Even as his face echoed her alarm, Ramon objected, “But they have at least one nurse always in attendance, and guards at their door!”
“What use is that against an experienced sorcerer?” Jimena snapped, and turned on her heel, catching up her gown to give her freedom to run. “Come, Ramon! We must be sure of their safety!”
CHAPTER 13
The guards at the door scarcely had time to snap to attention before Jimena burst past them and into the nursery. She stopped dead in her tracks, and Ramon almost slammed into her. Even as he skidded to a halt he saw her hand go to her lips and heard her long, keening, mournful cry. Staring at the room over her head, he saw the princess’ cradle, the prince’s little bed, the bright toys scattered over the floor, and the jolly pictures painted on the wall—but no grandchildren. The nursery was bare.
The captain of the Caliph’s guard bowed to Matt. “Forgive this unworthy one, O Esteemed One!”
“Forgive you for what?” Now it was Matt who stared. “For doing your job well? For protecting your ruler to the best of your ability? That calls for praise, not forgiveness!”
The guard straightened up, incredulous and wary. “I had heard the Franks were without mercy.”
“Propaganda.” Matt waved the idea away. “Atrocity stories. The gur-khan’s high priest worships the Prince of Lies, worthy soldier. We must all be wary of rumors from now on. Do you suppose you could tell the Caliph I’m here?”
“At once, effendi!” The captain turned to bark an order to a subordinate, and the guard ran back into the palace. Then the captain half bowed, extending an arm toward the doorway. “Will you come in out of the sun?”
“That would be nice, thanks.” Matt stopped to roll up the rug and tuck it under one arm. A ten-pound weight hit his shoulder, shifting as he straightened; a furry tail brushed one ear, whiskers the other. He went where the nice man pointed, managing not to show his wariness.
They came into a tall antechamber of pale stone. After the glare of the morning sun outside, it seemed dim and very cool.
“May we offer you refreshment, honored guest?” the captain asked.
Before Matt could answer, the messenger-guard came back. “The Caliph will see the noble emissary on the instant!”
A majordomo came huffing behind him. “This way, my lord, if you please!” He turned and went back the way he had come, through a lancet doorway. Matt followed, wishing he could have changed into something more suitable for meeting a caliph, but he hadn‘t had a chance to replace his luggage, and Cardmember Services was a long way away.
The majordomo led him not to the throne room, but to a smaller audience chamber, where he bowed Matt to a seat. “The Caliph will join you in a matter of minutes, my lord.” He reached out. “If I may take the animal—”
Balkis arched her back and hissed.
“Sorry, but she’s part of my wizardry,” Matt explained.
The majordomo withdrew his hands but looked uncertain. “I have heard that Frankish witches have spirits with the forms of animals, but I did not think a wizard would.”
“You thought rightly,” Matt told him. “Balkis isn’t an ordinary cat, but she’s definitely mortal. Nine lives, maybe, but mortal at the end of them.”
The majordomo still looked doubtful, but he let the issue, if not the cat, drop. “As you will, my lord.” He stepped back against the wall and lapsed into silence, like the rest of the room decorations—including the two swordsmen who stood against either wall, arms folded, with their right hands near the hilts of the scimitars in their belts.
Matt didn‘t mind—no matter how urgent his message or lofty his station, protocol demanded that the Caliph keep him waiting at least five minutes. A similar protocol demanded the presence of guards, even though they weren’t apt to be of much use against a wizard. At least, to judge by the uneasy glances they gave him, they thought they couldn’t do much. Matt, of course, knew that either of them could chop off his head before he could finish a quatrain, but they obviously didn’t, and that was all right with him.
In the same way, it didn’t trouble him that the majordomo hadn’t ordered refreshment; it would undercut the Caliph’s dignity to come in and find his guest sipping a sherbet.
Other than the human furniture, the room held a large, ornate chair with a low table between it and the less imposing, but still luxurious, chair opposite. The walls were screens, intricately carved in geometric patterns, and the one wide window was swathed in silk. The chamber was simply decorated, but gave the unmistakable impression of wealth, and the power that went with it.
The inner door opened and the Caliph came in.
Matt rose and touched fingers to forehead, lips, and breast as he bowed—not too low, of course. “Long life to the Caliph, and consternation to his enemies!”
“Long life to you, Lord Wizard.” The Caliph too saluted with fingers to forehead, lips, and breast, though without much of a bow.
Matt straightened, and for a few seconds they studied one another, estimating strengths and weaknesses. Matt saw a tall Arab with an arched nose, probing eyes, and an elegantly trimmed beard and moustache. His robes were of satin and silk, and the pin that held the plume in his turban glowed with the light of a ruby.
The Caliph smiled and sat. “You are welcome, Lord Wizard. May I hope that Her Majesty follows with her army?”
“She is certainly on the way.” Matt remained standing, again as protocol demanded. “Though with so many men, she must travel much more slowly than I.”
“Of course. Then she has sent you as her ambassador?”
“Actually, no,” Matt said, “though I’m sure she would be glad to know I am here.” Very glad, since it would mean he was alive. “I came ahead to learn as much as I could about our mutual enemy.”
The Caliph frowned. “There is little we can tell you, other than that they are vast in numbers and ruthless, slaying and destroying all who resist them—with the assistance of sorcery.”
“And that they are not one people, but many? Yes, we were grateful for that much information in your message. Actually, I was surprised to learn that you hadn’t bad trouble with Turks before this.”
“There have been some who have come into my domain to settle and farm over the last few hundred years, but not many,” the Caliph said, “and several troupes have become Muslims and enlisted in our armies, but nothing more, till now.” He frowned. “Why should they have troubled us Arabs before this, gur-khan absorbed them into his horde?”
“Oh, population pressure, maybe.” Matt remembered that the Turks of his world had conquered the Arabian empire at the end of the Dark Ages, had indeed been the cause of the First Crusade. Here, though, something seemed to have stopped them. There had been no Crusades, and the Arabs still ruled the Islamic world. He wondered what could have stopped such a juggernaut as Seljuk and his Turks.
Of course, he couldn’t explain that to the Caliph. “I have already been to the east, and have learned something more.”
The Caliph stiffened, eyes wide. “Speak, then!”
“Their leader is a Mongol, and his title is ‘gur-khan’—‘Great King,’ in our terms. The source of his power is a renegade Zoroastrian priest named Arjasp.”
“Oh, is it indeed,” the Caliph said between his teeth. “In what way a renegade?”
Matt hesitated, then asked, “You number Zoroastrians—Guebres—among your own subjects, do you not, O Light of Wisdom?”
“Yes, I do,” the Caliph said impatiently, “and be done with such fulsome phrases; call me only ‘lord,’ even as I shall call you.”