The Feline Wizard (2 page)

The prince turned away in agitation, unable to refute his own point without seeming foolish.

Two of the younger courtiers, who had not been with the prince long enough to gain much preference, exchanged a significant glance. Sikander gave a small, secret smile, and CorundePs rouged lips smiled back.

When the courtiers left the prince's apartments, Sikander and Corundel lagged behind until they were sure they would not be overheard. Then Sikander said, “I do not think the prince would be overly distressed if the princess were to disappear.”

“I think he would be inclined to favor those who aided her escape,” Corundel agreed.

“But what if she does not wish to escape?” Sikander asked.

Corundel tossed her head. “Then she must be made to see the advantage of it.”

“You are as clever as you are beautiful,” Sikander replied. “How, though, are we to convince her to resume her travels?”

“I have a powder with which to spice her wine,” Corundel said. “The apothecary who sold it to me is a Polovtsi shaman, and I think he may not be as loyal to the Christian and Muslim gods as one would expect of a good citizen of Maracanda.”

“Nor of the Buddha, nor Confucius either?” Sikander smiled. “If he is a barbarian, perhaps his true sympathies lie with our recent conquerors.”

“They might.” CorundePs lips curved in a malicious smile.
“Surely he would know a barbarian sorcerer whose renunciation of Ahriman might not be as complete as he pretended.”

She, like so many of the court ladies, resented the beautiful, vivacious young princess who had suddenly appeared in their midst and captivated all the young men with her grace, charm, and innocence—but she knew quite well that those who appear suddenly can disappear just as suddenly, and she had great trust in the fickleness of men.

The room was silent, everyone staring at the scroll. It seemed harmless enough, just a rolled sheet of parchment bound by a ribbon and fastened with a large blob of wax sculpted into an ornate bas-relief by the sender's seal.

Grandpa Ramon broke the silence. “Special delivery, I think.”

“It would seem so,” said Grandma Jimena. “There must be dire need if it requires the magic expended to send this letter, my son.”

“Yeah, there sure must,” Matt agreed.

No one moved, all staring at the scroll where it lay, no one particularly interested in picking it up, the sentries and the governess through fear of its magic, the wizards—Matt, his mother and father—through wariness of the news it must hold.

Finally Alisande asked, “Will you be so good as to lift that scroll, husband?”

“I suppose I should.” Matt leaned forward and picked up the scroll. He stared in surprise. “Addressed to me!” He held it up for them to see, and sure enough, there was his name in very ornate brush-stroke calligraphy.

“Then I think you may open it,” Alisande said, with a touch ofimpatience.

“Huh? Oh, yeah!” Matt untied the ribbon, broke the seal, and unrolled the parchment. His eyes grew rounder as he read.

“May I know?” Alisande's voice had a definite edge now.

“A letter from Prester John.” Matt exchanged a significant glance with Alisande.

“Ay di mi!” Alisande sighed. “The world presses in again! Sometimes I envy the burghers' wives, who need have no fear
that affairs of state will descend upon them while they are enjoying quiet moments with their families.”

The children understood these preliminaries—they had heard their like many times before. Kaprin sighed philosophically, kissed his mother, hugged his father and grandparents, and went to the governess. Alice readied another pout, but Alisande cajoled her. “Come now, sweeting, you know I would not send you back to the nursery without strong need. There now, your mother is a queen, and may not always do as she wishes.”

The younger sentry visibly restrained a look of astonishment—he was new at this duty.

“Don't like it!” the three-year-old stated, but she slipped off her mother's lap anyway.

“There's my darling!” Alisande leaned forward to kiss the crown of her head, then turned her toward the governess and gave her a pat to start her. “Perhaps a story, Lady Lenore?”

“I have just the one!” The governess reached down for the children's hands. “Come, Highnesses—tonight we shall learn why people live so much longer than animals.”

“A wonder tale!” Kaprin cried, his enthusiasm definitely forced—but it was contagious, and Alice was bombarding Lady Lenore with questions as they left the room.

Alisande reached out for Matt's hand as she watched them go, then dropped her gaze to the parchment. “Read.”

Matt sighed and took it up. “‘From Prester John, King in Maracanda, Lord of the land of…’ How about I skip all his titles, okay?”

“I am surprised he spent the ink to send them,” Ramon said dryly.

“It is a necessary protocol, I fear, and wastes a good deal of parchment,” Alisande said. “He addresses himself to you, my husband?”

Matt nodded. “‘To his most noble highness, Matthew Lord Mantrell…’ I'll just skip to the message. ‘We regret to inform you that your former ward, our niece Balkis, Princess of the Eastern Gate, is no longer at our court.’”

“She has run away?” Jimena stared.

“Not voluntarily,” Matt said grimly. “‘On arising this
morning, we learned that she had been spirited away in the night. We hold the immediate malefactor in our prison, but know not the whereabouts of the man to whom he handed over the princess. We would slay him out of hand, but we are in hope that by your magic you may be able to wrest from his mind some indications of Princess Balkis' fate, as our own magic, and our jailers, have failed to do. We enjoin you to beg leave of your sovereign lady Alisande, Queen of Merovence, and come to aid us with all speed.’ ” He looked up as he rerolled the parchment. “The rest is courtly protocol. Um, sovereign lady—”

“Go,” Alisande said instantly. Then tears filled her eyes and she reached out for his hand. “But O My Husband, take care!”

Ramon stood. “Perhaps his mother and I should go with him.”

“Oh, I don't think there's any need for that,” Matt said. “It's just a missing persons case, after all, not an attacking army.”

“Yet by your tales, my son,” Jimena said darkly, “even your minor troubles sometimes herald war.”

“If there is any sign of it, summon aid at once!” Alisande commanded, still holding his hand. “Fetch Balkis quickly, husband, and come back to me!”

“I will,” Matt promised. “It shouldn't be that hard a problem for a wizard. After all, it's only a kit-napping.”

One of Balkis' ladies-in-waiting wished to keep a moonlight tryst with a handsome young courtier and found Corun-del to be very sympathetic, offering to take her place for the evening—so that night, the princess' bedtime cup of heated rice wine was something more than it seemed. When Balkis had fallen into a sleep far deeper than usual, Sikander stole into her bedchamber, threw her cloak over her and wrapped the blankets around her, and carried her out into the hallway. With Corundel pacing ahead to keep watch, he carried the sleeping princess down a flight of stairs, out a door, through the shadows along the walls of the palace, and across the lawn to a man who waited astride a horse. There, he handed up the sleeping princess. The rider gave the courtier a nod of
thanks, but as he turned his mount away, his lips curved with a smile of contempt.

Back into the palace Sikander went, where he told Corun-del, “She is persuaded.”

“And has begun her journey? Good!” Corundel's eyes shone. “What manner of man is her carrier?”

“Neither a Mongol nor a Turk—that much I could tell.” Sikander shrugged. “Nothing more, though. He might be a Polovtsi or Kazakh, or of any of the other tribes of the western steppes.” He turned away eagerly. “Let us tell the prince that he has one less concern.”

“No, wait!” Corundel caught his arm. “Let the palace find her gone and take alarm. Then, when he cannot suppress his glee, let us tell him privately, so his gratitude may be all the sharper.”

“Brilliant as ever.” Sikander turned to beam upon her. “Still, let us celebrate by ourselves, sweet Corundel.”

So they did, with wine and laughter—but in the midst of their merrymaking, Corundel could not rid herself of the thought that a man who would kidnap a princess could not be trusted in any way. Sikander, for his part, realized that a lady who would drug her mistress' wine must be naturally treacherous.

Such being their natures, the knowledge added spice to their evening.

Prester John lived half a world away, so Matt wasn't about to walk. He recited a spell to contact an old friend, then set off down the road from the capital. He had gone about three miles before a dragon pounced on him.

Of course, this dragon was the old friend. Matt looked up at the boom of wings cupping air for a landing and grinned. “Long time no see, Firebreather!”

“Long indeed, Softskin!” Stegoman settled beside Matt, folding his wings. “What emergency urges you to summon me from my life of indolence?”

“Indolence, my foot!” Matt scoffed. “What's all these stories I hear about a dragon scouring the countryside looking for troops of bandits to chase?”

“Mere popular fictions intended to lend color and excitement to an otherwise boring and lackluster existence,” Stegoman said airily. “Where shall we wander, Matthew?”

“You remember that little cat I was traveling with last year?” “The one who was a princess in disguise? She stayed in Central Asia, did she not?”

“Sure did, but now she's gone and gotten herself kidnapped.”

“Well, we cannot have her lost in the wilds of the steppes, can we?” Stegoman lowered his neck, the triangular plates along his spine forming a convenient stairway. “Climb aboard, Matthew!”

Even as the dragon flies, it was a three-day journey. The first night, Matt bought a bullock from a farmer for Stegoman. Apparently he paid more than the beast was worth, for the dragon complained that Matt had given him a bum steer— old, tough, and no longer good for anything but leather. The second night, though, the dragon was able to hunt and bagged an elk.

They were on the same latitude as the Holland of Mart's universe, and as they flew over the broad, flat plains of Russia, Matt realized that Prester John's realm had to be at the southern edge of the Siberia of his own world and wondered how it could be anything but a frozen wasteland, let alone so warm and fertile as the land he had seen when he visited. He had come up from the south then, flying in the arms of a genie princess, so he hadn't been able to see much, but the glimpses he had gained made it seem quite natural to go from the heat of India and the dryness of Afghanistan into the moderate climate of Maracanda, Prester John's capital city. Coming from the west, though, he was far more aware of the steppes, and when Stegoman gave him a culinary review on a dinner of raw musk ox, Matt realized they had come into tundra.

The next day, though, they flew over a lake that was so huge Matt thought it was a sea until the far shore came in sight. When they were finally over dry land again, he could see the eastern horizon glitter with a sheen that could only be another vast lake. Between the two bodies of water, the land fairly glowed with the green of rich farms and was tidy with the neatness of fields diligently tended. The same climactic shift that had kept the England of this universe joined to the
rest of Europe had also created a lush realm in the very heart of the Asian plains.

A climactic shift, or enchantment. Matt looked down at Prester John's kingdom and wondered how much magic had gone into the creation of this realm. If it had, then magic must also sustain it, and what would happen if there were no Prester John, no heir to the title, to keep that magic flowing? Matt did not doubt that Prester John prized Balkis because she was his long-lost niece, but he began to wonder if it was also because she was a powerful wizard, only in her teens, with the promise of learning even more.

Looking off toward the north, Matt saw the green fade into the tan of steppeland again. Looking southward, though, he saw the richness of field and orchard die away in the desert into which Prester John had fled to escape the horde. He thought he saw more greenery beyond, but it was so dim with distance that he couldn't be sure.

Then alabaster towers appeared on the eastern horizon. Half an hour later they were flying over the steeples and minarets of Maracanda.

Matt had better sense than to try to land in the middle of the city—people were already crowding into the streets and squares, pointing up at dragon and rider and exclaiming in excitement and fear; he could hear the buzz of talk even a hundred feet up. “Better land outside the walls, Stegoman.”

“That would seem prudent,” the dragon agreed, and circled outside the wall to land in the center of a grove a quarter mile away. As Matt climbed down, Stegoman said sternly, “None of this creeping off in the night to spare me danger, now!”

“Not a bit,” Matt promised. “If we march and I have to ride with them, I'll let you know.”

“March?” Stegoman reared back his head. “Would this Prester John truly take an army to search for a missing child?”

“Doesn't seem likely,” Matt admitted, “though the rumors about him make you think he never goes anywhere without a few thousand troops. But we've met before, and I think I can talk him into letting me go alone.”