“Yeah, well, I wasn’t planning to go into the palace,” Matt told her. He looked up and saw a grove of trees. “Let’s go in where it’s green and quiet, folks.”
“Wherefore?” Marudin asked, but Lakshmi took his arm and purred, “Do you truly need a reason to step aside with me?”
Marudin beamed down at her. “Never, sweeting! But I would rather not bring company.”
“ ‘Fraid it’s got to be a community project, folks,” Matt said. “I need to talk this over and make some sense out of it.”
Just as they came to the leaves, though, a distant voice shouted, “Stop in the name of Arjasp!”
Matt looked back and saw Turkish warriors riding toward the city with a blue-robed priest in their middle. He groaned. “I thought Arjasp might be able to sense that someone was working unauthorized magic. Let’s move a little faster, folks!”
Fortunately, the Turks were so intent on getting to the city that they didn’t stop to examine the flora. They passed the grove at a canter and certainly weren’t looking upward behind them. All they would have seen was a double whirlwind rising from the trees and blowing away toward the west, but the priest might have known what that meant. Looking down, Matt had the satisfaction of watching the patrol ride to and fro, searching and baffled, then turning back to ride intently toward the city, sure that their quarry had not yet escaped.
“Where now, wizard?” Lakshmi asked.
“To the mountains,” Matt told her. “Where else would you look for guerrillas?”
Of course, he had to explain what guerrillas were, then had to try to persuade the djinn that Prester John was living like a bandit and trying to harry the conquerors, but without success.
Lakshmi flatly refused to believe it. “This king is, from what you say, much like a caliph,” she said, “and no caliph would make his stronghold among brambles!”
“She speaks truly,” Marudin seconded. “Perhaps in your country, Frank, a caliph can lose pomp and circumstance without losing dignity and strength—but believe me, in the East no one would follow a ruler who had fallen to living in a tent in a forest!”
Matt bridled. “Got any better ideas?”
“Seek a city,” Lakshmi said, “perhaps one lost in the desert or the wilderness, but a city nonetheless.”
She did. With Matt and cat in her arms, she and Marudin quartered the mountains, then the desert beyond—and sure enough, a hundred miles out in the wasteland on a dusty, eroded track that might have been a caravan route twenty years earlier, they found a walled city whose houses had weathered to seem much like the sand around them, but whose walls still stood firm. Looking down from a hundred feet, they saw only a few civilians in the streets, but the great central square around the fortress was filled with soldiers dressed more or less as the civilians had been in Maracanda, though all in the same colors and with the same insignia embroidered on their chests.
“Okay, you win, Princess,” Matt grumped. “Let’s try the front door and see if they send us around to the back.”
Civilians and soldiers alike had already noticed their aerial visitors and were pointing up at them, exclaiming, so Lakshmi took the chance of landing fifty yards from the gate—but she kept her arms around Matt and Balkis, ready to take off again if anybody shot an arrow, as did Marudin, who landed a few feet away. No one threw anything, though, and no squadron of cavalry came charging out, though there did seem to be a lot of running to and fro along the walls. Finally the gates opened and a gorgeously clad man stepped forward, surrounded by soldiers, but with the heart-shaped face and golden skin tone of Maracanda. He wore a purple turban with a spray of peacock plumes held by a jeweled broach, and a cloak and robe of purple satin over tunic and trousers of the same material. His sash was scarlet, and so were his boots. “Welcome, O Djinn! And who is your servant?”
Lakshmi started to answer, then caught herself and said, as though spitting tacks, “They will hearken better to a man’s voice. Speak to them, my love.”
“I think they would listen to a princess of the Marid,” Marudin said easily. “Speak for us, love.” But he swelled up a little, hulking behind her with arms crossed, smiling wickedly at the emissary.
Lakshmi stepped forward and said, “I am Lakshmi, Princess of the Marid. This is my husband, the Marid Prince Marudin, and my friends: the magician Balkis”—who had now returned to human form—“and Matthew Lord Mantrell, wizard and husband to Her Majesty Alisande, Queen of Merovence. He comes as her emissary.”
Court functionary or not, the emissary looked impressed. “Why have you come?”
“We seek the renowned king known as Prester John.”
“Come in, then, if you dare,” said the functionary, “for you have found him.”
CHAPTER 27
“Found him?” Matt stared, then felt a wave of unreality sweep over him. “Really found him at last?”
“Prester John awaits you,” the functionary confirmed.
Matt felt the thrill of victory.
“However, be warned,” the emissary cautioned, “that they who enter this city may not leave it.”
Matt felt the agony of defeat.
“I shall chance it,” Lakshmi said dryly.
The emissary bowed, turned, and led the way. Soldiers fell in on either side of them, and the citizens and off-duty soldiers lined the street, pointing and discussing the strangers in excited tones.
“We seem to be the biggest thing that has happened here in a long time,” Matt said. “Must be a pretty dead town.”
“Let us wish it a few more weeks of life,” Lakshmi said.
Matt glanced at Balkis, concerned. “Any more déjà vu?”
“None,” the teenager said, looking about her with a frown. “There is something familiar about the people, but not the city.”
Then they were climbing the road to the fortress and walking between files of soldiers through a gateway whose open portals were oak, a foot thick and twelve feet high. Matt had to remind himself that he was a knight, and that knights weren’t afraid, as he walked into the fortress of a mythical king whose name was synonymous with mystery, magic, and might.
They entered into a courtyard whose walls gleamed with whitewash over plaster, where soldiers were practicing with wooden weapons. There was a certain lack of verve about their drill, blows perfunctory, very obviously going through the motions.
“Low morale,” Matt muttered to Lakshmi.
The djinna nodded. “They are not yet in despair, but neither are they far from it.”
The soldiers stopped to stare as they paraded across the courtyard, four people in outlandish but common clothing led by a gorgeously clad courtier and surrounded by half a dozen soldiers, and Matt was sure the rankers were wondering what was so important about these strangers.
The Eastern castle was rather different in architectural style from its Western counterparts, but the necessities of defense dictated a certain similarity, even as the army forts of the American West resembled the early wooden strongholds of the Britannic chieftains. There may not have been a keep or donjon, but one wall of the fortress was much thicker than the others, and the functionary led them up a broad but short flight of stairs and in through another pair of stout oaken doors, but only eight feet high and three inches thick.
Inside, soldiers lounged, leaning on their spears, but straightened up amazingly when the courtier came in sight. They kept their eyes resolutely to the front, but Matt could see the curiosity in them.
He was amazed at the contrast of the interior with the exterior. Outside was harsh, blocky, and glaring white; inside was luxurious. Turkish carpets covered the granite floor and carved wooden screens hid the stones of the walls. Spouted lamps burned in sconces and on tables, making Matt edgy, expecting djinnis to jump out of them, until he remembered that he had two djinn with him.