The courtier led them down a broad, short hall toward two more massive doors, no doubt the Great Hall or Throne Room or some such, but turned aside at the last minute and faced two guards who stood at either side of a very ordinary-looking door. One of them bowed, then opened the door and stepped in. He stepped back out a second later and held the door wide.
They came into a chamber filled with light from three large windows that looked out into the courtyard. It was more or less rectangular, only about thirty feet by twenty, with a guard every six feet. They stood in front of tapestries and mosaics. The floor was covered with a single huge carpet with an intricate, stylized floral design. The furniture was limited to two nests of cushions around a low table in one comer opposite the windows, four Chinese-style chairs around a higher table in another, and in the center, directly in front of the windows, a large table with a man behind it, parchment and ink in hand, scanning other parchments. Matt felt a surge of disappointment, for he seemed quite ordinary.
Then the man looked up, his eyes singling out Matt before anyone spoke, and Matt stared, electrified. Even seated, the man seemed taller than he, radiating such an aura of power, of wisdom and authority, that he appeared altogether magical, and every inch a king. There was no doubt that this was Prester John.
Matt felt pinned to the spot by those eyes. They were alert, piercing, and gave the impression that their owner saw everything, even Matt’s innermost thoughts. He wore a neatly trimmed black moustache and beard, flowing black hair, a tall golden crown studded with gems, and an ornate golden robe embroidered with black dragons down either side. Beneath it he wore a tunic of royal-blue. As he stood and carne around the table, Matt could see trousers of the same color and red Persian slippers. His face was heart-shaped, golden-toned, and high-cheekboned, like those of most of his people. But his brown eyes were larger, his nose straighter and more prominent, and his lips not quite as full.
The courtier dropped to one knee, bowing his head and shoulders, then gestured angrily at his charges to imitate him. Balkis curtsied, but Marudin and Lakshmi stiffened and only inclined their heads—they, too, were royalty, after all, and djinn, not mere mortals.
Matt, however, was mortal. He bowed, though not very low.
“Do not insist, chamberlain,” Prester John said in mellow tones. “This man is, after all, the highest lord in his own kingdom.”
Matt guessed that a messenger had overheard the introductions at the gate and run ahead with the news.
The chamberlain rose, every line of his body expressing indignation, but he only said, “Profound, wise, and merciful monarch, may I introduce into your exalted presence Matthew Lord Mantrell, Prince Consort and emissary of the queen of the barbaric land of Merovence.”
Matt bridled at the term “barbaric,” but managed to hold his tongue.
The wise and merciful monarch’s eyes glistened with amusement, but he kept a straight face and said, “You may.”
The chamberlain turned to the companions and said frostily, “Bow to His Supreme and Royal Majesty, Prester John, King of the Christians!”
Again Matt inclined his head and shoulders, though Balkis dropped another curtsy and stayed there with a faraway gaze, entranced.
John glanced at her, then back to Matt. “And your servants?”
“Not my servants, but my companions, and in some ways, of higher rank than I.” Matt turned to the djinn. “May I present Lakshmi, Princess of the Marids, and her husband, Prince Marudin.”
John’s eyes widened, as did those of the chamberlain and all the guards, and Matt heard a distinct chorus of indrawn breaths.
“Can this be true?” asked the monarch. “Can you truly be djinn?”
“We can, and we are,” Lakshmi said, with a glance of ill-concealed contempt for the chamberlain.
“Then may the saints be praised!” John said fervently. “We have prayed that the kings of the West would ride to our aid, but we never guessed they would bring djinn, too.”
Matt stared. “You were hoping we were going to come rescue you?”
“Why, yes,” John said, mildly puzzled. “Is that so odd?”
Matt smiled. “Only because in the West we’re used to the idea of you coming to save us from the Turks.”
John stared, then laughed, a rich if rueful sound. “Perhaps before the gur-khan swept in off the steppe with his horde, you would have been right to expect this. Now, though?” He shrugged eloquently and swept a hand at the chamber around him. “You see our reduced circumstances.”
“I wouldn’t have called them reduced if I hadn’t seen your palace in Maracanda,” Matt said. “Since I have, though, I can only say that I see what you mean.”
John’s gaze sharpened again. “You have been in Maracanda? For what purpose?”
“Seeking you,” Matt said simply.
“And you managed to escape?”
“Well, they didn’t know who we really were,” Matt explained.
“How did you hide your identities from Arjasp and his sorcerous priests?” John asked. “And how did you evade their prisons and their corvees?”
“Well, the djinn are magical, of course,” Matt explained, “and I have a bit of magical knowledge myself.”
“He is Lord Wizard of Merovence,” Lakshmi said.
John’s eyebrows rose.
“And this is my pupil.” Matt turned to Balkis, didn’t see her, then looked down and saw she was still deep in her curtsy. “She has a fair amount of magic in her own right.”
“Companions in magic, all four!” John turned to Balkis and reached down, taking her hand and lifting. “I had thought this one was your guide through our kingdom, that you had met her here and hired her.”
Like an automaton, Balkis rose, gazing with disbelief into John’s eyes.
The comment seemed odd to Matt. “No, she’s been with us since we left Merovence.”
“Then she alone of your party is not a prince, a princess, or a lord.”
“Why yes, I suppose that’s true,” Matt said in surprise. Now that he thought of it, he did have something in common with the Marids—other than missing children, of course.
“Still, if she is your pupil, we must talk as near-equals.” John drew Balkis with him as he swept away to the chairs in the corner. He gestured for them to sit and said to a guard, “Coffee.”
Matt tried not to drool, and wondered why, halfway to China, they hadn’t been offered tea. He put it down to John’s having a better knowledge of the West than he’d expected—at least, what was West to him, though it was the Near East to Matt. “I am surprised that you can spare such luxuries when you and your people must be hard-pressed, Majesty.”
John smiled with irony. “That, at least, Arjasp had not expected—that this old city would have a granary that never emptied and a bazaar whose stalls were always replenished during the night.”
“Really!” Matt said. “I assume you had magic enough to make all that happen?”
“Only in reviving old spells that the ancients had placed here long ago,” his host replied. “There is a legend of a prince who did great favors for one of the Marid, freeing him from the prison a greedy sorcerer had made for him. In gratitude, the Marid summoned spirits and bade them supply this city forever more.”
Matt heard a sharp intake of breath and turned to see Marudin’s eyes burning. He didn’t ask, but he had a sudden suspicion who the Marid in question had been. Lakshmi had once mentioned something about Prince Marudin having spent most of his thousand-year life in thrall to one sorcerer or another, or in suspended animation in his lamp, until Matt had set him free. The prince liked Matt. A lot.