“I don’t think Prester John lives here anymore,” Matt said slowly.
“Stand aside!” Lakshmi laid a hand on his arm, pulling him out of the way as a squadron of Polovtsi warriors came stamping their way behind a gaudily caparisoned officer.
Matt stepped lightly and quickly to his right.
So did the officer. Matt sidestepped again, and the officer swerved again. Matt decided not to try for the charm and faced the music, or at least the officer.
The barbarian marched up within five feet of him and stamped to a halt; his squadron did, too. “You are not the mere merchants you seem,” he accused. Translation spell or not, his Persian had an atrocious accent.
“Uh, just tourists,” Matt ad-libbed, hoping the spell wouldn’t give him such a horrible lilt. “Wanna see the sights, you know—and that castle sure is a big building.”
“Do not play the fool!” the officer snapped. “You will come with us!”
“You hoped not to be a guest—but I think we have been invited,” Marudin said.
CHAPTER 26
Matt glanced at him and noticed the soldiers had spread out to encircle their little group. Speaking Merovencian, he said, “Why not? We can leave whenever we want to, can’t we?”
“If they keep us together, yes,” Lakshmi told him.
“I’ll stick to you like glue.” Matt glanced surreptitiously at the ground and was glad not to see a little calico cat. “Thanks for your kind invitation, hetman. I was wondering where we were going to sleep tonight.”
Not that they had time for sleep, of course. After the steps, all hundred of them—with Marudin grumbling under his breath about less taxing modes of transportation, and Matt hissing at him not to say that nasty word “tax”—they were ushered down a series of corridors until they stepped into a room elaborately decorated with frescoes and mosaics showing scenes of heroes fighting monsters, and furnished with Chinese lacquer, Russian inlays, and Persian carpets. The hetman brought them before a barbarian seated cross-legged on top of a desk, leafing thoughtfully through the piles of documents around him. He was such a perfect picture of uncouth ignorance of civilized ways that Matt had to suppress a laugh—until the man looked up and met his eyes. Then the laugh stopped, for the eyes were hard, piercing, and shrewd. Matt realized that this was going to be no easy match, that he would have to talk his best to keep this plains-rider from seeing through him.
“I am Tarik, governor of this city,” the official said. “Who are you?”
Matt decided ignorance was the best excuse. He spread his hands, looking lost and shaking his head. “I don’t understand,” he said in Merovencian.
Lakshmi and Marudin looked just as lost, but without having to fake it. Matt thought it interesting that they, who knew so many languages, hadn’t learned Mongol—even Marudin, who had unwillingly been in their service.
Tarik, irked, beckoned a secretary from a desk. The heart-shaped face and golden skin told Matt he was looking at a local, not a conqueror. Again, that sense of familiarity haunted him, but refused identification.
The secretary’s hunched posture and subservient bow said quite eloquently that he was one of the conquered. “What do you wish, Excellency?”
“Tell me what language this outlander speaks,” Tarik commanded.
The secretary turned to Matt—and the quiet competence of his gaze made Matt suspect that he was determined to make the subservience temporary. “Hail, outlander!” he said in Hindi.
Matt shrugged and shook his head, and the secretary tried Persian, Russian, and several other languages that Matt didn’t recognize. When the man hit on Arabic and Lakshmi and Marudin looked up in surprise, Matt decided he had stretched the ruse about as far as it would go. “Hail, Honored Sir,” he said, with a small bow.
“Be welcome in Maracanda,” the secretary said with relief, then turned to Tarik. “They are Arabs, Excellency.”
“Very good,” said Tarik. “Ask them why they have come.”
The secretary turned back to them. “I am Cheruk, secretary to Tarik, the Mongol who sits on the table governing this province.” He managed to keep the contempt out of his voice, but Matt saw it in his eyes. “What brings you to Maracanda?”
“A wandering minstrel I,” Matt ad-libbed, “scratching out a living along the caravan routes by singing for my supper, and seeking to exchange songs for stories and news—but I have seen no caravans since Samarkand, and there were no Mongols in this city when my father brought me here as a boy. What has happened?”
Marudin stared, but Lakshmi gave him an elbow in the ribs. Cheruk noticed and asked, “What of your companions?”
“They are jewel merchants,” Matt explained.
“We have no jewels,” Marudin interrupted. “Bandits fell upon us, and I gave them my diamonds and emeralds so that they would not take my wife.”
“Commendable, I’m sure.” But Cheruk’s look said he didn’t believe it for a minute. He turned back to Matt. “If you are a minstrel, where is your instrument?”
“Oh … uh … the bandits took it,” Matt said lamely.
“What do they say?” Tarik asked.
“That the small one is a minstrel, and the tall one a gem merchant.” Cheruk turned back to his master. “Bandits took the jewels but left him his wife, and took the minstrel’s instrument, too.”
“Perhaps we can find him another,” Tarik said.
Matt’s stomach sank. He might have been able to fake on a guitar, but he’d have been lost on anything else.
“What does he seek here?” the governor continued.
“Money for his singing, and new songs and news,” Cheruk said. “His companions must live off what he can bring, I suppose.”
Marudin and Lakshmi were frowning, unable to follow the dialogue in Mongol, so Matt frowned, too, with apprehension.
“They may ply their trades in the bazaar,” Tarik decided. “What news have they of the lands through which they have traveled?”
By the time Cheruk was done repeating the question, Matt had decided what the governor wanted to hear. “The citizens are happy with the peace and prosperity the gur-khan’s governors have brought, and would not seek freedom if they could.”
“That is not true,” Cheruk said evenly. “Have no fear, none others of these can speak your language. Tell me truly what happens.”
Matt stared a moment, then shifted gears. “Actually, the people of Samarkand are going about warily, and the women are hiding their faces whenever a squadron of barbarians passes, so the Persian veil is becoming very popular. The caravans have had to find a southern route.”
“We have noticed their absence here,” Cheruk said grimly.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Matt pointed out. “What happened here in Maracanda?”
“The armies of the Great Khan conquered us,” the secretary replied, “some fifteen years ago—your father must have left with you shortly before the Mongols attacked.”
“Only the Mongols?” Matt asked in surprise.
“Only them,” Cheruk confirmed. “We were the first city they attacked, since our armies had always held the wild tribes at bay.”
That explained why the Turks hadn’t reached the Arabian empire. “But this time they had magic your wizards didn’t know,” Matt said grimly.
Cheruk looked at him more closely. “You truly must be a minstrel, to have gathered so much news as that. Yes, we fought their forces to a standstill, so they used evil magic far more sophisticated than anything their shamans had ever wrought, summoning monsters who chewed our soldiers to bits until our officers ordered a retreat that became blind, fleeing panic. Perhaps if we had won, the Mongols would not have been able to sway so many other barbarians to join them, and would not now be overrunning all of Asia.”
“Perhaps,” Matt said thoughtfully.
“What is this conversation?” Tarik demanded.
“He has told me that the people of the empire rejoice in the gur-khan’s rule, Excellency,
” Cheruk reported, “for it has brought them peace and prosperity. In tum, he asked why Maracanda is not as it was when he visited here as a child.”
Tarik sniffed. “He should know the answer to that, if he has seen our garrisons in other cities. Tell him that we conquered, and that the false priest John slunk away to the wilderness, where he has hidden so well that our troops cannot find him—or may be dead, for all we know.”
Sorrow wrenched Cheruk’s features, but he fought it off even as he turned to Matt. “When the Mongols conquered, our king, Prester John, gathered the remnants of his troops and fled to the mountains. We hope he is well and will come back to free us, but we have heard no word of him, nor have the many search parties the governor has sent to quarter the slopes, seeking him.”
“And they presumably have scouts who are excellent trackers.” Matt thought it over, then asked, “What of their sorcerers? Surely they must have sought John with magic.”
Cheruk stiffened, but said, “You guess aright—they have sought, and have found naught.”
“Then John must still be alive, and shielding his army with his own magic,” Matt said, “for if he were dead, the sorcerers would surely have scried out his body.”
Cheruk’s eyes fired. “There is truth in what you say, and I thank you for hope. I would guess you are more than a wandering minstrel. Now speak more to me, so that I may tell Tarik you have given me more news.”
Matt thought it over, then said, “Tell him that your armies attacked the Caliph of Baghdad and that he had to retreat to Damascus, but that an army of Franks and another of Moors came to his rescue. Their wizards fought the barbarians’ sorcerers and won, and the horde had to retreat to Baghdad. We know nothing more recent. Will that do?”
“Quite well.” Cheruk fought to hide his delight at the news and had managed to achieve another deadpan expression when he turned back to relay the information to Tarik.
“Couriers have told me that already,” the governor replied testily. “Tell him that our setback in Damascus is only temporary, and that our eventual victory will prove that the Christian God is weaker than Angra Mainyu and all the gods of all our plains-dwelling peoples—as might be expected of one against a hundred. Tell him also that if John the Priest has survived, he is living like a wild animal, not even raiding our outposts or trying to win back his capital—which is well for him, for if he tries, he is doomed to defeat.”
Cheruk turned back to relay the message with a face of stone, obviously thinking that Tarik was rubbing it in to make sure he knew he was ground down. Matt. though, recognized an attempt to use the media for propaganda, even if the medium in question was only a wandering minstrel.
“Dwell in hope,” Matt said quietly. “I think your Prester John lives, and is only awaiting his moment. When he thinks he has a chance of success, he will attack.”
“Yes, but how can he hope for victory against such as these, and their demons?” Cheruk asked, defeat in every line of his body.
“Enough!” Tarik waved a hand, turning away. “Put them to work reinforcing the walls. At day’s end, if they have any energy left, they can ply their trade in the bazaar.”
The soldiers instantly surrounded the companions again. Cheruk said, his tone apologetic, “He sends you to forced labor. You may yet have some chance to sing and trade in the evenings, though.”
“We also might escape,” Matt told him. “So might you—and all your people with you.”
Cheruk was erasing another look of surprise and hope as the soldiers came between him and the trio. They hustled the companions out of the chamber, through corridor after corridor, and out of the palace.
As they came out into the street, though, they heard a meowing voice by the doorway chant,
“By djinn and John and Grecian Fates,
Take these strangers to the gates!
By cats and khans and Presters old,
Clear the way for … for …”
Matt realized that the spell must have been an improvised verse, not a memorized one, because Balkis was having trouble with the last line, as usual—no talent for rhymes. He helped her out gladly, calling out the words that finished her verse: “Clear the way for captives bold!”
. “Who are you talking to?” the hetman demanded, but a meowing voice echoed eagerly,
“Clear the way for captives bold!”
The hetman went glassy-eyed.
Marudin’s fist poised over a guard’s head, but he frowned at the man’s suddenly vacant gaze and withheld his hand.
“Uh, I think it’ll work better if we use them for camouflage, Princess.” Delicately, Matt disengaged Lakshmi’s fingers from the collar of the soldier she was holding in the air. The man landed with a thump, but stayed upright and started walking with his mates, all following the hetman.
“What has plagued them?” Lakshmi looked about her even as she hurried to match her steps to theirs.
“Balkis pinch-hitting for us,” Matt explained.
The squadron marched them straight down the avenue that led directly away from the steps. Citizens scrambled out of their way; carts and wagons swerved over to the side. Fifteen minutes later the hetman stamped to a halt just inside the gate. The guards outside looked up, startled, and were about to start asking questions. So were Marudin and Lakshmi, but Matt grabbed their arms and lurched out from among the soldiers, pulling them stumbling with him.
“What do you think you are doing?” Lakshmi demanded, righting herself.
“Yeah, what do you think you’re doing, turning down the best songs of the year?” Matt shook a fist at the stone-faced hetman. “You can tell that governor of yours that I’ve been thrown out of better places than this! Come on, friends.” He turned about and marched off with wounded dignity. Lakshmi and Marudin followed, comprehension dawning.
Ten feet down the road Matt looked back and saw the squadron beginning to come out of their daze, asking questions of the hetman, who was shaking his head, palm pressed to his temple, looking about him as though waking from a dream, which he more or less was.
“A little faster,” Matt snapped. “We don’t want to become a topic of conversation!”
They dove into the outbound stream of traffic. A dozen paces later Matt looked back, but the hetman had only formed up his squadron and was leading them back into the city. Matt didn’t blame him for not wanting to raise the hue and cry—he wouldn’t want to be caught sleeping on the job, either.
“I think we’re safe for the moment,” he said, then felt something furry rub against his ankles. He staggered but kept his balance. “Thanks, Balkis. I’d been wondering how we were going to get out of that one without letting everybody know what we are.”
“You are welcome,” the cat mewed. “Perhaps next time you go into a mouse hole, you should make sure you know how you’ll get out.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t planning to go into the palace,” Matt told her. He looked up and saw a grove of trees. “Let’s go in where it’s green and quiet, folks.”
“Wherefore?” Marudin asked, but Lakshmi took his arm and purred, “Do you truly need a reason to step aside with me?”
Marudin beamed down at her. “Never, sweeting! But I would rather not bring company.”
“ ‘Fraid it’s got to be a community project, folks,” Matt said. “I need to talk this over and make some sense out of it.”
Just as they came to the leaves, though, a distant voice shouted, “Stop in the name of Arjasp!”
Matt looked back and saw Turkish warriors riding toward the city with a blue-robed priest in their middle. He groaned. “I thought Arjasp might be able to sense that someone was working unauthorized magic. Let’s move a little faster, folks!”
Fortunately, the Turks were so intent on getting to the city that they didn’t stop to examine the flora. They passed the grove at a canter and certainly weren’t looking upward behind them. All they would have seen was a double whirlwind rising from the trees and blowing away toward the west, bu
t the priest might have known what that meant. Looking down, Matt had the satisfaction of watching the patrol ride to and fro, searching and baffled, then turning back to ride intently toward the city, sure that their quarry had not yet escaped.
“Where now, wizard?” Lakshmi asked.
“To the mountains,” Matt told her. “Where else would you look for guerrillas?”
Of course, he had to explain what guerrillas were, then had to try to persuade the djinn that Prester John was living like a bandit and trying to harry the conquerors, but without success.
Lakshmi flatly refused to believe it. “This king is, from what you say, much like a caliph,” she said, “and no caliph would make his stronghold among brambles!”
“She speaks truly,” Marudin seconded. “Perhaps in your country, Frank, a caliph can lose pomp and circumstance without losing dignity and strength—but believe me, in the East no one would follow a ruler who had fallen to living in a tent in a forest!”
Matt bridled. “Got any better ideas?”
“Seek a city,” Lakshmi said, “perhaps one lost in the desert or the wilderness, but a city nonetheless.”
She did. With Matt and cat in her arms, she and Marudin quartered the mountains, then the desert beyond—and sure enough, a hundred miles out in the wasteland on a dusty, eroded track that might have been a caravan route twenty years earlier, they found a walled city whose houses had weathered to seem much like the sand around them, but whose walls still stood firm. Looking down from a hundred feet, they saw only a few civilians in the streets, but the great central square around the fortress was filled with soldiers dressed more or less as the civilians had been in Maracanda, though all in the same colors and with the same insignia embroidered on their chests.
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