That explained why the Turks hadn’t reached the Arabian empire. “But this time they had magic your wizards didn’t know,” Matt said grimly.
Cheruk looked at him more closely. “You truly must be a minstrel, to have gathered so much news as that. Yes, we fought their forces to a standstill, so they used evil magic far more sophisticated than anything their shamans had ever wrought, summoning monsters who chewed our soldiers to bits until our officers ordered a retreat that became blind, fleeing panic. Perhaps if we had won, the Mongols would not have been able to sway so many other barbarians to join them, and would not now be overrunning all of Asia.”
“Perhaps,” Matt said thoughtfully.
“What is this conversation?” Tarik demanded.
“He has told me that the people of the empire rejoice in the gur-khan’s rule, Excellency,” Cheruk reported, “for it has brought them peace and prosperity. In tum, he asked why Maracanda is not as it was when he visited here as a child.”
Tarik sniffed. “He should know the answer to that, if he has seen our garrisons in other cities. Tell him that we conquered, and that the false priest John slunk away to the wilderness, where he has hidden so well that our troops cannot find him—or may be dead, for all we know.”
Sorrow wrenched Cheruk’s features, but he fought it off even as he turned to Matt. “When the Mongols conquered, our king, Prester John, gathered the remnants of his troops and fled to the mountains. We hope he is well and will come back to free us, but we have heard no word of him, nor have the many search parties the governor has sent to quarter the slopes, seeking him.”
“And they presumably have scouts who are excellent trackers.” Matt thought it over, then asked, “What of their sorcerers? Surely they must have sought John with magic.”
Cheruk stiffened, but said, “You guess aright—they have sought, and have found naught.”
“Then John must still be alive, and shielding his army with his own magic,” Matt said, “for if he were dead, the sorcerers would surely have scried out his body.”
Cheruk’s eyes fired. “There is truth in what you say, and I thank you for hope. I would guess you are more than a wandering minstrel. Now speak more to me, so that I may tell Tarik you have given me more news.”
Matt thought it over, then said, “Tell him that your armies attacked the Caliph of Baghdad and that he had to retreat to Damascus, but that an army of Franks and another of Moors came to his rescue. Their wizards fought the barbarians’ sorcerers and won, and the horde had to retreat to Baghdad. We know nothing more recent. Will that do?”
“Quite well.” Cheruk fought to hide his delight at the news and had managed to achieve another deadpan expression when he turned back to relay the information to Tarik.
“Couriers have told me that already,” the governor replied testily. “Tell him that our setback in Damascus is only temporary, and that our eventual victory will prove that the Christian God is weaker than Angra Mainyu and all the gods of all our plains-dwelling peoples—as might be expected of one against a hundred. Tell him also that if John the Priest has survived, he is living like a wild animal, not even raiding our outposts or trying to win back his capital—which is well for him, for if he tries, he is doomed to defeat.”
Cheruk turned back to relay the message with a face of stone, obviously thinking that Tarik was rubbing it in to make sure he knew he was ground down. Matt. though, recognized an attempt to use the media for propaganda, even if the medium in question was only a wandering minstrel.
“Dwell in hope,” Matt said quietly. “I think your Prester John lives, and is only awaiting his moment. When he thinks he has a chance of success, he will attack.”
“Yes, but how can he hope for victory against such as these, and their demons?” Cheruk asked, defeat in every line of his body.
“Enough!” Tarik waved a hand, turning away. “Put them to work reinforcing the walls. At day’s end, if they have any energy left, they can ply their trade in the bazaar.”
The soldiers instantly surrounded the companions again. Cheruk said, his tone apologetic, “He sends you to forced labor. You may yet have some chance to sing and trade in the evenings, though.”
“We also might escape,” Matt told him. “So might you—and all your people with you.”
Cheruk was erasing another look of surprise and hope as the soldiers came between him and the trio. They hustled the companions out of the chamber, through corridor after corridor, and out of the palace.
As they came out into the street, though, they heard a meowing voice by the doorway chant,
Matt realized that the spell must have been an improvised verse, not a memorized one, because Balkis was having trouble with the last line, as usual—no talent for rhymes. He helped her out gladly, calling out the words that finished her verse: “Clear the way for captives bold!”
“Who are you talking to?” the hetman demanded, but a meowing voice echoed eagerly,
The hetman went glassy-eyed.
Marudin’s fist poised over a guard’s head, but he frowned at the man’s suddenly vacant gaze and withheld his hand.
“Uh, I think it’ll work better if we use them for camouflage, Princess.” Delicately, Matt disengaged Lakshmi’s fingers from the collar of the soldier she was holding in the air. The man landed with a thump, but stayed upright and started walking with his mates, all following the hetman.
“What has plagued them?” Lakshmi looked about her even as she hurried to match her steps to theirs.
“Balkis pinch-hitting for us,” Matt explained.
The squadron marched them straight down the avenue that led directly away from the steps. Citizens scrambled out of their way; carts and wagons swerved over to the side. Fifteen minutes later the hetman stamped to a halt just inside the gate. The guards outside looked up, startled, and were about to start asking questions. So were Marudin and Lakshmi, but Matt grabbed their arms and lurched out from among the soldiers, pulling them stumbling with him.
“What do you think you are doing?” Lakshmi demanded, righting herself.
“Yeah, what do you think you’re doing, turning down the best songs of the year?” Matt shook a fist at the stone-faced hetman. “You can tell that governor of yours that I’ve been thrown out of better places than this! Come on, friends.” He turned about and marched off with wounded dignity. Lakshmi and Marudin followed, comprehension dawning.
Ten feet down the road Matt looked back and saw the squadron beginning to come out of their daze, asking questions of the hetman, who was shaking his head, palm pressed to his temple, looking about him as though waking from a dream, which he more or less was.
“A little faster,” Matt snapped. “We don’t want to become a topic of conversation!”
They dove into the outbound stream of traffic. A dozen paces later Matt looked back, but the hetman had only formed up his squadron and was leading them back into the city. Matt didn’t blame him for not wanting to raise the hue and cry—he wouldn’t want to be caught sleeping on the job, either.
“I think we’re safe for the moment,” he said, then felt something furry rub against his ankles. He staggered but kept his balance. “Thanks, Balkis. I’d been wondering how we were going to get out of that one without letting everybody know what we are.”
“You are welcome,” the cat mewed. “Perhaps next time you go into a mouse hole, you should make sure you know how you’ll get out.”