The Feline Wizard (4 page)

“I'll make a note of it,” Matt assured him. “Let's see—as I remember, you dine with Prince Tashih at your right hand and the Archbishop of Maracanda at your left.”

“Well recalled,” Prester John said with a smile. “Now, however, Princess Balkis sits at my left.”

“Of course,” Matt said, chagrined. “How'd the archbishop take to losing his place?”

“With Christian patience,” Prester John said, still with a smile. “He may have hidden indignation at first, but Balkis soon charmed him.”

Matt didn't doubt it. Still, he knew that with some men, ambition outweighed personal feelings. He added the archbishop to his list of suspects. “Next to him sits the Patriarch of St. Thomas, then the Protopapas of Samarkand, right?”

“You remember the order well,” Prester John said with surprise. “It is so, and on my right, next to the prince, sit twelve more archbishops. The discussion thus engendered is both lively and enlightening.”

Matt felt deep sympathy for Balkis, and for the first time wondered whether her disappearance was really a kidnapping. But he smiled bravely and said, “The lively part I can believe, with the heads of three different Christian sects there to argue about which one has a monopoly on truth.”

“Oh, I have made them understand the need for tolerance,” Prester John said with a satisfied smile. “We do discuss points of doctrine now and then, but for the most part we discuss the ways of the people in each prelate's district, and the strange and wonderful sights to be seen there.”

Matt revised his opinion of the dinner table conversation. “How can they do a decent job of managing their dioceses when they're here, so far away?”

“Each of them returns to his dwelling every month in his turn, and another ecclesiastic takes his place.”

So Balkis wasn't even hearing about the same old marvels every night. Matt decided she might not have been bored at all. “Doesn't the hum of conversation from the other four thousand diners make it a little hard to hear?”

“They are sufficiently distant, and have the courtesy to keep their voices low. Then, too, the lower tables at which they dine are some of gold and some of amethyst; the columns supporting them are of ivory.”

Matt smiled, remembering that gold was an excellent conductor. “So each table holds a spell for muting noise?”

“That, and for restraining any other sort of rude behavior,” Prester John acknowledged.

“So if everybody's being so polite, what happened on this one particular evening?”

The king shook his head. “Balkis' sorrow was so deep that she could not hide it.”

“Is that all?” Matt asked in surprise.

“It was enough,” Prester John answered, and explained. He told Matt of his own ill-conceived idea that Balkis should travel the land and come to know the people, and of Prince Tashih's jealousy, then of the two naive courtiers' foolish attempt to curry favor with Tashih by kidnapping Balkis, and of the aftermath.

In the morning, the ladies came to wake their princess with food and drink—and found her gone. The bedclothes were gone too. They ran to tell the guards, who raised the alarm. Prester John heard it in his study and sent to learn what had happened. When he knew, he rose up in wrath and led the search himself. They looked into every corner of the palace, every nook and cranny, and found nothing. Then the king retired to his workroom to brew fearsome magicks, and Sikander and Corundel began to feel the first brush of apprehension. They attended Prince Tashih in his own apartments and found him pacing in agitation, hurling questions at his courtiers: “Where can she be? How can she have hidden? How could she evade our search?”

“Perhaps she is not in the palace, Highness ” one courtier suggested.

The prince stopped dead. “What do you say?”

The man shrugged. “Ail know that she has her spells of sadness…”

“She longs for her home,” one of the female courtiers explained, “for the land where she grew up.”

“You do not mean that she has slipped from the palace to try to make her way back to the land of the Franks!”

The courtier shrugged. “It is possible.”

“She might only have fled for a day or so,” another courtier offered. “She may have tired of the court and be seeking respite from her duties”

Prince Tashih shook his head. “She would have left word.” But hope gleamed in his eye.

“If she has,” Sikander said as casually as he could, “it would be one less concern for Your Highness, would it not?”

The prince swung to stare at Sikander. “How do you mean?”

His glare seemed to pierce Sikander to the soul. His voice faltered. “Why… I only meant…”

“Surely,” said Corundel, “if the princess has fled, she cannot inherit.”

The prince gave her an incisive glance. “You know something more of this.” He turned back to transfix Sikander with his glare. “Tell!”

“Gladly.” Sikander spoke with false heartiness to mask his growing dread. “I bore her forth myself, drugged and sleeping, to the arms of a horseman who bore her far from Your Highness'purview.”

“A horseman? What horseman? Where to?”

“Why …” Belatedly, Sikander realized that he should not have spoken at all and should speak as little as possible now. “One sent by a barbarian shaman… I did not ask where…”

“You turned her over to our enemies? Fool!” In two strides Prince Tashih towered over Sikander, grasping his tunic and hauling him to his feet. “Do you seek to bring ruin on us all? Where did you find this shaman? You will know that, at least.”

“Why… why… I did not!” Sikander was horrified at this turn of events. The prince was supposed to thank him, to praise him!

“You did not find him? Then he found you!” Prince Tashih threw Sikander back into his chair. “Idiot! Did you not know that he sought you out to corrupt you? Think what he has gained—a member of the royal house in the hand of a barbarian sorcerer! Do you understand the link between the sovereign, his people, and his land? Do you not see the power you have given the barbarians?”

Sikander fell back, appalled, suddenly filled with self-contempt—but out of that morass rose determination like a shining shield, the resolution to do at least one good thing. He would not betray Corundel! “Highness… I did not know…”

“And did not ask, nor think!” Sikander turned to his courtiers and jerked his head toward Sikander. “Seize him. Bear him to my father.”

Two men pounced on Sikander as the other courtiers broke into an excited buzz of conversation. With a sinking heart, Corundel watched Sikander hustled from the chamber. Should she speak in his defense? But what could be gained other than that she should be punished, too? Surely Prester John would not lessen Sikander's sentence because he'd had an accomplice!

Then fear rose in her, making her tremble. What if Sikander told of her role in the kidnapping? Surely, he had no reason to remain silent. They had never pledged love, only laughed and enjoyed one another's favors, as they had with other young folk of the court—and what if they offered him mercy to tell who had helped him? Why should he not speak? For surely, in his place, she would!

The guard announced them hurriedly, then stepped aside to open the door. The courtiers flung Sikander on the floor, and Prince Tashih stepped forward into his father's workroom, falling to his knees and bowing his head so that his neck was stretched out for a sword's blow. “Your pardon, Father and sovereign! My rash words have brought woe upon this house!”

“What rash words? Why do you kneel like one who cries for mercy?” Prester John demanded in alarm. “And why lies Sikander here upon my floor?”

Prince Tashih poured forth the story, taking more blame upon himself for his jealousy and rash words than he cast upon Sikander. When he was done, Prester John raised him up, eyes shining with pride. “Yes, my son, you were rash and foolish in your jealousy, for never could any other soul stand between yourself and me! Never could Princess Balkis nor anyone else threaten your inheritance, for you are the heir born, as no one else can be, for none can have the mystical link with the land and the people save the child of the monarch. Only you have been trained to be sovereign of this land in my place, and none other can have it. Still, all your kin shall be reservoirs of strength for you in your reign, and Princess Balkis most of all, for she is already a puissant wizard and shall only gain strength as she grows in knowledge and
power. There can be no firmer support for the throne than one such as her!”

Still Prince Tashih hung his head. “But to have such a pillar sent into the hands of our enemies…”

“That is indeed a grievous threat,” Prester John agreed, his voice somber. He turned to Sikander. “And most grievous was the treachery that wrought it! Speak, Sikander, for the shadow of the headsman's scimitar hangs over you! How did you find this shaman?”

“He is the apothecary who supplied the drug.” Sikander felt no compunction about betraying the barbarian.

“Is he indeed! And how did you put the drug in the princess' drink?”

Sikander was silent, at a loss. How could he explain that without betraying Corundel? And how had the king known?

Prester John had only guessed—but it had been a reasonable deduction, considering that his niece had shown no signs of being drugged when she left his company to sleep. “You could not have done it yourself, for she had only women about her in her privy chambers. You must have had a confederate, a woman. Tell me her name!”

Sikander raised a stony face and kept silent.

“You shall tell me in the end,” Prester John assured him. “It were better if that end were not yours.” He turned to the guards. “Take him to a prison cell. Give him a swallow of water every hour, but no food. If he has not spoken by tomorrow's dawn, I shall think of stronger measures.”

They hustled Sikander out the door. Prester John said to the two courtiers who had brought Sikander, “You may go. I must have speech with my son.”

The prince paled.

The two courtiers bowed and backed away through the doorway. There they turned on their heels and, filling each other's head with wild guesses about Sikander's fate, went quickly to find their companions.

They found them in the courtiers' common room, a chamber high-ceilinged and spacious, floored with Persian carpets and walled by frescoes. Some nobles were in chairs, others were among the islands of cushions on the floor, all
talking breathlessly of the events of the morning. When they saw the two men approach, all rose and fell upon them, demanding news.

“The king sets no blame on Prince Tashih,” said the first.

A murmur of surprise passed through the assemblage, although a few had known the king would be very slow to attach any real blame to his son.

Corundel bit her lip and clenched her hands, stifling her own question, hoping someone else would ask it—and several did. “What of Sikander?”

“He confessed,” said the second courtier, “but the king knows he had a confederate. Sikander will not tell the name, though.”

Corundel almost went limp with relief.

“The king has clapped him in irons and bid the jailers starve him until he tells,” said the first, “but I think that if he does not speak by dawn, the king will hand him over to the torturers.”

Corundel pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, but not tightly enough—a moan of dread escaped. Another lady turned to her with a look of sympathy. “Aye, you had become close to him, had you not, dear?”

But another lady smiled with malicious delight and crowed, “Close to him indeed, and the fear is for herself, not for him! I think we have found Sikander's confederate!”

Several others of Corundel's rivals cried out with glee and pounced on her, pinioning her arms.

One of the princess' ladies came forward, eyes narrowing. “You served in the princess' bedchamber last night, did you not?”

“That was a favor to Chrynsis!” Corundel protested.

“It was indeed,” Chrynsis cried, pushing her way through the throng. “I… did not feel well.”

“You felt more than well, when I saw you creeping back to your chamber in the dead of night,” an older woman said spitefully, “though I doubt not you may be sick of mornings in a month or so.”

Chrynsis stared at her, paling. Then her hand flashed out in a slap, but the older lady caught it with a vindictive laugh.
“Take her also, gentlemen! If there were one accomplice, why not two?”

Chrynsis cried out in alarm, but heavy hands fell on her arms and courtiers bundled her away with Corundel.

Prester John, however, knew an innocent and hot-blooded dupe when he saw one. He sent Chrynsis back to her friends, but sent Corundel to a cell, to meditate on the errors of her ways, with no food and little water. Trembling with fear, she told him the name of the shaman, and for that he granted her a bowl of rice a day. Injustice, he accorded the same ration to Sikander, now that his secret was known. Then he dispatched Prince Tashih with a guard of twenty soldiers to arrest the apothecary.

“They found the shop closed and locked, and the man fled, of course,” he told Matt, shoulders slumping with defeat. “Tashih went there as quickly as he could, but he was too late.”