My Son, the Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  Tafas almost managed to keep his shudder from showing. “A horrible fate! But how can people find new things to learn? Once you have memorized the Koran, what else is there to know?”

  Somehow, Matt didn’t doubt this kid had memorized every letter of the holy book. “There is an ocean of commentary, just to begin with, which is what turns a man into a quadi, a judge, or a muzzein. Then, too, did you learn strategy from the Koran, or from campaigning?”

  “I see your thought.” Tafas carefully evaded the question. “Perhaps it is that the Koran is life, and there is always more to learn about it.”

  Some of the older men around the room were frowning. They had the look of clerics about them, and Matt decided to tread warily. “God is infinite, milord. We can never be done learning about Him—but we must never shirk the obligation to do so, either.”

  One or two of the old men nodded grudgingly, and Tafas’ eyes brightened. “That is quite true. Really, for an unbeliever, you show remarkable knowledge of the Faith. Are you sure you do not wish to profess Islam?”

  Time to tread warily here, but the pride in Papa’s eyes boosted Matt’s confidence. “Rather, milord, I wish that all men who serve God by any name should ally with one another against the forces of Evil. Instead, we fight one another; instead, you have brought fire and sword into Ibile. Why did you not strike while Gordogrosso held this land in bondage, when your swords could have been striking the agents of Satan?”

  “Why, the greatest reason is that I was too young.” Tafas smiled, secure on home ground again. “As soon as I was old enough to bear arms, though, I did strike.”

  “But not against King Gordogrosso, who served Satan and who used evil magic to make himself young time and time again, so that he might rule Ibile for hundreds of years.” Matt frowned. “Why did the armies of Islam not surge up from Morocco when he first usurped the throne? Why didn’t the Moors attack him at any time during the centuries that followed?”

  Tafas frowned. “I cannot answer for men who died before I was born.”

  They both knew the answer, of course—that Gordogrosso was ruthless and unbelievably cruel, and would have delighted in destroying any invaders in the most painful ways possible. But Rinaldo, being devoted to God and Good and Right, would show mercy to an enemy, and wait to attack until he was sure he couldn’t make peace. He also wouldn’t force every available man to fight for him, throwing the untrained against the Moors to die by thousands, wearing down the invaders so that the professionals could finish them off—and he wouldn’t call up demons to slaughter God-fearing enemies, either, as Gordogrosso would have done.

  But there was no way to say that diplomatically; no matter how you phrased it, it would still sound like, “You guys were too chicken to attack when that ruthless sadist was on the throne, but now that the good guys have kicked him out, you’ve got courage enough to attack the nice ones who fight by the rules.”

  Instead, Matt said, “Now that devout and godly people rule Ibile, it is no time for servants of God to go fighting one another, Lord Tafas.”

  The old men frowned, but the Mahdi replied, quite calmly, “Islam must triumph throughout all the world, Lord Wizard. Ibile must surrender to Allah, and I am born to bring that to happen. Indeed, if Allah would have seen fit to bring me to life a hundred years ago, I would have marched an army against Ibile then, too.”

  Matt didn’t doubt it—but he was pretty sure that Nirobus, or whoever had put Tafas up to this, wouldn’t have tried to talk him into it as long as the draconian Gordogrosso was on the throne. In fact, if Matt hadn’t been foolish enough to volunteer for the job in an unguarded moment, and if Heaven hadn’t poured as much moral support in as it could, Gordogrosso would still be ruling Ibile, and he doubted if any sorcerers would have tried to light a fire under Tafas then.

  On the other hand, since those sorcerers probably worked for the same master as Gordogrosso, they probably wouldn’t have been allowed to challenge him—though Matt had noticed that Satan didn’t seem to mind how many of his servants killed each other off, as long as they didn’t weaken his side in the process. Seemed to encourage them, in fact.

  But that did raise the question of who Nirobus was working for. Were the Moors just pawns in a Hell-sponsored countercoup? If they were, what would happen to them when they had done Nirobus’ dirty work for him? More immediately, what would happen to this clean-cut young Mahdi?

  This wasn’t quite the time to say that, though—Tafas wasn’t exactly in a mood to listen. Instead, Matt forced a smile and tried to hide his own skepticism. “I’m sure you would have attacked against any odds, my lord—if you had been born in those days.”

  For a moment, the Mahdi’s whole face seemed to glow. “If I had been born, and if there had been a messenger from Allah to set me the task.”

  Papa recognized hero worship when he heard it. “You met such a messenger, then?”

  “I did,” Tafas answered, beaming.

  “Tell us of him,” Papa invited, “of this man who taught you of Islam’s destiny, and your own. What manner of clergyman was he?”

  “He is a sage—not a clergyman, but a holy hermit living in a cave high in the Rif hills.” Tafas’ eyes glowed with fervor. “I came upon him while I was herding goats. ‘Why do you sit here idle, Tafas?’ he asked. Do you not see? He had never laid eyes on me, but he knew my name!”

  “Very impressive.” Matt could think of half a dozen ways to learn a name, only two of which involved magic. Of course, the little problem of finding a boy who was a military genius, but who didn’t know it, was another matter entirely. “So it was he who showed you your destiny.”

  “Of course.” Tafas fairly glowed with serenity, with the sure knowledge of his mission.

  It bordered on the kind of smugness that always made Matt angry. He fought the emotion down and asked, “What did he look like, this sage?”

  “Quite simply dressed, but his robes were of a quality of cloth that I had never seen before, like silk, only thicker. They were midnight blue, and his beard and hair were gray. His eyes, though, were the arresting, magical feature of him—shining eyes they were, of silver, and made all his face seem to glow! I knew on the instant that I addressed a holy man, an emissary of Allah.”

  The old men murmured pious Arabic phrases. Matt, however, recognized the description of Nirobus without any difficulty, though he would have described his eyes as gray, not silver—and the cloth had to be polyester! “He showed you your destiny by quoting the Koran?”

  “No. He set his fingers on my temples and brought up visions behind my eyes—visions of the siege of Aldocer, of an army of Moors marching toward Vellese, of victory after victory to claim Ibile!”

  “But no mention of the Koran,” Matt said, frowning.

  “No. First he sent me to wizards, who imbued me with strength and taught me the use of weapons, of the strategies and tactics of all the generals who had conquered Northern Africa before me. Then, when they judged me ready, they sent me to the mosque in Casablanca, to present myself to the muzzein. He knew me for what I was at a glance and took me to the emir, who allowed me to swear allegiance to him, then made me a general over one of his armies and enjoined me to conquer Ibile.”

  “Oh, I’ll just bet he did.” Matt had a vision of a shrewd middle-aged man recognizing a talented, charismatic upstart who could gather enough of a following to strike a coup d’etat. No wonder the emir had sent him off to pick a fight with a whole country and get himself killed. How could the emir have known Tafas would win?

  But he had won—and that, of course, made him a real threat to the throne. Somehow Matt had a notion that if he needed allies against Tafas, the Emir of Morocco would volunteer for the head of the list.

  “But it was the sage, the holy man in the hills in his wondrous robes of blue, who gave this victory into my hand!” Tafas enthused.

  “But you have said yourself that he wasn’t a clergyman,” Matt said, frowning. “Can he really be holy if he
sends you to cause pain and suffering? Can the work he wishes you to do by fire and the sword really be God’s work?”

  The old men stiffened, glaring, and set up a furious babble. The soldiers stiffened, too, and took firmer grips on their spears.

  But Tafas only held up his hand and waited for silence. When it came, he told Matt serenely, “Suffering is only momentary, Lord Wizard.”

  “Tell that to the widow who must scrape out a bare living because her husband was slain in war,” Matt countered.

  “Hunger is illusion,” Tafas told him, still serene. “All suffering is illusion.”

  “Mighty painful illusion.”

  “It is not real people who are cut or beaten,” Tafas explained. “Martyrs for Islam are snatched away at the last second, and stocks put in their place. That which is hurt is not truly human—indeed, it is only a waking dream, and does not exist at all.”

  Matt stared. Could the poor naive kid really believe that line?

  Before he could collect his wits to answer, though, Papa frowned and said, “Shame on you, young man, for regarding people as objects, not true beings! Do you think ordinary peasants slain in war will be whisked away to Heaven before any great pain is visited upon them? Do you truly believe one of these ‘stocks’ you mention will be set in the place of a woman about to be raped, that the screams and cries for mercy will come from the throat of some sort of magical automaton?”

  “Allah would not permit such suffering!” Tafas protested.

  “Yet real people suffer every day, and a thousand times worse when war tears them apart. Their cries will rend your ears every night, young man, and their deaths will weigh heavily on your conscience.”

  “Human life has value only insofar as it advances the cause of Islam!” one of the old men snapped.

  “Every human life is sacred to God,” Papa retorted. “You hurt Him when you hurt anyone, no matter how poor or worthless they may seem.”

  “Blasphemy!” the imam cried. “Mahdi, you have heard the heresy for yourself. It is thus that Christians seek to make gods of men!”

  “Your war is a Holy War, O Mahdi!” cried another. “Surely you cannot believe the words of your enemies! They seek only to prevent your winning Ibile for Allah!”

  “We wish Moors and Christians to be friends,” Matt protested.

  “Yes,” snapped another old man, “with the Moors in Morocco and the Christians in Ibile! Lord Tafas, can you not see how they seek to betray your goodwill?”

  “I see that they seek to thwart the cause of Islam,” Tafas said heavily. “Yet we cannot simply hew off the head of the Lord Wizard of Merovence.”

  “If you do, you shall rid yourself of one of the most powerful of your enemies!”

  Matt took a deep breath, recalling a particularly gory passage from Byron.

  “If I do behead him,” Tafas said, “I shall bring down the full wrath of the Queen of Merovence and all her allies, and though I am ready for her alone, I am not yet strong enough to fight such a coalition. No, I must consider most carefully how to deal with this unbeliever.” His voice was very sad. “It is a shame that you cannot see the truth, Lord Wizard. I would have valued your friendship.”

  “That friendship was offered, Lord Tafas.” Fear riddled Matt—to say the least, he and Papa were outnumbered. But he kept his voice level. “It still is.”

  “Such friendship cannot be lightly turned away,” Tafas replied, “but I must consider carefully how I am to respond, without wronging you or betraying the cause of Islam. You will be my guests for the night, and have every comfort we can provide.”

  “Every luxury except freedom, huh?”

  “That, I fear, I cannot accord you.” Tafas waved to the guards. “Raise a pavilion and escort our guests to its shelter.”

  The guards bowed, then turned on Matt and Papa, half a dozen of them, huge, muscular, and glaring.

  Papa braced himself, frowning.

  “You are very kind,” Matt said quickly. “We are fortunate in your hospitality.” He bowed, then turned away toward the door. “I get to try room service first, Papa.”

  Papa stared, taken by surprise, then smiled and followed Matt.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The pavilion was of silk, but the guards walked the two men around it several times as it was being raised, no doubt to point out the lack of a back door, and to introduce them to the sentries who were standing, two by two, at each corner.

  “It’s nice to feel secure,” Matt told Papa.

  Papa gave him a peculiar look, but only said, “Yes, it will be pleasant to sleep in safety.”

  When the pavilion was up and the front flap raised to form an awning, they went in. A guard lit a lamp for them; another set out a bowl and pitcher for washing, a third placed a tray with a small brass pot and two shot-glass-sized cups. They all retreated, bowing, leaving the father-and-son team alone.

  “Not bad.” Matt looked around at the walls of maroon silk, letting himself enjoy the feeling of the thick Oriental carpet beneath his feet. “Certainly a lot better than some of the jails I’ve been in.”

  Papa stared. Then he frowned, stern and forbidding. “You have been in jail?”

  “At least once a year, ever since I came to Merovence. Has something to do with fighting evil tyrants for the sake of the rightful queen.” He smiled at Papa. “Of course, when you’re in love with her, it’s worth the inconvenience.”

  Papa stared for a moment, then gave him a smile that combined warmth, shared understanding, and pride. “As long as you weren’t doing anything wrong.”

  “Only by the most puritanical definition. In fact, in this world, you can land in prison for doing right.”

  Papa grinned. “Well, if you were a respectable criminal, I cannot but approve.”

  “Anyway, it’s the first jail I’ve seen here that had coffee.” Matt stepped over to the low table, sank down on the cushions around it, and inhaled the strong, heady aroma from the little brass coffeepot. “In fact, it’s the first coffee I’ve seen anywhere in this world! After we get this little misunderstanding about conquest straightened out, we’ll have to see about establishing trade.”

  “You’re not really planning to sit there and do nothing!”

  “What can I do?” But Matt pointed toward the silken wall, then pointed to his ear.

  Papa’s eyes widened. He got the message—every word they said was going to be heard very clearly. He sank down on the cushions across from Matt, reached inside his medieval doublet, and pulled out a very modern notepad and ballpoint.

  Matt grinned. “The old professor strikes again, eh?” Papa nodded at the wall and pointed at his ear, saying, “Lifetime habits don’t die just because of a change of scene.”

  It was true; Matt couldn’t remember his father ever being without writing materials in some pocket or another. Still, he had to keep the chatter going, or the people outside would start wondering what mischief he was conjuring up.

  Papa seemed to be thinking the same way. “It’s my fault that we are here at all. I’m sorry for my outburst, Matthew. I simply could not bear to hear such specious reasoning any longer.” But he pushed the pad over to Matt.

  “Don’t worry—you were only ahead of me by a minute or so.” Matt scribbled a note on the pad. “Mind you, I would have tried to put it nicely, but it still would have sounded like blasphemy to them. Christianity and Islam may come from the same source, but there really is a fundamental difference in the way they see the world.”

  He turned the pad around so Papa could read it: We’re going to break out, of course.

  “A fundamental difference, yes.” Papa took the pen and scribbled a response. “But I recognize the boy’s attitude. He is a typical adolescent, assuming that he is right, and that anyone older must be wrong.” He passed the pad back. It bore one single word: How?

  Matt grinned. “Mark Twain’s old line about being eighteen, and realizing that his father was so stupid he was ashamed to be seen with h
im?” He took the pen and wrote, I’ll try a few magical probes first, to see if they’ve put prison spells on us. If they haven’t, I’ll have us ten miles away in a jiffy.

  “Yes,” Papa said, to both spoken and written comments. Matt started writing again, and Papa added, “Of course, Twain went on to say that when he was twenty-two, he was amazed to discover how much the old man had learned in four years.”

  Matt turned the pad around for Papa to read, feeling he should say something in defense of the younger generation. “On the other hand, when the elders agree with the teenager, he’s really sure he’s right. Me, I’d put Tafas’ attitude down to a good old-fashioned case of religious fanaticism.”

  Papa read, then wrote, What if they have chained us with magic? But aloud, he said, “Fanaticism, yes, and adolescents are especially subject to intense and narrow convictions.” He smiled. “Convictions which experience, and greater knowledge, sometimes prove to be entirely wrong.”

  Matt wrote, Then we have to outsmart their spells. But Papa’s spoken comments were making him squirm inside as he recognized himself at seventeen—and eighteen, and nineteen. “You just taught college for too long,” he protested. “Me, I was only a teaching fellow for a couple of years—not long enough to become jaded.”

  “But long enough for a little tarnish to cloud your ideals?” Papa’s eyes were gentle with sympathy—but he read the note and wrote back, That will take time, no?

  “A little,” Matt allowed, then clarified, “A little jaded. I did decide that not all college students really wanted to learn, anyway.” He wrote, It could take a while, yes. Any urgent appointments?

  “But they do expect to receive high grades.” Papa wrote, Not I, but perhaps you do.