the mountain wall rising a hundred yards away across a meadow filled with wildflowers. Matt thought of mentioning that she still had mud on her nose and around her mouth to her chin, but just then she breathed out a sigh that turned into a shudder. “Yes. It is pretty, very. And so clean, after the sink of depravity into which the barbarians have made of that city!”
“We have not!”
They turned to look. The barbarian sorcerer was struggling to sit up. “We shall purge, cleanse the earth of unbelievers! We shall conquer all, and thus put an end to these silly wars! We shall put an end to the fairy-tale notions of any god but Ahriman, and extirpate their foolish notions of right and wrong!”
Matt stared at him. “You don’t really believe any of that!”
“Wh-What?” Gasim’s voice faltered as he tried to make the question a demand. “How can you argue with Ahriman?”
“How can you believe him?” Matt retorted. “Don’t you know he’s the Prince of Lies?”
“That is a vile rumor put about by his enemies!”
“You just saw somebody who knows firsthand how badly Ahriman lied to him,” Matt said grimly. “Arjasp told him Ahriman would give him eternal luxury for his service, didn’t he?”
“So he will!”
“Sure, the luxury of central heating,” Matt said with full sarcasm, “only the old priest gets to be in the center of the heat.”
“A vile lie!”
“It was a vile lie indeed, to promise him pleasure and give him pain—and when he tried to tell you the truth about it, he found out that no matter how bad the pain was, it could get worse. It could always get worse.”
“An illusion you conjured up,” Gasim accused, but he wouldn’t meet Matt’s eyes.
“No, you did the conjuring,” Matt reminded him. “Is it my fault that you got what you asked for?”
“It must be your fault!” Gasim cried. “You must have sent a glamour instead of a true summoning! How you did it, I know not—but you must have!”
“I didn’t,” Matt said sternly, “and you know it. Think, Gasim—it’s not too late. Your boss put himself into Ahriman’s power. He declared himself to be the Liar’s man, to do the Destroyer’s work. You don’t have to let that happen. You can turn away from the Prince of Lies, turn to Ahura Mazda. Ahriman has no power over you unless you give it to him.”
Uncertainty shadowed Gasim’s eyes; for a moment his face was gaunt with fear. Then he summoned bluster to drown his doubts. “It is you who speak untruths! Your power that you wish me to accept! Ahriman will blast you, will fry you, will turn you to ashes!” He lifted his hands to start spellcasting. “And I shall begin it! I shall seal you into a prison that shall endure a thousand years!”
The Crusading Wizard Page 30