“And thereby increased the power of Evil?”
Matt nodded. “I hope we find the city in the hands of the godly.”
“Jews, Christians, or Muslims?”
“That’s right,” Matt said. “Purr a little, will you? Maybe that will help me sleep.”
Balkis turned herself around twice to curl up, then tucked her nose between her paws and began to purr as requested. For a moment Matt remembered that it was really a nubile and beautiful teenager curled up on his stomach, then told himself he was being ridiculous—Balkis was at least as much a cat as a woman. Of course, he could have said that about several other teenagers he’d known during his own adolescence, but that was another matter entirely.
In the morning, Rocky picked them up, rug and all, and flew west again. Matt wondered why rocs weren’t vegetarians, like so many birds, then remembered that if they were, they would never have had time to do anything but eat. No wonder they needed their calories in as dense a form as possible.
In late afternoon they came to Damascus, and found it surrounded by a churning ring of warriors half a mile deep.
Matt heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank Heaven! The Holy City is still holy!”
“Where can I land here?” Rocky asked, fretting.
“No need,” Matt said. “We still have a flying throw rug. Just soar up a mile or so and drop us.”
Balkis yowled protest.
Matt overrode her. “That will give us plenty of time to unroll and start flying before we’re anywhere near the ground. Thanks for the ride, Rocky.”
“You are welcome,” the roc boomed. “This will make a great tale to tell my nestlings, when next I hatch a batch of eggs.”
Matt would have answered, but the roc dropped the rug, and for the next few minutes he had his hands full reciting flying spells and trying to dig Balkis’ claws out of his arm. By the time he was again settled cross-legged, with Balkis peering out over his ankles, the bird was only a speck in the eastern sky, leaving Matt to marvel over the only mother he’d ever known with the nickname of “Rocky.”
Matt circled the biggest building he could find, on the theory that it would be either the most important mosque—Jerusalem being currently in Muslim hands—or the local palace. Sure enough, guards on the walls raised the alarm, and archers came running out to shoot at him. Matt wished for the Western clothing he had lost to the pirates, but went on spiraling down to the courtyard, chanting,
The arrows leaped up, then turned and darted down, some without reaching the rug, some after arching high overhead. Balkis followed the highest with her gaze. “Was that a long shot?”
“No, Longfellow,” Matt said. “Oh! You mean the arrow? Yes, a long shot indeed, and it’s lucky for us it didn’t payoff.”
Balkis peeked over the edge. “Have you a verse for spearmen?”
“Probably, but I’ll see if I can’t lance the boil of suspicion.” Matt stood up as the rug settled to the ground, his hands up high, and tried the first Arabic phrase he had learned. “Salaam aleikum!” Peace be with you.
The spearman with the biggest turban froze in the act of stabbing and frowned suspiciously. He spoke in Arabic, but the translation spell gave Matt his meaning. “What are you?”
Unfortunately, the spell only worked one way. “Frank,” Matt said, hoping the word was the same in both languages. “Magic.”
“That you have magic, we can easily see!” the big-turbaned man said—probably the captain of the guard. “And yes, you have the pale skin of a Frank. But why are you robed as a Guebre?”
Guebre? What was a Guebre?
A Zoroastrian, obviously. After all, if they dressed like Parsis … “I have recently come from their land.”
The guardsman frowned. “What? Speak in Arabic! I cannot understand you!”
Matt sighed—no help for it but to make the translation spell work both ways.
The spear jabbed his ribs. “No spells!”
Matt’s mouth hung open in alarm. Without the spell he wouldn’t be able to make himself understood.
A meowing voice recited,
“What you hear’s not what I say …”
A quick glance down showed the cat with her head lowered so the guard wouldn’t see her mouth moving.
The guard looked around, not thinking to look down, on the edge of mayhem. “Are you a voice-thrower?”
Balkis meowed on,
She broke off, stumped for a rhyme that would close the verse with the first line.
The guard set his spear against Matt’s throat. “How are you making these sourceless sounds, sorcerer? Reply!”
Inspiration struck Matt. I f the guard couldn ‘t understand, how would the man know that he wasn’t answering? Completing the spell Balkis had last spoken, he said, with an ingratiating smile,
“Let translation work each way!”
Balkis breathed a sigh of relief; the verse was whole.
The guardsman glanced down in surprise, noticing her for the first time, but apparently deciding she was no bother. He looked up to twitch his spear, glaring at Matt. “Tell me your name and business without your magic, or you will lose your life!”
It was only a prick, but it raised a cold sweat. “All right, all right! No need to be so huffy!”
“I assure you there is great need, with our caliph’s life at stake!” The guardsman’s lips curved into a harsh smile. “So you can speak Arabic after all!”
Matt stared, realizing that the man had understood what he’d said. He reminded himself to give Balkis an extra sardine, if he could find one. “What’s a Guebre?”
“A fire-worshiper.” The guardsman frowned. “How can you wear their robes and not know how they are called?”
“Because the people who gave me these robes are called Parsis,” Matt explained. “They’re much farther east than your Guebres, but they’re of the same faith—Mazdaeans, worshipers of Ahura Mazda and followers of the prophet Zoroaster. We were captured by minions of the gur-khan’s high priest, Arjasp, and the Mazdaeans saved us.”
The guard stared. “You know the name of the gur-khan’s high priest?”
“We do now,” Matt said. “As I told you, we had a run-in with his thugs.”
The captain of the guard frowned. “Who are you, Frank?”
“Matthew Mantrell, Lord Wizard of Merovence,” Matt told him, “here in answer to the Caliph’s letter to Queen Alisande.”
“The Frankish queen’s husband?” The captain of the guard lowered his spear, staring in horror as he realized who he’d been threatening.
On the west wall, Jimena faced the Duke of Gurundibyr and a long snaking tunnel of hardened leather that wove its way up the slope to the wall, where the men inside would start digging away at the foundations, possibly even planting a charge of some magical explosive to bring the stones down.
“How would you have us fight that mining engine, Lady Mantrell?” asked Sir Orin, captain of the troops on her wall.
“Will arrows pierce that armor?” Jimena asked.
“Let us see,” Sir Orin said. He turned to his archers and called, “Spit me that worm! Loose!”