“Nay!” cried a sixth. “Let us practice our archery and our lancing upon them!”
“I don’t like that kind of talk,” Matt told Balkis. “Once they start shooting magicians, who knows where they’ll stop?”
Balkis mewed agreement.
Then came a barbarian on a tall horse, far taller than the Mongolian ponies, though his features were those of the khans. His armor was gorgeous, his helmet chased with gold, and his temper absolutely foul. “I shall have their heads!” he bellowed. “What sort of incompetent sorcerers has the high priest given me, that they cannot keep control of their own djinn—nay, even with the very lamp that held him!”
“At least they kept the five lesser spirits leashed,” called a younger and somewhat less splendidly costumed man beside him.
“Only five!” the general roared. “Only five minor djinn against two Marids! How can they think to preserve us from such might?”
A man in midnight-blue robes rode behind him, protesting, “It is a spell beyond our ken, O Khan! Only the Arab priest himself could counter it!”
Then they were gone, riding on down the street, but Matt felt claws in his calf. “Ouch!” He looked down, ready to scold—and saw the emerald glowing, a glow that faded even as he watched. Balkis looked up at him and meowed impatiently.
Matt took the hint and lifted her up to his shoulder. She set the leg with the ring under his headcloth to hide it and said into his ear so that no one else would hear, “It glowed when that sorcerer passed! Can he be a spirit disguised?”
“Possible,” Matt said slowly, “but it probably just means that he still controls five djinn.”
“If that is his specialty,” Balkis said, “perhaps he knows where to find two very small djinni.”
“He might at that,” Matt said, following her thought about Lakshmi’s children. “Excellent idea, Balkis. Let’s just saunter along after that crew.” He strolled down the street, not seeming to hurry, but actually eating up the ground at a very good pace. He was impressed with Balkis’ intelligence. Obviously she had more going for her than a saturation in magic.
“Perhaps they are bound to the mosque,” Balkis offered.
“I was kind of thinking that, too,” Matt said. “After all, if they’re going to blame it on the old high priest, they’ll want to chew him out right away.”
“And they will find him dead.”
“Should be an interesting sight,” Matt said. “Let’s go have a look.”
They arrived minutes too late—the general and his aides were boiling back out of the mosque, faces gray. “Slain!” one cried.
“I have rarely seen so many wounds in one man,” cried another.
“Aye, even in battle.” The general shuddered. “And his guards burned to cinders! What can have happened here?”
“Magic,” said his chief aide, his face grim. “Magic far stronger than his—but how can such be possible?”
They were silent, considering the question. Then one warrior offered, “Ahriman is displeased with us.”
“As well he might be, for this loss in battle!” But the general now looked frightened.
“Shall we abandon the city?” another aide asked. “We can slay all its people as offerings to Ahriman before we go.”
“There is not that much time, if we are to retreat,” the general said, scowling, “and if we are to stay, we shall need the services of the people. Let them live; we shall hold them hostage in case the Caliph besieges us.”
“But should we stay or go?”
“Our sorcerer has not come out,” the general said grimly. “No doubt he seeks to placate Ahriman, to learn what the god wishes of us. Let us wait to hear his answer.”
Matt stepped back into the shadow of an alley and told Balkis, “That means we have to take him out the back way, if there is one.”
“And make one if there is not,” the cat agreed.
Matt lifted her off his shoulder and down to the ground. “You stay here while I go in and bring him out.” He slipped the wand out from under his robe. “Use this if I don’t.”
“Use it yourself,” the cat snapped. “If you would not beard the high priest without me to help, you should not dare his minion!”
Matt sighed. “Everybody’s gotta get in on the act. Okay, we saunter around to the back of the mosque as though we’re going home. Ready?”
“Lead on,” Balkis replied.
Matt stepped out and strolled down the street, hoping the officers would be so involved in trying to fix blame that they wouldn’t see him.
Behind him, he heard a shout.
CHAPTER 22
Matt kept on walking. Boots clattered on the cobbles behind him. A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and spun him about. “You, Arab! What are you doing here?”
It was one of the aides, and two more were coming up behind him, leaving the rest of the party to stare anxiously at the archway. Matt gave the man his best idiot’s smile. “I came to worship, effendi.”
“Did you now!” The Tartar stared at him narrow-eyed, searching his face for a sign of malice. Apparently he was a better horseman than an intriguer, for he pushed Matt away with a grunt. “Well, there will be no more praying this day! Away with you now!”
“Don’t let him go so easily,” his mate objected. “We could do with a little fun.”
Matt went cold inside.
“Aye, an Arab like the ones who beat us today!” The third aide spun Matt about and slammed a fist into his belly. Matt doubled over, pain making him limp, as the man stepped aside for another, who straightened Matt with an uppercut. Matt saw stars, heard a roaring in his ears, felt the blow to his chest, then heard the howl of pain. When the stars cleared, he realized he was leaning against the wall of the mosque, and the man who had hit him was still howling, shaking a hand that was beginning to blister with an ugly burn. His comrades stepped in, faces stormy, to finish the job, but one thought surfaced through Matt’s sea of pain. He reached into the robes over his breast and drew forth the wand, crying,
The wand spat sparks, a fountain of sparks that set the Tartars’ clothes on fire. Matt stood staring, mind beginning to work again as he watched the men hopping about howling, swatting at burning patches of cloth in a sort of dance.
“Quickly! Follow!” said a mewing voice.
. Mind triumphed over matter, or at least pain, and Matt remembered who spoke with meows. He turned and stumbled after Balkis.
At the back of the mosque the cat stopped by a small door, barely large enough for Matt, and said, “I have found it—but can you open it?”
“I think so.” Matt jabbed the wand into the keyhole. They heard a muffled explosion, then silence broken only by the howls of burning Tartars. Matt pulled the wand out—and the door swung open.
“Quickly!” Balkis urged. “Those Tartars will come for you soon, and their bums will bring them with rage!”
“They’ll be in hot pursuit,” Matt agreed, and stepped through the doorway. He pulled the panel shut behind him and groped down the darkness of a passageway. Behind him, he heard angry shouts and boots clattering on pavement; then the noises faded.
“Quickly!” Balkis’ voice hissed ahead of him. “Why are you so slow?”
“Some of us can’t see in the dark,” Matt grunted. He felt doorways to either side of him as he moved on down the passage and wondered what behind-the-scenes facilities he was passing—wondered also if they were original, or a conqueror’s additions.
Then he could see light in the archway at the end, and stepped out into the vast open space of the mosque.