Waters, show us, let us see
Exactly who our seemers be!
Rich or poor, or high or low,
Show us to whom these Moors do bow!
No matter how rich or poor his quarters,
Show us who really gives the orders!”
The pool clouded, then cleared, and they found themselves staring at the gorgeous pavilion, all right—but it was to the side of the bowl. In its center stood a small, unassuming tent, bigger than most, but nowhere near as big as many. An ordinary soldier sat at its door, dressed in a camel rider’s robe and head cloth held by a braided camel-hair rope—but he was studying a huge old book in his lap.
Saul improvised:
“Now may my spells his book engage,
Let us see and read his page.”
The picture swelled until one leaf filled the bowl, but they still couldn’t read it—it was in Arabic. But they could understand the geometric symbols they saw, at least the pentagram and the elaborate, curlicued decahedron.
“He’s thinking about warding spells, all right!” Saul said.
The book slammed shut.
Mama cried,
“Raise the view a little space!
Let us look upon his face!”
“Hey, that’s my spell,” Saul objected.
The bowl didn’t seem to mind; it blurred as the view tilted up, then steadied on a face that was frowning upward, searching the sky, a very ordinary Berber face, mostly African but partly Arabic, though not as dark a brown as some, with wide brown eyes and a small, neatly trimmed mustache and beard.
“I shall remember you,” Mama promised the image.
The sorcerer’s frown didn’t change, but he waved a hand across his face, and the bowl went cloudy. When it cleared, it was only water again.
Saul sat back with a sigh. “You were right. The real commander is a sorcerer disguised as a minor officer. He knows we’re on to him now.”
“Much good may that do him.” Mama smiled. “But it will do far more good for us.”
“Just what are you planning?” Saul asked warily.
“Female magic,” Mama answered. “Good day, Saul.”
Saul watched with trepidation as she went back into the castle. He watched with even more trepidation an hour later, when she came out wearing a gown that was officially demure and modest, with a high neckline, long loose sleeves, and a hem that brushed the toes of small cordovan slippers—officially demure, but clinging to her figure in ways that should have classified it as a lethal weapon.
“Lady Mantrell!” Saul exclaimed, shocked. “What are you doing?” After all, everyone knew that mothers weren’t supposed to be sexually attractive, especially mothers of grown sons.
“Only what I have done every day since this siege began, Saul,” she told him, “patrolling the battlements and encouraging our soldiers.”
Well, she certainly raised the morale of the soldiers, even though her manner was far from alluring—but between sentry posts, she moved with a languid grace that would have made Saul feel like baying at the moon, if he hadn’t had a wife of his own. In a panic, he wondered what duty he owed to Matt. Sure, he was supposed to protect Mama from the Moors—but was he really supposed to protect the Moors from Mama?
Stegoman dropped them at sunset and went off to hunt. Matt stretched. “At this rate, I’m going to have saddle sores.”
“Yes, and you don’t even have a saddle.” Papa smiled. “Was it not pleasant to have so uneventful a flight?”
“Seems that’s what I always said whenever I reached O’Hare Airport. But it was kinda nice not to see any genies trying to swat us out of the air.”
Callio looked up from his own stretching, alarmed.
“Yes, I had expected at least one such run-in,” Papa admitted. “Do you suppose Lakshmi and her associates have spread the word to leave us alone?”
“That wouldn’t matter to lamp-slaves and ring-slaves. They have to do as they’re told, no matter what.”
“True,” Papa said thoughtfully. “Perhaps the word has also run to the sorcerers who hold the lamps and the rings, and they are holding back for fear of having the genies freed.”
“That could be a really well-earned fear, for some of them,” Matt agreed. “There might be a genie or two wanting revenge.” He shuddered at the thought of a maimed and dying sorcerer, then reminded himself sternly that one less enemy shouldn’t bother him—should it?
“Are we truly apt to be attacked by a genie?” Callio quavered.
“It happened yesterday,” Matt told him, “and another time before that, too. Look, you don’t have to come along, you know.”
“Oh, but I wish to!” Callio developed a faraway gaze. “Perhaps I am fortunate in not having met you sooner.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” Matt sighed. “Well, down to practicalities. How are you at lighting a campfire?”
The thief answered with a mirthless smile. “I have done it more nights than not, Lord Wizard.”
“I knew there was a reason we brought you along. How about lighting up for us, okay?”
“My delight!”
“Always like to see a man doing something he enjoys.” Matt turned to Papa. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in hunting?”
Papa shrugged. “There is always the...”
Puffs of dust shot up from the ground in a semicircle around their feet. Matt stared at them. “Now, what do you suppose that could be?”
The wind brought them a sound like a string of firecrackers blowing.
“Enemy fire!” snapped Papa. “Get down!” To emphasize the point, he swung a leg, knocking Matt’s feet out from under him, then fell beside him—just in time, for bullets kicked up dust behind them.
“What evil magic is that?” Callio asked, facedown in the dirt.
“A rapid-fire spell!” Matt shouted.
“Roll into the streambed, quickly!” Papa cried.
They did, with bullets kicking dust about them, following them, reaching them only as they fell into the little trench. Callio cried out in pain and fear.
“Let me see it.” Matt crawled over to him and took his arm. The blood oozed out over Callio’s homespun sleeve. “Only a flesh wound. Here.” Matt tore off the bottom of the man’s tunic and wrapped it around the arm. “We’ll fix it when we’ve chased away the, ah, enemy sorcerer. How’s the pain?”
“I can bear it,” Callio whimpered, “but how shall I steal with only one hand?”
“Very carefully,” Matt told him, and slapped him on the other shoulder. “Buck up—we all have setbacks.” He squirmed over to Papa, reflecting that maybe he wouldn’t have to check his wallet every fifteen minutes from now on.
He came up beside his father, who had found a stick and wadded bulrushes about it.
“What kind of gun is it?” Matt asked.
“An automatic weapon of some sort,” Papa answered. The wad of bulrushes was about as big as his head now; he stuck it up above the bank. Puffs of dirt exploded all along the bank. Finally the wad blew apart. A few seconds later, they heard the chatter of the shots. “An assault rifle, from the sound of it,” Papa said, “and although he’s not the greatest marksman in the world, he is good enough.”
“How do you define ‘good enough’?”
“By whether or not I stay alive,” Papa said grimly. “I did not know that gunpowder could work here.”
“It can’t,” Matt said, then frowned. “No, come to think of it, I’ve never tried gunpowder itself, without a spell to help.”
“But it will work with a spell?”
“Empty cartridges will work, with a spell.” Matt’s eyes lost focus. “Come to think of it, maybe even without cartridges...”
“Catch up on your research and development later,” Papa told him. “For now, let’s see if we can’t find a way to stop the dunderhead.” He started to crawl along the streambed.
“Wait.” Matt reached out and touched his shoulder. “Let’s figure out wh
at we’re up against first. If it’s an assault rifle, how did it get here?”
“Yes, the weaponry is a little advanced for this universe,” Papa said, frowning, “though as you’ve just pointed out, it may not be a real assault rifle—only a local imitation.”
“It still means that whoever made it copied the design from our universe,” Matt said. “That kind of limits the possibilities.”
“Why? We know this Nirobus of yours doesn’t do the actual dirty work himself—he sends others to do it for him. Why couldn’t he teach some local peasant how to handle the weapon?”
“That would account for the marksmanship,” Matt agreed. “Even if Nirobus imported the sniper from New Jersey, though, he’d be unfamiliar enough with the territory so that he wouldn’t be sure what to shoot at.”
“And would therefore shoot at anything that moved,” Papa said grimly. “I shall have to go very carefully.” He turned away.
Matt caught his arm. “Hold on. My universe, my risk.”
“You have more of your life left to live,” Papa objected.
“You have plenty, too, though, and some unborn grand-children left to see. I’m pulling rank, Papa—youth before beauty.”
Papa frowned. “I don’t think you have the quotation quite right.”
“Good enough to get by you, though.” Matt squirmed past him, then turned back to cut off his protest. “Besides, you can do a better job keeping his attention.”
“I can?” Papa asked, wide-eyed. “How?”
“However you did in the Marines! Just keep him shooting, if you can do it safely—the less ammunition he has, the better.”
Matt left him thinking and crawled on down the streambed. He didn’t know what Papa was planning, only knew that every now and then, he heard a burst of firing behind him. He hoped Papa wasn’t getting reckless, and began to be afraid—the veteran seemed to be determined to take a risk. He reminded himself that his father had always been the cautious sort and crawled on.
The streambed widened out where it joined a drainage ditch coming from another field. Matt sat up on his heels, considering. He could crawl up the ditch to the hills, but that would take so long a time that the enemy might have fled, and Matt had no great desire to have a sniper following them. On the other hand, what kind of magic could bring him in behind the other man unnoticed?
A dust devil suddenly boiled up from the streambed. Matt shrank back, hissing, “Keep down!”
The tiny whirlwind fell in on itself into voluptuous, if diminutive, contours, and Lakshmi stood before him in miniature. “I thank you for your kind thoughts, wizard, but I had already realized the need for discretion.”
Coming from her, that wasn’t entirely reassuring. “Uh—good to see you again,” Matt said lamely. “Sorry I can’t talk just now, but I have to go kill off somebody before he kills me.”
“So I see,” Lakshmi told him. “I shall be glad to take you to him—for a price.”
Somehow, Matt had a notion what the price would be. “Thanks, but my mommy told me not to talk to strange women.”
“Ah, but you know me well by now.”
“Yeah, but you’re one of the strangest women I’ve ever met.” Matt held up a palm. “Sorry, no offense—but you are the first female genie I’ve seen, if you don’t count the one on television, and she was just an actress.”
“Actress?” Lakshmi frowned. “A player, you mean?”
“Not in any game I’ve ever heard of, no. Sorry, but I can’t afford to take on any more debts right now—I’m in up to my neck as it is.”
“Perhaps I should slay this cowardly assassin for you, then.”
“Nice thought,” Matt said, with what he hoped was a grateful grin, “but I need him alive, at least temporarily. I have to ask him a few questions.”
“He will be in more of a mood to answer them when I have done with him,” Lakshmi said ominously, and turned into a whirlwind again—a small one, that died down as quickly as it had come.
Matt stared at the pattern it had left with a sinking heart. He turned and started crawling back to Papa. A flock of crows flew overhead, toward the sniper. He wondered who had sent them.
Then suddenly, there was a wild burst of machine-gun fire. The crows came shooting back, cawing frantically. Then the machine gun went silent, and Matt pushed himself to his feet and sprinted, doubled over. Somehow he suspected what had happened and wanted to be there before Lakshmi.
“Matthew! Get down!” Papa called as he came into sight.
Matt shook his head, though, and came panting up just as the whirlwind careered down from the sky and dumped a black-clad bundle into the ditch before it turned into Lakshmi, ten feet tall and glowing with anger. “The fool had the audacity to strike at me!”
“They went through her!” the black-clad bundle howled, still curled in a ball. “They went right through her, and she didn’t even notice!”
“Oh, I noticed, well enough!” Lakshmi snapped. “They were quite painful, I assure you!” She turned to Matt. “You will understand, therefore, if he is not completely unharmed.”
Matt frowned. “I don’t see any blood.”
“It is not a cut or a wound, but knots tied in certain muscles,” Lakshmi said evenly. “It is well I went in your place, mortal man, for this is truly one of the hashishim.”
Matt stared. “The original assassins?”
“The same. He is dazed with hashish, or something much like it, and sent to slay you so that he can obtain more from his master.”
“Thank you,” Matt said, feeling totally inadequate. “Thank you very much. I—I’m sorry I can’t show my gratitude in any more tangible way.”
“I am scarcely in the mood for it now! See if you cannot find better company to keep!” Then the whirlwind kicked up about her, absorbing her, and disappeared.
Matt nudged the black bundle with his toe. “She’s gone. You can come out now.”
“For real?” The assassin unwound enough to risk a peek. “Really gone?”
Papa stared. “Luco?!??!?”
Mama sat in her chamber, brushing her hair with long, languid strokes, singing a pensive melody, ostensibly alone.
The air shimmered, a heat-haze that slowly thickened until it disappeared with a soft explosion. Mama turned, wide-eyed, heart racing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The sorcerer-commander stood there in her boudoir, but he had changed his camel rider’s habit for a white silken robe with a purple sleeveless surcoat, and a turban of cloth-of-gold. He bowed, touching forehead, lips, and breast. “I greet you, O Fairest of the Fair!”
“I am not fair, but dark!” Mama’s voice trembled.
“Hair like a raven’s wings, eyes like those of a gazelle,” the sorcerer breathed. “I am Beidizam, commander of the forces at your gate—as you know.”
Mama came to her feet in one lithe movement, raising a quivering hand to ward him off. “What do you in my chamber, sir?”
“What should a man of youth and vigor wish, in the chamber of a beautiful woman?” Beidizam breathed.
“Sir!” Mama cried. “You insult me!”
“I certainly did not intend to do so.” But Beidizam’s eyes glittered with contempt as well as lust. “I wish only to give praise where it is due, and to establish a feeling of friendliness.”
“Friendliness?” Mama drew back a little more, eyes wary. “Strange words, for the man who besieges my city!”
“Ah, but though we are enemies, surely we may converse in civil tones,” Beidizam protested, “for it has occurred to me that a conference between the two commanders might be of benefit to us both.” The sorcerer raised a palm to forestall her objections. “Do not deny it—I felt your regard as I sat before my tent, reflecting upon the wizardry of the ancient Greeks. For my part, I have watched you on the battlements, and have seen that, although the Witch Doctor and the Black Knight command with you, it is as often your spells that balk my army as theirs. No wonder, when they are cast by a lady
of such loveliness!”
“I am only one castellan of three!” Mama objected. “I cannot answer for all of us! You must speak to us in unison, sir, or not at all!” She frowned. “But surely you know that. Why do you seek me out separately?”
“What man would not seek to be alone with such a beauty?” Beidizam stepped forward and caught her hand. “You are a woman of passions, long estranged from your man—and the ways of the Franks are well known, how they make gods of their women, and the women grow willful and wanton thereby. Oh, the attitudes of the Frankish women are famous, I assure you.” He pressed her hand to his lips.
Mama snatched it away. “But you may not know of the loyalty of Frankish women, of our devotion to our husbands and to the chastity our Church so praises!”
“As you do not know of the skills of Muslim men,” the sorcerer said, voice low and husky, “of how intimately we know women, of the heights of ecstasy to which we...”
A dull thud dammed his stream of talk. His eyes glazed for a moment before he fell.
Mama stepped away from the unconscious man, scrubbing her hand against her robe. “Thank Heaven you were here, Sir Guy! It has been many years since I met a man who so disgusted me with his contempt for women!”
“Tapestries have many uses,” Sir Guy said, “and you were quite clever in drawing his attention so that his back was to me.” He tucked the cudgel into his belt, looking down on Beidizam with distaste. “Much though I mislike striking a man from behind, I must admit it is the only way to capture a sorcerer. Still, considering how greatly he wished to take advantage of you, and how little chance he meant to allow you to refuse, I think I can contain my shame.” He pulled a cord from his waist and knelt to tie the sorcerer’s hands and feet.
Mama took a strip of muslin from her dressing table and handed it to him. “Gag him well, Sir Guy. He must not speak until we wish him to—no, not in any language.”
“Help me!” Luco howled. “I’ve got cramps in all five limbs!”
“Oh, for crying out softly,” Matt said in disgust, and pantomimed untying a knot as he chanted,
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