E. Hoffmann Price's Fables of Ismeddin MEGAPACK®

by E. Hoffmann Price

  Then the sultan, as he twice struck together his hands: “Amru, an order: release the rebels! And to each, his own horse and a robe of honor!”

  The Resident endured the sultan’s eye for a full moment, and admirably concealed his alarm. Then he left the Presence, conscious of duty well done, even if in the shadow of a bowstring with a running noose: enraged princes do forget themselves, and the sanctity of Residents.

  But Schamas ad Din issued no further orders. He and his nargileh fumed and bubbled on the flat roof of the palace…

  Then the calm voice of Ismeddin: “A thousand years, saidi.”

  “And to you, a thousand,” returned the sultan, as he rose to greet his old friend.

  The darvish declined the honor of sharing the sultan’s seat.

  “Hard rocks are my cushions, saidi,” he protested, as he squatted, cross-legged, at the sultan’s feet. But he accepted the stem of the nargileh and solemnly inhaled its white fumes.

  Amru set out fresh wine and withdrew; for that grimy wanderer from the mountains was closer to the sultan even than an old and trusted wazir.

  “I summoned you last night to help me devise a quiet and effective way of dealing with my brother’s son. Need I say that since Maksoud is a friend of the Resident, I need help?”

  “Therefore,” replied the darvish, “you put me to the trouble of stealing by night through the lines of the mountaineers.” Then, smiling a crooked smile, he continued, “And I am an old man, saidi—”

  “And I,” retorted the sultan, “am by this day’s work an old woman! That dog of an infidel! That friend of the rebels! The white-haired companions of the Old Tiger pity the mockery that his son has become.”

  “It is indeed vain in these evil days to be a king,” observed Ismeddin. “Yet even a sultan should have his vengeance. And even Residents have their limitations.”

  Ismeddin smiled thinly, and fingered the hilt of the Ladder to Heaven.

  “It is beyond any sword, Ismeddin,” mourned the sultan. “In the old days one rode out of the mountains with a troop of horse. But now a Resident stands behind my throne. Look what has happened to my old enemy the Rajah of Lacra-kai, on whom be peace!”

  The darvish shrugged his shoulders. “I was in the hall of audience. I saw and I heard. And we two are powerless. But, inshallah! There is yet much that can be done.”

  “Then let it be done—before I am deposed.”

  “You shall have your vengeance, saidi. There is one who is the master of vengeances. The Lord of the World, who sits dreaming in the ruins of Atlânaat.”

  The sultan shivered. “Why speak of Atlânaat? There is some slight merit in living long enough to be deposed and end one’s days in Feringhistan, spending an annuity and being addressed as Majesty. Many have entered Atlânaat in hopes of wisdom and loot, and have left without even hope of forgetting what they have seen. Really, Ismeddin, that monstrous citadel was built by devils, and Shaitan’s little sister dances there by moonlight.”

  “Devils?” retorted Ismeddin. “Built rather by pre-Adamite kings.”

  “As you will,” conceded the sultan. “The distinction is purely academic. Yet the fact remains that sane men find less and less reason for visiting that fiend-haunted ruin. Once, a very long time ago, I saw a very little. But that was entirely too much. And that music, and that strange sweetness that drifts up from the depths…”

  Again the sultan shivered.

  “But I,” countered Ismeddin, “have seen Atlânaat to its nethermost foundations. And there and there only lies your vengeance, and a jest such as the Old Tiger himself would have relished, if you can face the Lord of the World and his counsel.” The darvish leaped to his feet. “Saidi, the Old Tiger would not have hesitated.”

  “Done, by Allah and by my beard!” swore the sultan. “Yet I know any number of places I would rather visit, either by day or by night. Nevertheless—”

  “Let it then be nevertheless, my lord!”

  The sultan twice clapped his hands.

  Amru reappeared, and received orders: two horses at the Ispahan Gate, an hour after evening prayer; horses meanly equipped and poorly caparisoned.

  But before Amru could leave, Ismeddin interposed: “A moment, oh father of all wazirs!”

  And then, to the sultan: “What is to be done must be done quickly. Let Maksoud meet us at Atlânaat, so that the wisdom of the Lord of the World will not have time to cool in our ears.”

  The sultan nodded, then spoke very briefly of four tongueless, black mamelukes, and of Maksoud who was to accompany them; and this cavalcade was to leave the city by a small gate which had no name.

  * * * *

  An hour’s ride from the Ispahan Gate brought Ismeddin and the sultan to the edge of the jungle in whose depths brooded the foundations of prodigious Atlânaat. They halted for a moment to gaze at the uncounted domes and minarets that towered high above the jungle and muttered secret words to the stars as they crept out one by one. Then Ismeddin took the lead, the sultan following in his trace.

  How strange, pondered the sultan, that he should ride alone in the jungle, following a white blur that was the dirty djellab of an old man who was so entirely at home in unsavory places; and how much stranger yet that he should step from his throne to seek aid from a darvish who lived in a cavern and pitied the futility of kings.

  Then the sultan thought of his vengeance, and wondered at the terrific words the Lord of the World would speak…

  The darvish finally halted at the edge of a clearing. Before them loomed the incredible bulk of the outer walls of Atlânaat, walls that had for ages mocked the age-old trees that sought to reach their parapet.

  “To our left, saidi,” announced the darvish.

  They skirted the wall until they came to a breach wide enough to admit four horsemen abreast.

  “Those who enter through the gate are seriously in error,” commented Ismeddin, as he picked his way among the gigantic blocks of rose granite that still lay in the breach. “There is a sculptured hand on the keystone of the arch…”

  The moon had risen over the crests of the trees. Long shadows of columns shattered at mid-height marched across the broad, paved avenue that at the breach in the wall turned and led to the heart of the citadel.

  “My lord,” began Ismeddin, as the sultan cleared the last block of granite and drew up at his side, “we have not yet committed ourselves to anything.”

  “Conceivably,” admitted the sultan, “the ride back to Angor-lana by moonlight would be pleasant. Yet Maksoud also would find it a pleasant ride. But tell me,” continued Schamas ad Din, “what advantage there is in taking my vengeance here? It might be more odd and quaint than anything I might devise at home; but in the end, there would be the Resident—”

  “Ah, but would there?” smiled Ismeddin. “The Lord of the World dreams strange things. However, if you wish—”

  Ismeddin wheeled his horse about.

  “Not at all!” countered the sultan. “To the finish, then. And as for this god and his playmate?”

  “Even so, saidi.”

  The darvish led the way down the broad avenue. The sultan glanced once at the sculptured columns, shuddered, and found a glance sufficient. Then he smiled: for Maksoud would find Atlânaat not a bit more savory.

  The avenue ended in a small court bounded by columns whose capitals were on friendly terms with a single sultry-glowing star that glared evilly… At the base of each pillar was an ornately chiseled pedestal. On eleven of these pedestals, forming a crescent, were life-sized images of bearded men, sitting cross-legged. The head of each was bowed as in sleep; and each held in his left hand a curiously carved scepter.

  The sultan started at the sound of hoofs clicking on the pavement behind them.

  “Maksoud and his escort.” And then,
as the hoof-beats ceased: “They fancy this place no more than you do, saidi.”

  The sultan scrutinized the cross-legged, bearded images.

  “Strangely life-like,” he observed.

  “No,” contradicted Ismeddin. “Not strangely life-like. Rather it would be strange were they otherwise. Nevertheless, seek the girl and her sleeping master. She may tell you how to outwit the Resident and dispose very neatly of Maksoud. But”—Ismeddin glanced again at the disconcerting images—“she may offer a most unusual solution.”

  In the center of the court was a circular balustrade that guarded the brink of a pit along whose walls spiraled a gently sloping runway down which a man on horse or foot might easily make his way to the abysmal depths that mocked the single star overhead.

  “Advance boldly,” counseled the darvish, “down the center, not rashly close to the edge, nor timidly close to the wall. And in the meanwhile I will be here with Maksoud, awaiting your return.”

  “My return? You are optimistic.”

  “But with reason,” countered Ismeddin. “I myself was once there; and I returned.”

  “If you are wrong, it will be the first time,” conceded the sultan as he began his descent.

  “Ismeddin,” reflected the sultan, “is doubtless right. And yet I would rather be up there in the courtyard watching him pick his way down and out of sight and into this playground of Shaitan’s little sister. Ismeddin would be quite in his element.”

  Darkness did not engulf him as quickly as he had expected. The blackness receded as he descended, and the broad, white tiles gleamed dully ahead of him, so that it was simple enough to keep to the middle of the spiral runway.

  From far above came the click-click of horses’ hoofs.

  The sultan smiled grimly at the thought of Maksoud awaiting a doom that was to emerge from that black pit.

  Down…down…turn after turn… until finally the sultan was as far beneath the court as the capitals of its encircling pillars were above it. Then came the scarcely perceptible thump-thump of a drum, and the thin wailing notes of a pipe. An overwhelming, poison sweetness breathed from the blackness and enfolded him.

  “By Allah and by Abaddon!” said the sultan to himself, as he paused and half turned. “Vengeance is costly!”

  He wiped his brow, and licked his lips; then resolutely advanced.

  The spiraling path was curving in ever narrowing circles, vortex-like.

  The perfume was now overwhelming.

  At the bottom of the pit he found himself facing a low archway that opened into a vault pervaded by glowing vapors whose luminescence throbbed to the cadence of those muttering drums and wailing pipes.

  Then a gong sounded once: thinly, as the rustle of silk rather than the resonance of bronze; and the rose-hued mists parted, revealing a girl whose Babylonic eyes gazed through and past him as though he were nebulous as the smoke-wisps of gauze that thinly veiled her loveliness.

  A numbness crept over the sultan; all save those intent, sultry eyes was blotted out of existence.

  Then she spoke. “Welcome, son of the Old Tiger. You have done well. But unaided you can go no farther.”

  The girl extended her slender arms and with serpentine passes and gestures stroked his forehead; and then, stepping to his left side, with her knuckles she rapped sharply here and there along his spine, making the lost magic of far-off Tibet, whereby men become gods, and gods become beasts.

  Then in softly purring syllables she continued, “You can not cross the threshold to enter the presence of the Lord of the World. Try and see whether I am right.”

  The sultan sought to advance; but his feet were fixed to the tiles, and a heaviness that forbade all movement possessed him.

  Again that soft rippling voice: “You have become as immobile as those eleven who were once kings. And with another pass I could weave about you that silence from the ancient mountains, from which you could not emerge until the end of all time…”

  She faced him, regarded him intently, then continued: “But I shall restore you and make you more agile than the fancies of those who eat the plums that grow on the slopes of Mount Kaf.”

  Whereat she made passes and tapped him as she had done before.

  “Now, Schamas ad Din, son of the Old Tiger, enter the presence of the Lord of the World.”

  The sultan advanced, marveling that he could not feel the touch of his feet on the floor. The sighing music ceased piping; and as the rose and saffron-shot mists thinned and drew back and vanished, he found himself in a circular vault on whose domed ceiling glittered stars arranged in strange constellations; and the floor of the vault was not tiled, but strewn with powdered cinnabar. In the center of the vault was a low couch of grotesquely chiseled green basalt on which sat an old man whose head was bowed in sleep.

  “Son of the Old Tiger,” said the incredible girl at the sultan’s side, “you are before the Lord of the World, he who built this prodigious citadel the day he completed the creation of this and all other worlds. He sleeps, and sleeping, dreams; and all things that seem to be are but the figments of his dream; and those things whereof he ceases to dream at that moment cease to be. For nothing is real, save it be the illusion of him who sits here dreaming.”

  “Then who are you?” queried the sultan.

  The girl smiled, and patted the twining, jeweled blackness of her hair.

  “I also am illusion, and his masterwork.”

  “Then if all this be a dream, who and what am I?”

  “You too are but one of his fancies; and when he ceases to picture you—”

  The sultan shuddered at the girl’s gesture of dismissal; but he resumed, “Then if he were to awaken?”

  “All things,” replied the girl, “would revert to that which existed before he fell asleep. Even I would vanish, just as your dreams when you awaken from them become as nothing.”

  The girl smiled at the dazed sultan, and continued, “But I shall not and can not vanish, since he can not cease dreaming his most wondrous vision. Nor can he awaken, since I have made his sleep eternal. He ascribed to me all perfection; and thus I have the power which you perceived in my greeting of you. And more than that: it is I who cast a spell over him whose dream I am, so that through the boundless wastes of time he can not awaken; and I can even now whisper in his ear that which I wish him to dream, and straightway his visions create that which I desire.”

  “Then,” deduced the sultan after a long pause, “you are greater than this Lord of the World whose fancy you are?”

  The girl stared fixedly as a brooding fate. Then finally she spoke.

  “There you have that which few men have ever known: that their illusion transcends and finally conquers them—even as this god is the toy of his own dream, and the prey of an old magic from Tibet.”

  The sultan gazed intently at the white-bearded Master of Illusion. Then he laughed softly at the simple answer to an insoluble riddle. For a dream, this girl was surprisingly human and reasonable…

  “It seems,” began the sultan, “that this ancient Lord of the World endowed me with a touch of his own folly. For I have become the plaything of this mad kingdom which the Old Tiger and I dreamed twenty years ago as we sharpened our blades and rode out of the mountains. But not being a god, I may escape my doom.”

  “And how might that be?” queried the girl.

  Her left eyebrow rose ever so slightly. She nodded approvingly at Schamas ad Din.

  “You might,” suggested the sultan, “whisper into his ear a thought I might whisper into yours.”

  “In a word, saidi,” said the girl, “you wish that mad kingdom of yours made a bit more habitable for its ruler? You came seeking vengeance, and end by wanting to recast your entire fate? But that would be unreasonable; for then, in your own way, you would be grea
ter than this very Lord of the World, since even he is subject to me, his dream.”

  “Wrong!” exclaimed the sultan. “By my beard, you are wrong! I seek but a jest and a vengeance, and let dreams go where they will. Such a vengeance as until a moment ago I had not contemplated or imagined.”

  “Even as I sought a vengeance and found a jest when I chanted this Dreamer to sleep. Saidi, you are a man after my own heart; and your fancy appeals to me. You please me exceedingly. And I think it could be arranged. Yet listen well: in the end you must leave me, and take your place among those who sit motionless in the courtyard above us. The hour is at hand; for there is one here of whom I have for some time been weary, and who will soon occupy the twelfth pedestal.”

  The girl paused, flung into a censer at the Dreamer’s feet a handful of incense, and resumed as she turned to face Schamas ad Din, “But think well, Son of the Old Tiger. A lesser vengeance, and one such as you contemplated when you sought me, could be bought much more cheaply… Go back to the courtyard and ponder with clear sky over your head. For only that old rogue of an Ismeddin ever escaped the penalty…”

  The girl smiled reminiscently and fondly, then continued, “And it is no jesting matter, this sitting cross-legged on a pedestal when I have tired of you. Nor would Maksoud find a cheaper vengeance at all pleasant.”

  Yet her eyes belied the discouragement her lips spoke. The sultan ceased comparing her to the women of Gurjestan and Tcherkess, for she was incomparable. Even his jest and his vengeance were trifling…

  The sultan disengaged himself from her perfumed embrace.

  “Ismeddin is waiting.”

  And Schamas ad Din ascended the winding incline, smiling and stroking his curled beard.