(Scanned by Highroller.)

(Proofed by Bzx33a.)









CHAPTER ONE

For six days and nights the wind blew steadily out of the northwest;
so that the servants huddled in their quarters, wrapped in
everything warm they owned, and thought they heard voices of
dark prophesies in the wind. It blew until it blew steep drifts of
snow against the great doors in the curtain wall of the castle; so
that men had to be lowered by rope from the battlements to shovel
it away to get the doors open.

Finally it ceased; and there was a day of perfect quietness, terrible
coldness and blue sky. Then the wind began again, worse than
before, this time from the southeast; and on the second day it blew
Sir Brian Neville-Smythe in through the now-open doors of
Malencontri.

The blacksmith and one of the men-at-arms from the gate led
Brian, still on his horse, across the courtyard to the entrance to the
Great Hall and helped him (stiffly) down from his horse, helped
beat the ice off his outer garments, where it clung thickly to those
parts of his over-robe that covered armor underneath; and the
man-at-arms took the horse off to the warm stables. The
blacksmith, since he clearly outranked an ordinary man-at-arms,
went in with Sir Brian to announce him.

But the blacksmith never got the chance. Because once they were
within the Hall they saw Lady Angela Eckert, wife to Sir James
Eckert, Lord of Malencontri and all its lands, taking her mid-day
meal there and she, in the same moment, recognized the visitor.

“Brian!” she called from the far end of the long hall. “Where did you
come from?”

“Outside,” said Brian, who was a literal-minded person.

He advanced on the high table, set on a platform raised above the
hall floor and looking down the two long tables at right angles
before it, and stretching away toward Brian, to accommodate
diners of lesser rank-but empty at the moment Angie was lunching
alone, but in all proper state.

“I can see that,” said Angie, lowering her voice as he came closer.
“But where did you start from?”

“From Castle Smythe. My home,” replied Brian, with a touch of
impatience; for where else would he be coming from at this, the
end of January after a heavy winter storm?

The impatience was only momentary, however, for he was already
eyeing the food and drink before Angie on the high table. To Brian,
what Angie-who, like her husband, Jim, had been an involuntary
importee from the twentieth century to this fourteenth-century
world, some three years before-thought of as lunch time, was
dinner time. It was the main meal of his day; and he had had
nothing since breakfast, shortly after dawn on this icy morning.

“Well, come sit down, and have something to eat and drink,” said
Angie. “You must be frozen to the bone.”

“Hah!” said Brian, his eyes lighting up at the invitation-expected
though it was.

The table servants were already readying a place for him at one
end of the table, so he and Angie could half face each other; for
she sat behind the length of the table, itself, close to that end.
Even as he sat down, another servant ran in from the serving room
with a steaming pitcher, from which he poured hot wine into a
mazer-a large, square metal goblet placed before Brian.

“Mulled wine, by God!” said Brian happily.

He took several hearty swallows from the mazer, to check on what
his nose had already told him. Putting the mazer back down, he
beamed at Angie with affectionate goodwill. Another of the table
servants put a meat pie in front of him and spooned a large serving
from it on to his trencher, the large, thick slice of coarse bread
which served as his plate. He nodded approvingly, neatly picked
out the largest piece of meat and wiped his fingers afterwards
neatly on his napkin by the trencher.

“I thought to find you dining in your solar when you were alone,
Angela,” he said, as soon as his mouth was empty.

“I have done that,” said Angie. “But it’s more convenient here.”

Her eyes met Brian’s and a look of complete understanding
passed between them, twentieth century and fourteenth century for
once in complete agreement.

Servants. Angie would by far have preferred to eat in the solar-
which was the bed-sitting chamber at the top of Malencontri’s tower
and the private chamber of the Lord and Lady of the castle.

The solar was a warm, comfortable place, with its windows tightly
glazed against the weather with actual glass, and the floor heated
under foot by a reconstruction by her husband of the type of
hypocaust that the earlier Roman conquerors of Britain had used to
heat their homes, but which the Middle Ages had forgotten. It was
simply a space between two stone floors where air could circulate
that had been warmed by continuous fires burning in fireplaces
outside the room.

There also was an actual large fireplace in the solar itself-
ornamental as well as useful in weather like this.

The Great Hall, of course, had fireplaces of its own. Three, in fact,
huge ones. One behind the high table where Angie sat right now,
and two others; one each halfway down the long walls of the hall. At
the moment all three were burning brightly with fires in them,
because Angie was there; but the hall was still cold for all that.

Still, against their real preferences, Jim and Angie had taken to
eating at least their mid-day meals here. No servant had come to
them on bended knee and pleaded with them to eat in state in the
Hall; though there had been veiled references made to the
convenience of the serving room-so close to the high table-so that
food could be brought in hot. But no one had officially protested.

But there were still invisible limits to what a Lord and Lady could
do- even if the Lord was a famous knight and magician. Those who
served the gentry would obey any order. Men-at-arms would go
forth and die for their feudal superiors. But neither servants nor
men-at-arms, nor tenants, nor serfs, nor anyone else on the estate,
would go against custom. When custom spoke, everybody
obeyed; right up to the throne of the King himself.

And at Malencontri, a general attitude, unspoken but very clearly
felt, had finally had its way with Angie and Jim. A Lord and Lady of
a castle like this were supposed to eat their mid-day meal in proper
fashion, in the proper place. That was what the hall was there for.
The table servants who had to bring food from the outside kitchen
to the serving room might freeze in the process. That was beside
the point. There was a way things should be done; and that was the
way it should be done here.

“Where’s James?” Brian asked after a few moments, having
managed to take on at least enough meat pie and wine to begin
satisfying his clamoring stomach.

“He’ll be along shortly,” said Angle. “Right now he’s up there.”

She pointed her finger vertically.

“Ah, yes,” said Brian, meaning he understood. This gesture of
Angle’s, which might have either baffled a stranger or seemed to
imply Angle’s husband had left this earthly scene, was something
completely reasonable and understood between these two.

“He thought he should take a look at our people on the lands
outside the castle,” said Angie, “and make sure all of them came
through the storm all right.”

Brian nodded, his mouth full. He swallowed.

“Then, with your pardon, my Lady, I shall wait until he comes back,”
Brian said, “and tell you both at the same time what I came to say. I
would like the two of you to hear it together. It is great news,
indeed. You will grant me mercy if I do not speak of it now?”

“Certainly,” said Angie. In spite of the courtly question at the end of
Brian’s little speech, Angie knew that Brian had no intention of
speaking until her husband got back; and that was a red flag to her.
If Brian wanted to talk to the two of them together, he wanted or
needed something from Jim; and in that case experience had
taught Angie to be ready to resist. Forewarned was forearmed.

“He should be back soon,” she said.
CHAPTER TWO

At the moment Jim was on wing over the southeast comer of the
lands he owned as Sir James Eckert, Baron of Malencontri. This
part was mainly meadow and open farmland; and he was searching
the white landscape below for those relatively few of his tenants
and farmers who lived in isolated spots farther out from the castle,
to see if any of them needed assistance after the storm.

He was feeling a keen delight in being airborne. It was strange, he
thought now, how he forgot about the sheer joy of it when he was
not translated into dragon form; and how strongly the feeling came
back to him once he was aloft. It was a far more gratifying feeling
than flying a small plane, which Jim had taken a few lessons at
doing, back in his original twentieth-century world, or even like
soaring in a man-made glider, which he had done as a passenger,
twice. In this case it was his living, feeling self alone that was riding
the air currents; and there was a triumphant sensation of both
freedom and power.

In his large dragon body, with its much higher mass-to-surface ratio
than that of his human one, he was not bothered by the cold. Heat
would have been something else again. He had almost melted
down trying to walk through the summer heat in the middle part of
France as a dragon, a couple of years ago; and the rush of cold air
about him now was only pleasant.

He was alive right out to the tips of his enormous wings, which
reached out an awesome distance on each side of him, in order to
make it possible for that body of his to plane through the air. He
was soaring, not flying, as most of even the large birds preferred to
do, because of the enormous expenditure of energy required to
keep him aloft by flapping his wings alone; but once at sufficient
altitude, he could ride the air currents and the updrafts with careful
adjustments of his wings; the way a sailing ship might adjust both
fore-and-aft and square sails to cause the wind to propel it across
the surface of the water.

This adjustment was purely instinctive on the part of his body.
Nonetheless, he appreciated it as much as if it had been a skill. It
made him feel like a king in this airy realm.

However, he had now covered almost all of his estate and it was
time to be heading back to the castle. He would be late for lunch.
He started the long swing to his right that would send him
homeward; but just then he spotted the widow Tebbits’s little
sapling-and-clay igloo.

“Igloo” was not really a proper name for it; but he could think of no
other architectural name that fitted it. It had been built out of
saplings and thin branches woven together and plastered airtight
with clay. It either had no proper roof, or the roof had settled into
the walls over the years, giving it roughly the shape of an igloo. In
any case, in the middle of the roof was a hole that was right above
the sand-filled firebox in which the widow lit the fire for her cooking
and heating.

That hole was not showing any escaping smoke now. What was
more, it was covered from the inside.

Jim circled down and landed with a thump before the door, which
the new direction of the wind had cleared of snow. The sound of
his coming to earth evidently alerted whoever was inside; for
someone fought with the door for a few seconds, then it popped
open. The widow herself stepped out, bundled up in clothing,
blankets and assorted rags until she looked more like a teddy bear
than a human being, and recognized him immediately.

She gave the small obligatory scream that the Malencontri people
had decided was the proper way to acknowledge their Lord in his
dragon form, and then tried to curtsy. It was a mistake with all the
padding she had on, and she almost tumbled over. Jim stopped
himself just in time from reaching out to catch her. She would never
have forgiven herself if her Lord had had to do something like that.
Happily, the frame of the door kept her from going all the way down
and she recovered her footing.

“M’lord!” she said.

Out of her swaddling of coverings, her round, soft, aged face
peered at him with two sharp dark eyes.

“How are you, Tebbits?” asked Jim. The widow had a first name,
but nobody on the estate seemed to remember what it was. “I
noticed there was no smoke coming up from your roof.”

“Oh, no, m’lord,” said the widow. “Thank you, m’lord. It’s good of
you to speak to me, m’lord. I’m ever so grateful to you, m’lord.
There’s no smoke because the fire’s out.”

“Is something wrong with the firebox?” asked Jim, remembering to
use delicacy in approaching the subject

“No, m’lord. Thank you, m’lord.”
“Why is the fire out, then?”

“It burned up the last ember and just went out, like fires do-with
your grace and pardon for saying so, m’lord.”

Jim sighed inwardly. He felt rather like a man in the dark with a ring-
full of keys, trying to find the right one that would unlock the door in
front of him. All of the tenants had a horror of openly complaining.
They had ways of making their wants known to him-roundabout
ways-and the pretense was always that they were perfectly in
control of things and needed no help whatsoever... but if he
happened to notice, just at this moment they could use...

“You wouldn’t have gotten a little low on firewood, during the
snowstorm?” asked Jim.

“Why, I believe I did,” said the widow Tebbits. “I’m so dreadfully
forgetful these days, m’lord.”

“Not at all,” said Jim heartily. How she had survived, in spite of all
that padding inside, an unheated shelter for the last few days,
particularly at her age, was beyond imagination. “You know, I think I
saw a fallen branch off in that patch of woods over there. It might
be useful to you. I believe I’ll just go and get it for you.”

“Oh, pray don’t put yourself to the trouble, m’lord,” said Tebbits.

“Tebbits,” said Jim, in an autocratic, warning voice, “I choose to go
get you that bough!”

“Oh, pray forgive me, m’lord. Very sorry, m’lord. Crave pardon!”

“Be right back,” said Jim.

He turned around and with a thunder of wings leaped into the air,
winged the short distance to the nearby stand of trees he had been
thinking of and flew far enough over them so that when he came
down he would be out of sight of the widow Tebbits. There were
no fallen branches handy, nor had he any intention of going to the
trouble of searching for them under the snow. He picked a fifteen-
foot limb from an oak and simply tore it loose from the frozen trunk.
On second thought, he found another limb of about the same
thickness and length and tore it off. Holding the limbs by their ends
so that they dragged beneath him between his feet and did not
interfere with his wings, he sprang into the air once more, flapped
back dragging them, and landed at the widow Tebbits’s.

“Here!” he said gruffly-and then noticed that she was eyeing the
thickness of the branches where they had been attached to the
tree somewhat wistfully. “Oh, come to think of it,” he said, “have
you an ax where you can get at it conveniently?”

“Alas, m’lord,” said Tebbits. “I’m afraid I lost it, like.”

She had almost undoubtedly never had one, thought Jim. Iron was
expensive. He must do something about getting her at least some
sort of tool for cutting up thicker pieces of wood.
“Ah, yes, I see,” said Jim. “Well, in that case-“

He picked up one of the two frozen tree limbs he had brought her
and began breaking off-quite easily with the strength of his dragon
forearms-the heavy ends of its main stem, as well as any extended
limbs that would keep it from fitting neatly into her fire box. He
reduced the branches to burnable lengths and, picking these up,
put only as many as she could carry into the arms of Tebbits, who
clutched them awkwardly, but obviously gratefully, in spite of the
thickness of the cloth insulation in which she was wrapped.

“I’ll have Dick Forester send someone down here with some of the
castle wood sometime later today,” Jim wound up. “Have you flint
and steel? Can you get the fire started?”

“Oh yes, thank you, m’lord,” said Tebbits. “You’re always so kind to
a useless old person.”

“Not at all. Be old myself one day, no doubt!” he said bluffly.
“Heaven bless you, Tebbits.”

“May Heaven bless you, m’lord,” said Tebbits.

Jim sprang into the air with a thunder of wings, feeling rather smug
at having been able for once to bless one of these people of his
before they could bless him. Once back to altitude he resumed his
flight to the castle.

But, in the process, something new caught his eye. Something not
on his land at all. On the small estate of Sir Hubert Whitby adjoining
his. Sir Hubert was waving his arms, shouting something
incomprehensible at this distance, and directing several of his own
tenants or servants over some problem or other-Jim’s telescopic
dragon-sight informed him.

Sir Hubert was not the best of neighbors. In fact, he was probably
not far from being the worst of neighbors, Jim thought. But then he
checked himself. Sir Hubert was not really bad, dangerous, evil,
dishonest or rapacious-or any of the many things that neighbors
could be in this fourteenth-century England. But he was a never-
satisfied annoyance; always angry about something, always
insistent and complaining about it at great length.

For a moment Jim was tempted simply to complete his turn and
forget that he had seen anything at all. But then his conscience,
plus the strong social feeling of obligation to neighbors that existed
in this time, turned him back and he soared in the direction of Sir
Hubert and his problem.

As he got closer, soaring this time on a convenient slant of the
wind, he saw what the problem was. One of Sir Hubert’s cows had
evidently fallen into a snow-filled ditch, or small ravine, and Sir
Hubert, with the four men he had with him, were trying to get her
out.

But the cow could not help them-or else she did not understand
what she was supposed to do to help-and her weight was such that
the four of them could not lift her or drag her from it. Sir Hubert was
making so much noise that none of them realized Jim was even
close to them until he landed in their midst with the same sort of
thump with which he had landed outside of the widow Tebbits’s
home. They all whirled about and for a moment they merely stared
at him.

“A dragon!” roared Sir Hubert, whipping his sword out of its sheath.
His face was pale, but the sword was quite steady. In spite of all
his other faults. Sir Hubert was not a coward. No one was likely to
live to adulthood back in this time if they were, of course, no matter
what level of society they belonged to.

Clearly they had not recognized him, the way Jim’s own tenants
and people did. The four men with Sir Hubert were actually not
armed, aside from their ordinary all-purpose belt knives. But they
all snatched these out and hefted whatever else they had in their
hand that might be a weapon-in this case a couple of long poles
which two of them held; and in the case of one man, rather
ridiculously, a rope he was holding.

It was foolish of them, of course. Even fully armed and armored,
on foot the five of them would probably never have escaped alive if
they had seriously tried to battle a dragon of Jim’s size. While they
might do some serious damage to Jim before being killed, Jim
would certainly be the last to die.

“Don’t be an ass, Sir Hubert,” said Jim, finding the British phrase
rolled quite happily off his tongue. What a handy sort of phrase it
was for situations like this, he told himself. “I’m James Eckert, your
neighbor-only in my dragon body. I came over to see if I could
help.”

Sir Hubert’s face stayed pale and his sword stayed pointed, but its
point dropped a few inches.

“Hah!” he said doubtfully.

“I happened to be flying by, taking a look at how my own lands had
come through the snowstorm,” said Jim, “and I saw you having
some trouble over here. So I came.”

Sir Hubert’s sword dropped down, but he still did not sheath it.

“Well, if it’s you, why didn’t you come like a man?”

“There’s a lot more strength in this dragon body of mine, when it
comes to helping with something like this,” said Jim. “Stop and
think for a moment, Hubert!”

“Well, damn it! How the bloody hell was I supposed to know?” the
knight said. “You could have been any dragon, ravening for our
blood!”

“I don’t raven,” said Jim. “You’ve eaten dinner at Malencontri often
enough to know that, Hubert.”

“Well...” Sir Hubert sheathed his sword. “How can you help us?”

“I’m not sure yet,” said Jim. “Let me take a look at the situation.
What kind of hole is she stuck in?”

“Little dimple in the ground, that’s all,” grumbled Sir Hubert. “If she
had any sense in her head she could walk out of there. Damn
cows, anyhow!”

“Steep sides or sloping sides?”

“Sloping,” said Sir Hubert. “If she’d help a little, we could have got
her out of there.”

“If they’re sloping, maybe I can get down in beside her. Then if I lift
and the rest of you tug, maybe she can scramble out,” said Jim.

“She’ll kick you,” said Sir Hubert with relish.

“Maybe,” said Jim. “Let’s see.”

He approached the hole, and the cow, who had been upwind of
him until now, suddenly smelling and seeing a dragon in her
immediate vicinity, bellered in terror. Jim tested the slope of the
ground under the snow and after a moment slid down beside the
cow’s flank. She cried out for help again; for now Jim’s body was
pinning her against the opposite side of what Sir Hubert had
described as a dimple and she could not manage a good kick
through the hip-deep snow.

Whether she actually succeeded in kicking him or not, Jim never
knew. But he managed to get down beside her, low enough so that
he could get leverage for the shoulder of one folded wing beneath
her belly. Once he had her firmly pressed between his shoulder
and the opposite side of the depression, she stopped bellering,
gave one sad moo of utter despair and fell silent.

Jim took a deep breath and lifted, like a man lifting a weight
balanced on one shoulder. The cow was no lightweight; but on the
other hand, the muscles Jim was bringing into play were awesome
compared to any human’s. The cow rose upward and sprawled out
on her side on the far edge of the dimple; Sir Hubert’s men
immediately laid hands on her, skidded her across the snow away
from the depression and began to coax her to her feet.

Jim climbed out of the depression himself.

“Well, you did it easily enough,” said Sir Hubert grumblingly, almost
as if he was accusing Jim of doing him an injury.

“You’re entirely welcome,” said Jim, knowing that Sir Hubert’s
words were as close as the knight could come to saying thanks. He
leaped into the air and began to climb once more for the long soar
home.

With the wind in the southeast, he had to climb for altitude and
make a long sweep over Sir Hubert’s land to get himself turned
about and headed back to Malencontri. He was in the process of
this when he suddenly realized he was high enough and looking in
the light direction to see the woods in which Carolinus had his
cottage; and his conscience niggled at him.

He had been meaning to talk to Carolinus-his Master in magic-ever
since he and Angie with young Robert Falon and their personal
attendants had gotten back from the Christmas party of the Earl of
Somerset almost a month ago. But one thing and another had kept
him from getting together with the older magician.

This was an ideal time to call in briefly for a quick chat on a couple
of points that dated back to the Twelve Days of Christmas at the
Earl’s, and had been bothering Jim since. For one thing, he had the
sneaking feeling that he owed Carolinus an apology-having gotten
somewhat annoyed with the other man during those twelve days.

But, back at the castle, it was already past lunch time. Angie would
be waiting for him in the Great Hall. And there might be something
to do with Robert that would call for him to be there...

Robert had become a concern that seemed to crop up in all sorts
of otherwise ordinary situations. In fact, Jim was not at all sure that
he was the right man to bring up an orphan boy of noble birth in the
fourteenth century, where all such were raised to be warriors. He
was no real warrior himself. The youngster could well be hampered
by Jim’s different, twentieth-century outlook on life-

Jim pushed that thought from his mind. Robert was still far too
young to eat lunch with them in the Great Hall. Still-Jim’s
conscience pulled him both ways. But then he reminded himself
that Angie would not wait very long before going ahead and eating
by herself; so actually no harm would have been done. He, himself,
could eat anything that was available after he got back to
Malencontri, whenever that might be.

He altered the angle of his wings and headed toward the tops of
the trees that still obscured the little clearing in which Carolinus’s
cottage stood.

The clearing, when he got to it, was pretty much as he had
expected it. It was completely surrounded by very tall oaks and
yews, and roughly oval in shape. It was also roughly the size of a
football field. Snow hung on the trees around the clearing and
coated the ground up to within about ten yards of the cottage,
leaving a perfect circle in which it was still summer.

Within that circle, the cottage stood, snow-free. The grass was
green, flowers bloomed, and a fountain tinkled its jet of water in the
middle of a small pool from which occasionally small golden fish-or
were they very small golden mermaids?-leaped like miniature
dolphins into the air. Jim’s eye had never been quick enough to
make sure.

Beside the pool was a neatly raked gravel path leading up to the
door of a small, oddly narrow peaked-roof house that ought to have
looked out of place here; but what with the pool, the grass and the
occasional flash of a golden jumping figure from the pool, it looked
as if it could not have been any place else.

Jim landed with a thump at the end of the gravel path; but no one
immediately tried to look out from the house to see who had
arrived. He turned himself back into a human, complete with warm
clothes (he had had a little trouble with the clothes part in the early
days of learning how to use magic, but had it under control now),
walked up to the door of the house and tapped gently at it.

There was no answer. He pushed gently on it and it swung open.
He stepped in.

“Eh? What? Oh, it’s you, Jim,” said Carolinus, looking up.

He was seated in his large, wing-back chair, with a thick and heavy
volume of some book or other, open on the table at his elbow; and
the small green, sylphlike and fragile, female figure of a naiad
perched on one of his knees, as lightly as a butterfly on a twig.
Carolinus looked at her.

“You’d better run along now, my dear,” he said gently to the naiad.
“We can finish our talk later.”

The naiad drifted off his knee to stand before him with downcast
eyes. She murmured something incomprehensible.

“Certainly!” said Carolinus.

She turned and went toward the door. Jim stood aside to let her
pass and she approached him with downcast eyes, glancing up for
just a moment and murmuring something else equally
incomprehensible.

“Not at all,” said Jim. He had not understood her, as Carolinus
obviously had a moment before; but the words he had chosen
ought to be fairly safe as an answer. She went on out the door and
it closed behind her.

“Well, well, my boy,” said Carolinus cheerfully. “It’s good to see
you, and particularly to see you in your human body, rather than the
dragon one. This is a small house, you know.”

It was indeed a small house; and what was more, crammed to the
rafters with books and everything else imaginable, ordinary and
occult In fact, it looked more like a warehouse than a home. But
since Carolinus was accustomed to merely ordering whatever he
wanted from whatever was piled around to appear in front of him,
this made no difference to the older magician.

“Well, yes,” said Jim. “I’ve been meaning to drop by ever since we
got back from the Earl’s, and I happened to be close so I simply
came on. I’m not interrupting anything, or catching you at a busy
moment, am I?”

“Not at all, not at all,” said Carolinus. “Lalline and I can chat at
anytime. You and I see each other all too seldom.”

The last words were a perfect invitation for Jim to point out that he
had made a lot of efforts to see Carolinus. It was Carolinus who
had been hard to find. However, he did not.

“But never mind that, now that you’re here,” went on Carolinus
jovially. “You’re looking rested and in good spirits. Ready for your
next adventure?”
CHAPTER THREE

“Adventure!” said Jim, with a sudden cold feeling in his stomach.
“Certainly not. I’m looking forward to having nothing to do with
adventures for a long time. Angie and I are going to try to live as
ordinary people for the next few years.”

An evil suspicion crept into his mind.

“You haven’t got something up your sleeve for me, have you?” he
demanded.

“I? James!” said Carolinus. “I certainly wouldn’t impose another set
of duties on you so quickly after the last affair at the Earl’s. No, no.
I don’t have the slightest thing in mind for you. If you get involved in
anything, it will be because you do it yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jim. “It was just that those twelve days rather took
things out of me. Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Sit down? Of course,” said Carolinus. “Of course-that is, if you
can find a chair. There are some around here, someplace.”

He peered about the interior of the cottage shortsightedly.

“I know there are some other chairs. Try under those volumes in
the corner there.”

“Sorry for overreacting,” said Jim, seated finally after a small but
necessary delay. “But Angie feels that I spend far too little time
with her, and I can’t say I blame her.”

“Of course not,” said Carolinus. “Is the chair comfortable?”

“Well...” said Jim. “To tell you the truth, no.”

“It should be!” said Carolinus in a terrifying voice.

The chair instantly was. It was possibly the most comfortable chair
Jim had ever sat in, in spite of the fact that it had four single legs, a
stiff upright back, no arms and no padding.

“To tell you the truth, Carolinus,” he said, “I came here because,
after thinking it over, I may have been a little too suspicious and a
little too short-tempered with you during those twelve days. But I
was used to having you around to check with in emergencies; and I
could never get in touch with you.”

“Dear me!” said Carolinus.

“Oh, it’s all right,” Jim went on. “I understand now you were
deliberately leaving me on my own, as the best way of doing
things. But I’m glad to be back to where I can find you when I want
you and check with you if I need to.”

“Find me, and check with me by all means, Jim,” said Carolinus.
“Bear in mind, though, there is no going back. You have now tried
your wings as an independent magickian; and you will have to fly by
yourself from here on.”

“I will?” asked Jim. A couple of years before, Carolinus’s words
would not have had a particularly ominous sound. Now that he
realized the possibilities of magic better-as well as its limitations-he
found they worried him.

“What are the limits, then, to what you can do for me?”

“You can ask me questions,” said Carolinus. “And within certain
limits I will answer them. Absolutely complete answers to anything
simply do not exist. You will discover this yourself, Jim, once you
are an established magickian of at least A level and dealing with
those of a lesser level; or even with an apprentice of your own.”

“I can believe you,” said Jim, who had about as much intention of
ever taking on an apprentice in magic as he had of setting himself
on fire.

“Remember always,” said Carolinus, “there’s never any point in
offering information to someone until they’re ready to receive it.
But, if you wait until they ask, then the two things that need to
happen are happening. One, they’ll be ready to listen to what you
have to tell them. Secondly, now they give a value to what you say;
whereas until they had a need, they might have been inclined to
question or even argue with your instruction or advice, out of sheer
ignorance.”

“Had I been doing that?” said Jim.

“As a matter of fact,” said Carolinus, “you haven’t. But then, you
don’t fit the usual pattern of apprentices. Your problem lies in a
different area, one in which I’m helpless to be of any use to you;
and that is, your thinking is entirely conditioned by this-what shall I
say-mechanistic...”

“You mean I’ve been conditioned by the technology of the
twentieth-century world I came from,” said Jim.

“Yes,” said Carolinus. “That’s it exactly.”

“I don’t know what to do about that,” said Jim.

“Well, it has to be your problem; but it’s also, paradoxically, the
basis of your unusual ability to find solutions, outside the normal
bounds of what a learning magickian might, in dealing with a
problem. For me to try to correct your habits and preconceptions in
this area would probably throttle the very abilities that are your
greatest asset. Therefore, you must sink or swim on your own, Jim;
even more so than the ordinary apprentice.”

“That’s fine if I get into something on my own,” said Jim. “But if
you, yourself, give me something to do and I need help, then I can
call on you, and you’ll answer and give me the information I ask
for?”

“Not necessarily all the information you ask for,” said Carolinus. “I
have a great deal more information than you imagine, Jim. Most of
it you couldn’t use, even if you could understand it. But I’ll always
give you as much information as I think you can use.”

“But if I solve problems in ways you can’t and don’t, yourself,
because I come from somewhere else, you can’t know what
information I can’t use, or understand.”

“That may be, possibly. It may be a remote possibility. But,” said
Carolinus, “one of us has to choose what information you are to
receive. And since it is my information; and I’m one of only three
AAA+ class magickians in this world, where you are only a C-class
magickian, my apprentice and a relative newcomer-I shall be the
one who chooses.”

“In other words,” said Jim, “I’ve got no choice. Well, I suppose I
can’t force you to give me any more information than you want to.”

“You’ve always been very quick to see the point, Jim,” said
Carolinus. “That’s one of the things I remarked immediately about
you when we first met.”

“But you’ll do the best you can to help me within what you see as
possible limits, right?” asked Jim.

“Yes,” said Carolinus. “Remember, Jim, I have a great
consideration for you-wouldn’t have taken you on as my apprentice
otherwise-and I rejoice when you succeed and am concerned
when you are in difficulty. In short, I hope you feel you can trust in
my goodwill.”

“Actually, I never doubted that,” said Jim. What he had feared, of
course, was Carolinus jumping to the wrong conclusions because
the older magician was thinking purely in terms of his own
fourteenth-century experience. Or at least, that was the way Jim
had felt most of the time. For a little while during the Christmas
party at the Earl’s he had wondered whether Carolinus wasn’t
necessarily using him for his own convenience, and had been for
some time. But that proved to be wrong. “No, I trust you, Carolinus,
of course. So does Angie.”

“I appreciate that, my boy,” said Carolinus. “Nor have I forgotten
how you saved my life when those two local healing women were
about to heal me to death with their potions and rough treatment”

Jim remembered. That had indeed been a time when Carolinus
had been helpless; and Jim and Angie with some of their men-at-
arms, plus the fortunate appearance of John Chandos, Giles and
Chandos’s squire, had appeared in the nick of time to rescue the
elderly magician and get him to Malencontri where he could be
nursed back to health. Jim’s guilty feeling for doubting Carolinus at
the Earl’s, grew to an even greater self-accusation.

“I’ll trust you, Carolinus,” he said. “You can count on me.”

“And you can count on me, my boy,” said Carolinus. “Opportunely,
since we have just established our mutual trust, there is something
that I have been meaning to speak very seriously to you about,
since you are moving-let us say-into a new area of the use of
magick. You know, of course, that you have this unlimited drawing
account on magickal energy because of your unusual status, and
that this has caused some upset on the part of other magickians
and their apprentices, who feel you’re being especially favored.”

“I know,” said Jim grimly.

“Their upset doesn’t concern me,” said Carolinus. “They’ll get used
to the fact that your difference supports it. But you also remember
that you used this drawing account quite freely at the Earl’s
Christmas party. You managed to get a number of things done with
it. But still you were rather prodigal with its use.”

“You think so?” said Jim.

“I’m very sure so,” said Carolinus. “As I say, I’m not worried about
the other magickians complaining about this. What does concern
me is that you are not observing something that, as a magickian
operating essentially on your own, you must never overlook.”

“Oh?” said Jim. He had never heard a note this serious in
Carolinus’s voice before. He found himself suddenly alert. He and
Angie had been in some danger because of other magicians’
complaints about his handling of magic before this.

“I would like you to remember something always,” said Carolinus in
the same voice. “No matter how little energy you may draw to do a
certain amount of magick, no matter how large your resources may
be, it is always wise, at all times, to hoard those resources. In other
words, do not use your magick if there is at all any other convenient
way of getting done what you want to get done. I know, you’ve
seen me hopping around hither and yon-and even taking you with
me sometimes-magickally. But I am a much older man than you
and, well, there are other reasons you’ll understand when you’ve
learned a little more. The rule remains: do not use magick unless
you have to.”

He looked severely at Jim, who looked suitably impressed in
return.

“The simple reason is,” Carolinus went on, “that you may have a
sudden, unexpected demand on the most magickal energy you
can command at that particular time and under those
circumstances. You have no way of predicting either what that
demand will be, nor what your circumstances will be; so be safe.
Keep as much in reserve as possible. This is very, very important,
James!”

Jim felt a slight coldness on the back of his neck. Carolinus was
being so serious that he was suddenly and very deeply wary.

“There isn’t something-some danger-you know about that I don’t
know about, for which I might need magic?” he asked.

“No!” said Carolinus emphatically. “None whatsoever! I give this to
you as a general rule. But I emphasize that this rule is of the
greatest possible importance, always; particularly when you are
adventuring into magickal situations on your own.”

“Well, I’ll certainly remember it,” said Jim soberly.

“Good!” said Carolinus. “Remember your encounter with the Dark
Powers at the Loathly Tower; and how I told you I had to make a
long journey to get the magick enclosed in that staff I held. Large
magick is not easy. No magick is the answer to all situations. You
must first rely on yourself, your own will and your own wits.”

He broke off rather abruptly and coughed.

“Now,” he said briskly in his normal tone, “was there something
else you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Not at the moment,” said Jim, feeling surprisingly relieved that
they were back to ordinary, friendly words after the almost ominous
tone of the advice Carolinus had been giving him. “We’re all fine at
the castle. We’ll be in touch with you shortly as soon as the
weather gets a little better.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Carolinus. “I assume you’ll be flying back
there now, rather than transporting yourself magickally?”

“I’d planned to anyway,” said Jim. “I like flying. But, come to think
of it, isn’t turning myself into dragon shape or out of it a use of
magic?”

“As a matter of fact, in your unusual, individual case, it isn’t,” said
Carolinus. “You’re different, insofar as that goes-rather like a
Natural- you came into this world as a dragon; and as long as
you’re a dragon when you go out of it, all the energy involved
cancels out”

“Good,” said Jim. “I’ll step outside then, to turn back into a dragon.”

“Do,” said Carolinus. “I’d much appreciate it”

Jim did.

Back at the castle, some twenty minutes later, Jim landed on the
flat battlemented top of Malencontri’s tower, under the flagpole,
from which the banner bearing his coat of arms flapped in the
somewhat active breeze.

He was greeted by the ritual short shout of alarm which was the
male equivalent of the widow Tebbits’s polite scream. He nodded
an acknowledgment at the man-at-arms on sentry duty, changed to
his human form, walked down the stairs, opened a door and
stepped into the solar.

Angie was there, seated at a table with papers spread out before
her, doing what no right-minded lady in the fourteenth century
would want to be caught doing-keeping the accounts of the castle
household.

Actually, John Steward should have been doing this. But Angie had
discovered that John, entirely in accord with hallowed custom, had
been skimming off for himself a certain amount of the funds
necessary for the castle’s maintenance. Shocked by this, she had
checked with Geronde, who had looked into the accounts, and
come to the conclusion that John was not being greedy at all in
what he took. In fact, he was being rather sparing in making use of
his skimming possibilities. She had strongly counseled that Angie
leave the matter alone.

But Angie was determined that things should be done in a more
reasonable twentieth-century manner. She had taken over the
accounts herself, giving John Steward instead a twice-yearly fee,
which was in fact a little more than he had been taking. Then, she
herself kept the records and kept them rather more tightly than
John had ever done.

“Jim!” she said, looking up from the table. “Where have you
been?”

“Oh, I stopped at the widow Tebbits’s-she needed some
firewood,” said Jim. “Then I saw Sir Hubert was having some
trouble with a cow stuck in a hole; and I was so close to Carolinus’s
then, I thought I’d drop by and see if I couldn’t mend our
relationship. I was having some hard thoughts about him toward the
latter part of our visit at the Earl’s, you remember.”

“And it’s taken you until now?” said Angie. “The afternoon’s almost
gone!”

“Yes,” said Jim, “I must have talked to Carolinus a little longer than
I thought. But let me tell you-he started out by asking me if I was
ready for my next adventure. I told him, ‘Certainly not! Angie and I
are going to live as ordinary people for the next few years.’ “

“You told him that?” said Angie.

“Absolutely!” said Jim. “That’s what I said to him, flat out”

“Then nothing is going to take you away for a long while yet,” said
Angie.

“Absolutely!” said Jim. “You can count on it.”

“Good. I will,” said Angie. “Brian is downstairs.”

“Brian?” said Jim. “What brings him over?”

“He wanted to tell the two of us at the same tune, so he’s been
waiting for you to get back,” said Angie. She got up from the table.
“Let’s go down to the hall now. He’s been perfectly happy sitting
down there, talking to your squire.”

Jim’s squire was Theoluf, a former man-at-arms who had been
elevated to squire rank for Jim, when there was no one else
available. He had at least a dozen, possibly more, years of
experience in the same sort of martial activities that Brian lived for.
Brian could hardly have sat down and chatted with him if he had
been still a man-at-arms, even the Chief man-at-arms-which he had
been. But now that Theoluf was a squire, he was advanced enough
in rank to be someone to chat with; although Jim was ready to bet
that while Brian was still sitting at the table, Theoluf was standing.

Jim, of course, could not break himself of the twentieth-century
habit of inviting everybody to sit down. Angie had adapted to the
business of having inferiors stand when they talked to her; and she
as well as Brian and Geronde de Chaney, Brian’s betrothed, had
tried to break Jim of the bad habit of inviting them to sit.

Jim was better at it now, but he still slipped occasionally. His own
servants, having gotten instructions from Angie, passed down
through John Steward, were in the habit of simply ignoring the offer
when Jim suggested they take a seat.

They had been relieved to be ordered to do that. The truth was
they felt uncomfortable sitting in Jim’s presence-it was as
someone might feel five hundred years later, not knowing if they
were using the right fork at an ultra-formal dinner.

When Angie and Jim came into the Great Hall through the serving
room, next to the high table, Theoluf was standing, just as Jim had
expected, before the dais on which the high table stood. Brian was
sitting, in his usual upright horseman’s posture, but with one elbow
on the table and a forefinger emphasizing a point he was making to
Theoluf at the moment.

“...But one thing you must always train them to do,” Brian was
saying emphatically. “A man down does not mean a man slain!”

“And so I do tell them, Sir Brian,” said Theoluf earnestly. “But
getting them to remember it and believe it until after they’ve had a
close ‘scape from a man they thought was dead, is something else
again. When I was at Warwick Castle I had one lad, searching for
money in what he thought was a corpse, gutted by it; though it had
been on its feet and fighting like the devil himself, a moment
before-“

Theoluf broke off and bowed, as Jim and Angie appeared by the
high table. His hat was already in his hand, since he was talking to
Sir Brian, so he could not take that off. But the bow was becoming
a rather smooth and practiced gesture for the ex-man-at-arms, Jim
noticed. It was a far cry from the awkward way Theoluf had jerked
his upper body when he had first been promoted to squire.

“Theoluf,” said Angie, as she and Jim took seats behind the high
table, flanking the end of it at which Brian was seated, “run see
about some food for your Lord. What would you like, Jim?”

“Oh, cheese, bread, some cold meat-and some small beer,” said
Jim. He was actually almost coming to like the small beer. Wine
would taste infinitely better; but he was trying hard to resist the
fourteenth-century habit of drinking it on any and all occasions that
gave the slightest excuse for it.

“Yes, m’lady,” said Theoluf. He bowed apologetically to Sir Brian,
and ran off through the serving room in search of table servants.

“Brian!” said Jim. “It’s really good to see you. I didn’t expect to
have you come in this weather, though. You look fine. And
Geronde’s fine?”

Brian and his betrothed, Geronde de Chaney, traded homing
pigeons so Castle Malvern and Castle Smythe could stay in touch
when the weather was bad like this, or in any emergency. Castle
Malvern boasted a priest in residence. Brian had no such luxury,
but he did have a former monk among his retainers, who could
read and write a limited form of Latin. So messages went back and
forth in that language.

“Never finer,” said Brian. “Wondrous things have occurred-but
before I get into that, I must tell you before I forget, it was a great
sorrow to Sir Giles not to be able to see you after the tourney.”

“I’m sorry, myself,” said Jim. “He came all that way to the Earl’s
from up near the Scottish border, and we really never had a chance
to talk. I thought he might come home with us here for a short stay;
but when I looked for him later that day I couldn’t find him. I’d heard
he’d left already. I hope it was nothing I did or said.”

“Not at all,” said Sir Brian. “You remember that since he could not
ride in the tourney himself, he acted squire for the other
Northumbrian knight there, Sir Reginald Burgh; whom, if you
remember, was the third to ride against Mnrogar?”

“Yes, I was told that,” said Jim. “That’s why I didn’t go looking for
Giles until after it was all over. But do you know why he left so
soon?”

“It seems Sir Reginald had planned to leave early,” said Brian. “He
had some matter up along the border that would require his being
back as soon as possible. But because be had taken some small
hurt in his spear running with Mnrogar-oh, nothing serious, a few
ribs cracked, or a shoulder displaced for a moment-he was in no fit
shape to fight, in case he and his men ran into the same sort of
outlaws that Giles encountered on his way down. Giles, therefore,
being a fellow Northumbrian, felt it his duty to ride with Sir Reginald;
and he had barely time to pass this word to me before he was off
to do so.”

“Maybe he can come down again,” said Jim.

“Possibly next year-“ began Brian; and they were suddenly
surrounded by servants, putting down a fresh tablecloth and a
napkin, plus trencher, beer, cheese and meat as ordered. They
were gone again in a moment, but the thread of conversation had
been interrupted.

“Well, we’ll hope so,” said Jim, privately wondering whether it
would be much of a journey for him, in his dragon body, to fly up to
see Giles for just a few days at the Castle de Mer of his family.
“But you were saying that wondrous things had been happening?”

“So I did; and so they have,” said Sir Brian. “You will hardly credit
two such chances falling together so happily at the same time. You
will recall what none of us expected, the capful of gold pieces that
King Edward sent down with the Prince as his gift to the winner of
the tourney? None of us, of course, were hoping for such a kingly
guerdon.”

That would certainly be true, thought Jim. The King of England did
not usually favor the winners of any but royal tourneys with gifts.

“But, as you know,” Sir Brian went on, “it ended in my keeping. I
had been counting on only the horses and armor of my opponents;
and indeed both horse and armor that I gained from my opponents
were of noble worth-particularly Sir Harimore’s. However, he
wished to ransom these back, the horse being as dear to him as
Blanchard of Tours is to me; and the armor being such a cunning fit
that he was fearful he would not find as good again. I could not
deny him, of course, though I did allow him to force payment on
me, which was not the best of chivalric manners. But then, you
know how it is with me and Castle Smythe.”

Jim and Angie knew. Castle Smythe was perennially teetering on
the edge of becoming a ruin; and while Brian won a tourney from
time to time, most of the money had to go to supporting those in
the castle who were retainers of Brian’s and would not leave him,
but stayed on merely for a roof over their heads and the poorest of
food. But even these simple needs ate up most of his winnings, so
that there was usually little left for much-needed repairs of his small
castle-even though it was little more than a tower keep, with
outbuildings and a curtain wall enclosing all.

“Well, I had done so well this last Christmas,” Brian went on, “that I
was in high hopes of at least mending the roof of my Great Hall;
and still having enough to feed us all until the first spring crops
come in and some of my herd of cattle”-(there were only six of
them, Jim knew)- “would give birth. But then, on top of all else,
came this marvelous rain of gold pieces. I counted them when I
got home; and could not believe my eyes.”

He paused to let Jim and Angie both murmur polite agreement with
his astonishment at that moment.

“There was enough there to mend all of Castle Smythe,” Brian
went on, “and keep us well for more than a year-and in a year I
would have won other tourneys. For the first time, I would begin to
get ahead of my necessary spendings. From that point, who knows
what richness of lands and buildings I might not produce? I could
clear the scrub wood from my southwest corner and put it to
pasture; but, in any case, the King’s gift was a gift from God. In fact
I was tempted to go to Windom Priory to ask counsel of the good
priests there as to how to thank Him. But it came to me that they
might well say that I should give all or most of it to them for
churchly uses; and I am sinner enough not to want to lose that
much of it. Oh, I will make them a handsome present; but I shall
decide myself how large shall be the gift.”

“Well, you were the one who earned it,” said Angie.

“No,” said Brian, shaking his head, “fortune favored me-no more.
But, though little I knew it then, this wealth was already destined for
better use-“ He sat back in his chair, beaming at them.

“A much better use!” he said. “For, within a few days of my return,
a message came by pigeon from Geronde, summoning me over
to see her. I had been intending to go in a day or so anyway; but I
went right away. When she saw me, she flung her arms around me;
for the best of news had come. An aged knight, returning from the
Holy Land, had brought word and passed it on to a King’s Justice,
on regular circuit through Devon to hold his court; and he had
passed it on to another gentle knight, of name Sir Matthew Holmes;
who, on his way back to Gloucestershire, kindly came by Malvern
Castle and told her. Her father has been seen living in the city of
Palmyra, in the Holy Land-but, beyond the fact that he was
recognized there, we have no word of how he is living, only that he
is in good health for his age, which by now must be close to fifty.”

“Then you don’t know whether he’s planning to come home or
not?” said Angie.

“No. And it was exactly that, that showed both Geronde and I the
miracle involved in my gaining the King’s gift,” answered Brian.
“With the amount of moneys I now have in hand, I can travel swiftly
to this Palmyra, find him and bring him back. Bring him back, I will,
by force if necessary; because he must consent to Geronde’s
marriage to me.”

He broke off and turned to Jim.

“Will you come with me, James?” he said. “It will be something to
see the Holy Lands, of course. But, more important, I can be
certain sure of bringing him back if I have you with me!”

Jim had been expecting it for the last few seconds; but the request
still hit him like a fist between the eyes. He was conscious of Angie
watching him.

“Brian-“ he began and hesitated. “Well, you see, much as I’d like to
go, I couldn’t get away now if I wanted. Sir John Chandos kindly
offered to see if he could not speed up matters at the King’s court-
whatever legal matters there are involved in our getting the
wardship of young Robert Falon. But until that is actually given to
us by the King, I have to be here, in readiness to go up to London
myself, if necessary. You understand?”

“But, James,” said Brian, “with the help of good Sir John, it should
not take too long. Now, I was planning to leave as soon as
possible, so as to make the trip, find Geronde’s father and get
back before the terrible heat of the summer season down there
strikes. But I could wait for some weeks, say-“

“No,” said Jim, feeling Angle’s eyes stony upon him. “It’s too much
of a chance. You should probably follow this up as quickly as
possible. I’d like to go more than I can tell you, Brian. But I think in
this case, you’d better go alone.”

The light that they had seen in Brian’s face from the moment he
had come in, the light and the excitement, had completely gone out
of it. Now his back stiffened.

“Of course,” he said, “you are absolutely right, as usual, James. It
would be too much of a gamble; and I can indeed understand why
you would want to wait here to be on hand to make sure of the
Falon wardship. We will say no more of it”

“If there’s any other way in which I can help you, Brian,” said Jim
earnestly. “I don’t know what it would be; but since I have some
magic at my disposal, maybe we could set up something, or think
of something- some way in which I could be useful to you while I’m
still here.”

“No, no. Not necessary at all,” said Brian. “As I say, we will speak
no more of it. In any case, I should have asked you how you and
your people came through the storm. I and mine were safe within
our walls, with all we needed to survive; but you have serfs and
tenants in out-lying buildings; and if I mistake not even some cattle
in the open. Did you lose much of importance because of the snow
and the wind and the fierce drop in temperature?”

“No, surprisingly not,” said Jim. “I’ve just come back from flying
around the estate in my dragon body; and I found almost nothing in
the way of problems. I did help a few people, including the widow
Tebbits, who had run out of firewood. But actually, it did us no harm
at all.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Brian, rising from the table. “But, now that
I think on it, there is still light enough for me to get back to Castle
Smythe this eve before total darkness; and while there’s wind,
there is no snow. Indeed, the weather is not as bad as I’ve
endured many times before. I think I will leave, then. You will
understand there are things that I must make ready, a great deal of
planning and arrangement so that Castle Smythe will go forward
properly while I am gone; because I will probably not be able to
take anyone with me, even John Chester.”

John Chester was Brian’s squire, and the last person Brian would
ordinarily leave behind. A coolness had come into the atmosphere,
however; and it was very clear that any protest by Jim or Angie, that
Brian should stay after all, would have no success and possibly just
make the situation that much more awkward. Jim and Angie stood
up also.

“Well, good luck,” said Jim.

“Yes, Brian,” said Angie. “Be careful-for Geronde’s sake as well as
your own. And for ours.”

“A prudent knight takes no unnecessary risks,” said Brian. “The
same may be said of a prudent traveler-and I shall be both.
Farewell, then. If there is any news that I can send back from this
Palmyra place, Geronde will have it; and she will let you know.”

The light was going from the day, and the warmth of being together
had already departed from their little gathering in the Great Hall.
They accompanied Sir Brian to the far end of the hall, where
servants helped him back into his armor and outdoor traveling
cloak. His horse was brought around; and they stood for a moment
in the doorway, watching him out of sight across the courtyard and
beyond the gates, until he could be seen no longer.
CHAPTER FOUR

For nearly five weeks neither Jim nor Angie mentioned Brian or
Geronde to each other. This was unusual, since normally they
talked everything over. But in this case, Jim had a new feeling of
guilt, this time about their last meeting with Brian; and he suspected
that Angie had, too-so the subject was bound to be a little touchy.

It stayed there, like a sort of half-forgotten headache that would
surface from time to time when there was nothing else to think
about. But still, with time, it was surfacing less often, when
unexpectedly there was a blast of a silvery horn from outside the
castle walls-not the braying of a cow’s horn, or even one fitted with
a nipple to act as a hunting horn-but the sound that only a true
musical instrument could make; and a man-at-arms came running
to them from the guard on the gate, meeting them just as they
stepped outside the Great Hall, on their way to see what was
happening themselves.

“M’lord! M’lady!” gasped the man-at-arms, a relative youngster with
the bright blue eyes common in the countryside and a shock of
slightly reddish hair. “Yves Mortain sends to say that it is Sir John
Chandos who approaches, with a dozen mounted men-at-arms.”

“Well,” said Jim. “Welcome him! Welcome him! Run back and tell
them on the gate he’s to be brought in with all courtesy!”

The message bearer spun around and dashed off ahead of them
again.

“You’d think they’d all realize by this time,” grumbled Jim, “Sir
John’s welcome here anytime.”

“That’s not the point,” said Angie beside him. “They’re doing what
they’re supposed to. And, anyway, how do they know but what Sir
John’s turned out to be an enemy, since he was last here at
Malencontri? Things like that happen in this time, you know.”

“I suppose,” said Jim, still dissatisfied. “What I wouldn’t give for
just some kind of speaking tube that would reach from the Great
Hall to the front gate.”

He wiggled his shoulders uncomfortably, for although the day was
bright, and the castle walls around the courtyard cut off most of the
breeze from him, he and Angie had come out dressed as they
were for the relative warmth inside the castle. It was a bright day
and a relatively still one as far as moving air went-but it was still
February.

“Yves Mortain is simply doing his job,” said Angie.

“Yes, you’re right,” said Jim. Yves Mortain had been named Chief
man-at-arms when Theoluf had been elevated to the position of
Jim’s squire. Yves was entirely competent; and, to tell the truth, Jim
was secretly aware that Yves knew a lot more than he did about
how a castle should be defended and a watch on the gate should
be kept.

But already through the doors of the gate, opening now to the
bridge above the moat, the sound of the hooves of the first two
horses of their visitors were audible, and Sir John rode through the
gate into the courtyard, looking elegant and barely middle-aged as
usual, on a large black stallion which whisked its tail as it
approached, as proudly and cheerfully as if it was just starting the
day’s trip, not ending it. It halted in front of them.

“Sir John!” said Jim happily. “It’s good to see you!”

Sir John took off his steel cap with a flourish.

“Sir James, Lady Angela!” he said. “I bring special news for you,
and I wanted to be the first to get it to you. So I have come down
from London. Shall we go inside?”

“Absolutely!” said Jim. He looked around for his squire.

But Theoluf had already appeared, with a man-at-arms to lead the
train of Sir John’s armed retainers off to the stables for their
horses, and to shelter for themselves, as well as, undoubtedly, to
food and drink. Theoluf himself came forward to hold the head of
the stallion, as Sir John swung down from the saddle.

“By your leave, Sir John,” said Theoluf, “I will have him in the third
stall from the front door to the stables and the best care taken of
him. May I ask his name?”

“He is Tonnere de Beaudry,” said Sir John.

“This way, if you please, Tonnere de Beaudry,” said Theoluf,
addressing the war horse with the courtesy its worth deserved, and
leading it off.

Sir John turned back to Jim and Angie, and all three together
began the walk toward the entrance of the Great Hall. Thoroughly
chilled by this time, Jim would just as soon have moved a little
faster, but manners dictated that their stroll to the front door be
leisurely.

“I can only stay the night,” said Sir John. “I have matters to deal
with in the west. But my way led by Malvern Castle, where I had
hoped to possibly encounter Sir Brian without turning aside-for
Smythe Castle was out of my way. I wished to bring him his
Majesty’s personal congratulations on winning the Earl of
Somerset’s Christmas tourney. His Majesty was held in thrall by the
description of that tourney by Richard de Bisby, Bishop of Bath
and Wells. But Sir Brian was gone, unfortunately, to the Holy Land.
Lady Geronde de Chaney, however, gave me shelter for the night.
While I’m here, though, I must say how I, myself, was impressed
by the way the Earl’s troll, under your handling, of course, handled
those five good knights of ours. He is indeed an unusual troll, both
in size and, I assume, in attitude.”

“Yes, you could say that about him,” said Jim. “I didn’t see you in
the stands, though. I looked for you by the Earl-“

He broke off, feeling an impulse to bite his tongue, though the
words were already out. By his status, if not his official rank, Sir
John should have been seated very close to the Earl, but he had
not been.

“Oh that,” said Sir John lightly. “I was sitting with an old friend, a
fellow campaigner, on one of the lower tier of benches there. But I
missed nothing-“

He turned to Angie.

“-And I was most impressed by the diversion you arranged for us
on the last night of Christmas, m’lady.”

“Well, thank you,” said Angie. “But I enjoyed putting it on, as much
probably as anybody watching it.”

They passed through the door into the relative warmth of the hall,
still chatting. Sir John, Jim noticed, did not seem in any hurry to get
to what he had come to see them about. Bad news, perhaps. The
most probable thing was that there had been some hitch in the
wardship proceedings for Robert Falon, and Sir John was planning
to break this to them gently- possibly over dinner.

But Jim was wrong. After they had been sitting and making light
conversation for a while at the high table over wine and oreoles-
which were something like small, holeless donuts in fantastic
shapes, with a certain amount of fruit preserves in them-Sir John’s
squire approached the table and stood waiting patiently until he
should be noticed. Sir John eventually did.

“Ah,” he said. “You found it. In good shape I see. Pass it up to me,
here.”

The squire handed him what looked like a square of folded
parchment, its edges sewn together so that it would not open up
into its normal, larger shape.

“You may go,” said Sir John to the squire, and turned to Jim and
Angie, the package in his hand. “I suppose I should wait until some
high point of our meeting to give you this,” he said. “But I know you
are anxious to learn what is in it. Therefore...”

He passed the package to Jim, sitting next to him; and Jim
overcame his own overwhelming desire to hand it on to Angie, to
whom it mattered most-if it was what he thought it was. But the
manners of the period were that it should pass from Sir John to
him, since he would be the responsible recipient.

Jim took out his belt knife, cut the stitching that held the parchment
closed; and, sure enough, it opened up into a single sheet with a
heavy seal, pressed on to a strip of smaller parchment fed through
two slits at the bottom of the letter, so that it hung down from the
page almost the way a pendant would hang down on a human
neck.

He looked at the writing on the parchment sheet.

It was in fairly readable medieval “Latin”-done by a clerkly hand
with the style particular to the time and originator, with various
ornate flourishes, including the fairly common so-called “clubbed
ascenders”- the vertical strokes of certain letters being pushed
upward and thickened, so it looked like those words were carrying
spears.
He read the written words with some little difficulty, but with
reasonable ease-

Edwardus Dei gracia Rex Anglie et Francie et dominus Hibernie
omnibus ad quos presentes litere pervenerint saluten...

Even as he watched the Latin suddenly blurred before his eyes
and turned into English. It was that same overall magic that he had
long since decided had been doing a constant job of translating
not merely different languages, such as French, but innumerable
different dialects, and the speech of wolves, Sea Devils and the
like, to a sort of common, modern English, understandable to both
his and Angie’s ear.

In English it began: “Edward by the grace of God King of England
and France and Lord of Ireland to all to whom these present
matters are concerned, greeting.”

In the matter of Robert Falon, son of Ralph Falon, Baron of Chene,
now deceased, concerning the wardship of said Robert Falon until
he shall be of age...

Jim’s eyes slid rapidly down the page. It was what he and Angie
had been hoping. The wardship had been assigned to him; and at
the very bottom was the royal seal that he had noticed the minute
the letter was opened. Without a word, he passed it to Angie.
Angie’s eyes filled with tears.

“We must celebrate,” said Jim. He turned to Sir John. “I don’t know
how to thank you, Sir John. We weren’t expecting an answer on this
for months; in fact, I had understood it might even be years before
something like this was decided on.”

“It can sometimes well be,” said Sir John. “However, those close
about the King decided that it would be best if his Majesty saw to
the safe-keeping of young Robert Falon with dispatch, his royal
command passing over ordinary procedure. You have the good
Bishop of Bath and Wells, Richard de Bisby, to thank in part. He
made a visit to court and his arguments for you to be appointed
had a powerful effect on his Majesty, who may God bless.”

“Amen,” said Jim and Angie dutifully.

Jim cleared his throat, embarrassed; for Sir John had uttered the
last words with a perfectly straight face. Jim could imagine the
Bishop’s powerful voice and determined attitude having its effect
on a king who only wanted to be left free of state responsibilities.

“You won’t mind a little celebration, considering you’ve got to ride
again tomorrow?” he asked Sir John.

“Certes, in this instance, absolutely not,” said Sir John.

So they celebrated, medieval style, with the best of wine and the
best of food; and by whatever occult means it was done, the word
spread through the castle to all the servants. The result was all of
them also went around beaming; quite as if the wardship had been
given not merely to Jim but to all of those at Malencontri,
collectively.

Their general happiness, and Jim and Angie’s as well, lasted until
the next morning, when they waved Sir John Chandos and his
troop of men-at-arms off on his further journeys.

But then it began to fade as they walked slowly together back into
the castle and climbed the stairs to their solar. They had both fallen
silent, and it lasted even in the solar for a little while, until Angie,
looking not at him but out one of the solar’s windows, spoke.

“Well,” she said in a low voice, “you’re free to go now.”

“Go?” said Jim, with complete understanding and acute
discomfort.

“You know what I mean,” said Angie. She turned around to face
him. “To that place-Palmyra-that Brian’s going to. I mean, that he’s
probably gone to already by this time. You’re free to follow him,
now.”

“No, I’m not,” said Jim reflexively.

Angie looked away from him again. It was almost as if she had not
heard what he had said.

“You know,” she went on in the same low voice, “I started thinking,
some time back, how I’d feel if I was Geronde and you were going
to try to find my father; and how I’d feel about you not having Brian
with you.”

“It’s not the same situation,” said Jim. “With Robert Falon
belonging to us now, we’re a family. Besides”-he tried to prod a
smile from her-

“I’m wounded, deeply wounded, by the thought you don’t trust me
out alone without Brian to protect me.”

“It’s not funny,” said Angie, looking squarely at him. “I worry a lot
less when Brian’s with you and you’re off on one of these things-a
lot more than I would if he wasn’t there.”

“Anyway,” said Jim, “we’ve already told Brian I wouldn’t go. He’s
undoubtedly left some weeks ago; and there’s nothing to be done
about it now.”

“Isn’t there?” said Angie.

“Well,” said Jim, feeling uncomfortable, “barring the possibility that
I could catch up with him. But you still don’t really want me to go, do
you?”

“Of course I don’t,” said Angie. “But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you
should go.”

“That’s something no one can tell for sure.”

“Maybe we can,” said Angie. “Anyway, I think we ought to go and
have a talk with Geronde.”

Jim stared at her.

“You’ve already decided to let me go, haven’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Angie, almost angrily. “But I want both of us to talk to
Geronde first.”

“Maybe that’s a good idea,” said Jim. “To be truthful, Angie, it’s
been gnawing at me a little that I didn’t say yes, in the first place,
when Brian asked me to go. But by all means, let’s find out
Geronde’s point of view on it. Maybe-well, let’s go talk to her
anyway.”

He stood up.

“You don’t mean now?” said Angie.

“It’s still early in the day,” Jim said.

“It’s a three-hour ride over there in this weather,” Angie said, “and if
we have any kind of a talk with her, it’ll be too late to ride back. That
means we’ve got to stay the night. That means we’ve got to take
our bedding along with us. I love Geronde, but I wouldn’t sleep in
one of the beds in her castle without my own bedding unless
someone forced me to it at the point of a knife. Can’t you just take
us over there by magic?”

“Carolinus warned me against using too much of my magic, even
though I’ve got an open drawing account,” said Jim. “I’ve been
meaning to tell you about that. It was the day Brian came-and that
drove Carolinus clear out of my head. He warned me to always be
as careful to use as little magic as possible-so I’d have enough for
any emergency.”

“Well, then,” said Angie, “isn’t there some way you can turn into a
dragon and just carry me over by air?”

“No,” said Jim slowly. “A dragon really hasn’t got that much lifting
power. An adult human is more than one can fly off with.
Remember back in the twentieth century how there were old folk
tales of eagles flying off with babies? Well, the truth of the matter
is there was no truth to them. A baby weighing much more than ten
pounds would be too much for any eagle to carry. For the same
reason, an adult human being would be too much for me to carry. I
might be able to get you off the ground and sort of flop along with
you for a short distance, but then I’d run out of strength; and we’d
both come back to earth.”

He hesitated.

“I don’t suppose you’d like me to go alone- No,” he answered
himself as he saw her mouth open.

“You’re right. No,” said Angie. “You don’t think you should use the
magic just this once?”

“That’s the trouble. I’ve been doing too much of ‘just this once’ up
until now. Wait a minute!”

“What?” Angie stared at him.

“It’s simple,” said Jim. “I’ll just make you into a dragon, too. That’d
take almost no magical energy at all, by comparison.”

“Me? Into a dragon? You could do that?” The startled look on
Angie’s face changed to one of pleasure. “Yes. Why not? I’ve
never been a dragon. Why didn’t we think of that before?”

“I suppose because we didn’t have to,” said Jim. “But you’d better
put some outside clothes on for the weather, just in case we have
to turn back into humans while we’re still outside.” He was already
moving toward his own clothes rack to get a travel cloak.

Properly dressed, they mounted to the open top of the tower, and
Jim nodded at the man-at-arms currently on duty.

“You can go downstairs for a few minutes and warm up, Thomas,”
he said.

Gratefully, the guard disappeared down the stairs.

“When are you going to change me into a dragon?” Angie asked.

“Right now,” said Jim. “Come along with me.”

He led the way over to the platform on which rested the great
cauldron-empty now, of course-that could be filled with oil to be
heated, lit and poured down on anyone trying to storm the gates to
the castle keep. He stepped up on the platform and gave Angie a
hand up. Here, they were level with the top of the battlements,
looking out from a flat surface into thin air and down onto the open
space surrounding the castle and the trees beyond.

“Move over from me a little bit to give yourself room,” Jim said.
“Just a few feet there. There. That’s good enough. Now here we
go.”

Jim visualized both himself and Angie as dragons, their clothes
having vanished, but ready to come back on them immediately they
were turned back into humans. It was a far cry from his early days
of using magic to change himself into a dragon, in which case he
invariably ruined whatever clothes he was wearing, or else had to
strip them all off first.

“You make a good-looking dragon,” he said to Angie.

“Do I?” said Angie. “Or are you just saying that?”

“No,” said Jim. “You are a good-looking female dragon. If I was a
full-time male dragon-“

“Well, I’ll believe you for the moment,” said Angie. “Now what?”

“Now,” said Jim, “all you do is jump off the edge of the platform,
into the air, spread your wings and start flying. I’ll be right with you
and you just do what I do, flap your wings when I flap mine and
stretch them out and soar when I soar.”

Angie looked at the edge of the platform and the empty air beyond.

“Jim,” she said, after a moment, “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t
think I want to be a dragon today, after all.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Jim.

“I’m scared,” said Angie.

“Remember what you said to me when I was in a dragon body? I’d
turned up in the Cliffside dragons’ caves and I was alone with you.
You suggested I might fly to Carolinus’s for help. I wasn’t too
eager, either, to jump out of that cave into thin air. But you said I
could try it. You said, ‘It’ll probably just come to you. I’d think it
would, instinctively, once you were in the air.’ Remember?”

“Did I say that?” said Angie. “Well, I was wrong.”

“No,” said Jim. “You were right. It’ll come to you instinctively, once
you’re in the air. That body you have now has its own instincts and
reflexes, you know.”

“I don’t care if it does,” said Angie.

“Besides,” said Jim, “I’ll be right there to catch you in mid-air with
magic even if something could go wrong.”

“I don’t care,” said Angie. “I’m scared. I’ve changed my mind about
being a dragon. Change me back-Jim, stop that!”

Her last words ended in a scream. Jim was using his greater
weight (he was a much larger dragon) to simply push Angie off the
edge of the stone platform into the air. She tried desperately to
hold on with her claws, but the claws only scraped the stone and
slid. As she herself slithered toward emptiness.

“It’s what mother birds do with their nestlings when they’re ready to
fly,” said Jim. “And father birds,” he added, as Angie reached the
edge, teetered there for a second and dropped off it.

She dropped out of sight, but almost immediately there was the
thunder of wings and Angie shot up past him, climbing frantically
for altitude, like a fighter plane reaching for its best operating
height.

It was exactly what Jim himself had done, the first time he had
taken off into the air from the Cliffside cave he had been talking
about. The first thought in his mind had been to keep from falling;
and that human message, translated to his dragon body, had
immediately made use of every ounce of the powerful climbing
ability that a dragon’s wings could produce.

Hastily, he leaped off and followed her, climbing after her.

This sort of intense activity was possible for a dragon, but it
exhausted them in a hurry; and, he saw, after a bit, that Angie was
ceasing to pump so hard and was beginning to slow down. Finally
she stopped, and her wings instinctively reached out and stiffened
in soaring position on an updraft. Jim swam up through the air to
soar beside her.

“Where am I?” Angie asked him wildly.

“Oh, I’d say about two thousand feet above the ground,” said Jim.

“Two thousand-“ She looked down. There was a long silence. “I
am!” she said.

“Of course,” said Jim. “But that’s more than enough for the straight
flying we’ll be doing to Malvern Castle. Now follow me. I’m used to
finding thermal updrafts-that’s what you’re riding on now-and using
them. From here on we soar to Malvern. You can think of it as
coasting.”

“All right,” said Angie, but in a voice that signaled she still really did
not trust what she was doing.

Nonetheless they went on, moving from thermal to thermal, circling
upward on the warmer air of its updraft, planing down in the
direction of their destination, finding another thermal and riding it up
to where they could start planing onward again. It was some time
before Angie spoke once more. Jim had not been saying anything
to her, leaving her to get used to her new way of traveling. But
finally she did speak.

“This isn’t the right direction to Malvern Castle,” she said.

“We have to go roundabout, because of the way the wind’s
blowing,” said Jim. “Not far roundabout. But it’s just as if our wings
were like a ship’s sails and we have to trim them to the wind to a
certain extent. We’re coming in toward Malvern Castle on a curve.”

There was another long period of silence while they shifted from
thermal to thermal, mounted the updraft from dark patches of trees
below them, which had picked up heat from the sun and were
warming the air above them to cause updrafts; and after a while
Angie spoke again.

“I’ll never forgive you, Jim,” she said, but almost in a conversational
tone. “I’ll never, never forgive. That was a terrible thing to push me
off the side of a building where I could have fallen to my death!”

“But I knew you wouldn’t,” said Jim. “Just like I didn’t, the first time I
tried it. You couldn’t have if you’d wanted to. Your body reacted
without your even thinking, just the way the body of a young bird
does when its mother pushes it out of the nest.”

“I’ll still never forgive you,” said Angie. “But-oh, Jim, this is a
marvelous way to get about. I love it! Why didn’t you turn me into a
dragon before this?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t want to jump off the top of the
tower,” said Jim.

It was not strictly true, of course. Actually, it had never occurred to
him to think of turning Angie into a dragon before. He hurried to
take advantage of the change in her mood, though.

“But you do like it?”

“I love it!” said Angie. “And you know something? I don’t feel cold
at all; and it must be icy out here with the wind blowing on us.”

“Dragons don’t feel cold,” said Jim. “They do feel heat-you’ll find
out about that for yourself. Also, you’re moving with the wind most
of the time, so it’s not really blowing against you.”

“Just think,” said Angie, “now you and I can go places together this
way!”

Jim had not thought of that, either. He was still considering the
ramifications and possibilities of such traveling when Malvern
Castle appeared in its clearing and he led Angie on a long gliding
descent toward the top of its tower.

The Malvern tower top, like their own at Malencontri, had a single
sentry on it. Besides his sword he had a short stabbing spear in his
hand. He stood transfixed as they came closer and closer to the
tower top.

When they came down with a double thump about fifteen feet from
him, he gave what could better be described as an honest shriek,
rather than the ritual male shout of alarm Jim was used to from his
own people- and bolted down the hole in the tower top, where the
stone steps led to the floor below.

They heard his footfalls clattering away; a door slammed, then
opened again; and Geronde’s voice floated up to them from what
was obviously the floor just below.

“What the hell?” it snapped.
CHAPTER FIVE

Jim and Angie heard the patter of lighter feet coming back up the
stairs in a hurry, and Geronde popped up onto the roof, with the
sentry’s stabbing spear in one hand and his naked sword in the
other. She glared at Jim and Angie.

“All right, you dragons!” she said. “You’re at the wrong castle. You
want Malencontri. It’s twelve miles west that way-“ She pointed with
the sword.

“It’s just us, Geronde,” said Jim. He was working his magic; and in
the same instant he said this, he and Angie turned back into their
human shapes, in their human clothes. Geronde stared at them,
and the weapons in her hands drooped.

“You two?” she said after a long moment. “And you’re a dragon as
well, Angela?”

“Jim just made me one for the first time,” said Angie, with perhaps
a touch of smugness in her voice. “It’s enjoyable. But Geronde,
what in heaven’s name did you think you could do against two
dragons with that spear and a sword?”

“Make them sorry they ever tried to bother me-if they did!” said
Geronde. “Jim turned you into a dragon and you decided to come
here?”

“The other way around,” said Angie. “We were going to come
here, and we decided to fly instead of riding over. It was quicker.”

“Oh? Well, it was kind of you to think of visiting-“ she began, but
the sound of two pairs of feet scuffling up the steps interrupted
her, and up through the opening of the stairwell, now, came a tall,
black haired, long-nosed man who was Bernard, the Chief man-at-
arms at Malvern, hauling along the sentry by his collar. He stopped
and held his captive still, as Geronde turned to face him.

“Shall I hang him, m’lady?” he asked. “He left his post-as well as
running from the enemy in cowardly fashion.”

“I suppose,” said Geronde through her teeth, “though useful men-
at-arms are not that easy to pick up... On the other hand, he’s no
use to us if he hasn’t got the guts to fight-“

The ex-sentry, who had been half-fainting in Bernard’s grasp, on
hearing this all but collapsed; so that Bernard had to hold him
upright by main strength. Jim hurried to get a word in.

“If I could crave a favor, Geronde,” he said, “might I beg this lad’s
life for him? He had just a moment to see the two of us coming;
and I think he ran off the top of the tower, pushed more by a
feeling that it was his duty above all to warn and protect you; and
that was what made him seem to abandon his post so wantonly.”

“He hasn’t got the wit,” said Geronde, looking angrily at the half-
collapsing sentry, held tightly in Bernard’s grasp.

“Why, yes,” said Angie quickly, “if I also may pray the same favor
from you, Geronde, I’m almost sure I heard him shout something-I
think, something like ‘must save m’lady’-before he ran down the
stairs.”

“Hah!” said Geronde. “A likely-Well, all right, Bernard, take him
away. Send a man up here. As for this one, let him go without food
for three days. It’ll give him time to think about following his orders
first!”

Bernard hauled away the suddenly joyous sentry, and Geronde
turned back to Angie and Jim.

“Will you step below to the solar?” she said. “You must forgive its
appearance, Angela. We will go to the Great Hall in due course;
but it comes to me that you may want to talk privily for a little while
first. In truth, I have been thinking of going over to Malencontri to
speak so to you two.”

She led the way downstairs.

Her private bed-sitting room, the solar at Malvern, was nothing to
be ashamed of by medieval standards. It was just that, by contrast
with Jim and Angie’s own at Malencontri, its lacks showed up. But
there was a good-sized fireplace with a good-sized fire in it; and,
after Geronde had seen the advantage of the glass-filled window
apertures at Malencontri, she had had her own windows glazed
also, since she had the money for it.

Still, the room had a rather barren look to it compared to Jim and
Angie’s solar-although it occurred to Jim that possibly some of the
feeling of barrenness about it came from the fact that the chairs
were unpadded and the floor unheated, as he and Angie were
used to having it at their own home.

But the fire was bright; and there was an unusually large bed, with
its four tall bedposts holding up a canopy as well, thick bed-
curtains hanging from them. Those curtains were the first defense
against the coldness of nighttime for medieval sleepers of quality.

To further balance the difference between the two castles,
Geronde’s servants were very well trained indeed. There was a
scratching at the door, shortly after they had sat down; and when
Geronde bade whoever it was enter, a servant came in, carrying
cakes, wine and water from the serving room and asking if his lady
would care for them.

Since it turned out she would-it could hardly have been otherwise
with guests there-these were put on the table.

“Now, leave us alone unless there’s a fire in the castle,” said
Geronde sharply.

“Yes, m’lady,” said the servant. He bowed his way back out.

“As I say, I was of a mind to come and visit you in any case,” said
Geronde as soon as the wine and water was mixed and they had
all both drunk and nibbled at what was before them. “But perhaps I
should let you tell me first why you wanted to come here.”

“No, no,” said Angie hastily. “You talk first, Geronde.”

“Well...” said Geronde, slowly looking down at the table. “It is not
my place really to speak for Sir Brian. He is a knight and a
gentleman and can speak for himself. No doubt he told you there
need no more be said on a certain subject; and yet it is that subject
I would wish to discuss with you.”

“Discuss away, Geronde,” said Jim.

“You have a somewhat strange way of expressing yourself
sometimes, James,” said Geronde. “Nonetheless, I think I take
your meaning. I will indeed discuss away, since that was what I was
going to do if I came to see you. Now, both of you learned almost
from the beginning of our acquaintance that Brian and I were
betrothed.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Jim. “Almost the first thing he did was show me
your favor.”

Geronde’s eyes misted slightly.

“He would do that,” said Geronde. “Yes, that is the way he is. But
perhaps when you first met, it was as two knights who might decide
to debate something or other. Was that so?”

“He did suggest,” said Jim, “that the two of us might have a go at it
on behalf of our individual ladies. I had just told him that I was in
love with Angie and he said that was a coincidence, because he
was in love with you.”

“He said that!” said Geronde. “But you did not fight?”

“No,” said Jim. “It was rather awkward at the moment, because I
was in a dragon body and couldn’t get out of it; and then later on
when I was back in my human form we had been Companions. So,
for the two of us to fight would hardly have been right. But I knew
almost from that first moment of the closeness between the two of
you, as something that had endured for some time.”

“Yes. Longer than you might think,” said Geronde. “Indeed, longer
than we can remember ourselves, he and I.”

“You knew Brian most of your life, then, Geronde?” asked Angie.

“In truth, we knew each other all our lives,” said Geronde. “Though
we were not kin, he was motherless almost from birth and we were
close neighbors, of course. His father and mine were good friends.
In fact they were two of a kind, those fathers. The result was we
grew up together, Brian and I. I was almost never at Castle
Smythe, but he was here much of the time.”

Angie looked at her curiously.

“Strange, is it not?” said Geronde. “It was almost as if we were to
have no choice but to end up as we have. Brian’s father was very
much involved with his cousins, the Nevilles of Rabe; and I believe
intended, or at least expected, to mend his fortunes by doing
things for them. At any rate, he was always going on trips, mostly to
the continent for them- the Nevilles have connections all over,
there; particularly in France and Italy. When he went, Brian was left
here at Malvern.”

“Brian must have been closer to your father than his own, then,”
said Angie.

“No,” said Geronde, “because my father was gone often, too. But
here at Malvern, there was a well-trained staff; and, after my mother
died, when I was seven, women to look after us both when we
were very young. All things in order. Whereas Castle Smythe was-
well, you see how Castle Smythe is nowadays. There was really no
other place for Brian to be put. Sir Edmar Claive and his cousins,
who then occupied Malencontri, were not the sort of men any
young boy could be left with; and there were no other suitable
households close. So, Brian was left with us; and, as I say, he and
I grew up together.”

“How young were you when all this started?” Angie asked.

“The first time, Brian was seven and I was five,” said Geronde,
“although we might have been brought together as babes too
young to remember it also. But the earliest I remember is, as I say,
when I was five; and after that we were together at least for a time
almost each year; so much in each other’s company, like brother
and sister, that you’d think it would be the last thing in the world for
the two of us to fall in love.”

“You did, though,” said Angie.

Jim looked out one of the windows at the cloud-flecked sky and a
hawk, almost certainly wild, circling high above the trees beyond
the clearing. There had been an interested, prompting note to
Angie’s voice that he always dreaded. The heat of the fire and the
wine, half a cupful of which he had been foolish enough to drink
straight, was making him not so much drowsy as dull-witted; and he
was a little afraid that this would turn into one of those “Oh, was
your great-uncle living in such-and-such a place, then? I wonder if
he knew some of my relatives who lived there?” He struggled to
keep his eyes open.

Geronde was nodding in answer to Angie’s question.

“We did not know it at first,” she said. “We only knew as children
that we missed each other when we were apart and were never
happier than when we were together. Oh, we had some terrific
fights in those days; but nonetheless, as I say, one day it turned
out we were in love; and later, when I got older, I told my father that
it was Brian I intended to marry- that was during one of the few
times when my father was home and I could talk to him.”

“He was around that little?” said Angie.

“He was always off on some errand or other that would bring him
back loaded with gold, but he never came back so,” said Geronde.
“As I say, he and Brian’s father were alike in chasing moonbeams
of wealth. In any case, when I told him how I felt about Brian, he
stamped and roared that I would never be allowed to marry Brian.
That I should marry a duke- a prince! It was yet another of his
grand dreams-aside from the fact that I would rather have Brian
than any prince in the world.”

She turned abruptly to Jim. Jim woke up and did his best to look
alert and interested.

“This was why I was thinking of coming over to talk to you both,
James. Brian told me you were awaiting the King’s gift of the
wardship of Robert Falon; and might need to present yourself in
person before his Majesty-and so could not leave England now. I
understand that perfectly; as Brian did.”

“Well...” said Jim uncomfortably. There had been no doubt that
Brian had been deeply dismayed by Jim’s refusal to help him in his
search for Geronde’s father in the Holy Land, now that they had
found out where Geronde’s father was. For Jim to stay home under
these conditions, even at the cost of a friendship, was the only
sensible thing to do, by medieval standards. Land and wealth were
everything; and the gaining of them took precedence over
everything else.

Therefore, Brian’s good judgment would agree with the common
sense of what Jim was doing; but nonetheless they were literally
blood brothers, in that they had both shed blood at the same time
in more than one affray; and the ideal of the chivalric knight, toward
which Brian himself lived and reached in everything he did, would
have scorned the Falon wealth and property in favor of aiding a
comrade. Geronde could not have helped but feel somewhat as
Brian did.

“Well...” said Jim again, hesitantly.

“James, do not think I mean to make any opposition to your
decision,” said Geronde earnestly. “In life, we all must make hard
choices. I know well how your heart must have beaten higher, like
Brian’s, at the thought of a venture into the Holy Lands; let alone
your natural desire to aid a fellow Companion-at-arms. Already, you
will probably have decisions to make and matters to concern you,
as far as the administration of Robert Falon’s estates are
concerned. But I thought I might come and plead with you to
consider a certain decision, in spite of all that.”

“The fact is, Geronde-“ Jim was beginning. But Geronde
interrupted him again.

“No,” she said. “Hear me out, I pray you, James.”

“Of course,” said Jim, more uncomfortable than ever.

“I would like to tell you something that I would not otherwise tell
anyone, except perhaps you two,” said Geronde. “I can say this
because Brian and I are so alike.”

She looked at Angie.

“I never had a close woman friend until you, Angela,” she said. “I
could never stand them. Chattering, spineless creatures, most of
them- except for some older ones; and they so stuck in their ways
and determined to be right all the time that I would have fought with
them continually. But you were different, Angela.”

“Well, Geronde...” said Angie, as obviously embarrassed, Jim
noticed with a certain amount of perverse satisfaction, as he had
been himself, a moment before.

“It is a matter of being able to agree with each other on things,”
said Geronde. She turned her attention back to Jim again. “It is
exactly that way with Brian where you are concerned, James. He
never had any close friends of his own spirit and rank. He must
always be in contest with them-better than any at anything, if it killed
him; and indeed, he has been better than most. As a result, he has
found few men he could respect; and of those, he had full respect
only for superiors such as Sir John Chandos, who is so much older
and so proven in war and peace that there could be no measuring
by Brian of himself with such a knight. All others of worth he might
otherwise have respected, he must be fighting with. You saw it
yourself with Sir Harimore at the Earl’s. Brian will kill Sir Harimore
one day, unless Harry kills him. But meanwhile he gives Harry full
credit for his fighting skills, only. Oh, he can like your bowman
Dafydd ap Hywel, because Dafydd is of common birth. Therefore
there cannot possibly be any competition between him and Brian;
and Brian will cheerfully acknowledge that Dafydd is not only a
better bowman than others, but a better bowman than he.”

She turned again to Angie.

“But have you not also heard the like, from Danielle, Angela?” she
said. “How Dafydd, in his own rank, like Brian cannot abide an
equal? So that when she and he started to live with her father,
Giles o’the Wold, and all his other outlaws-how Dafydd must be
forever measuring himself against each of the band, before he
would be at peace with himself- taking them on in contest two at a
time, if necessary.”

“Yes,” said Angie. She looked across at Jim.

“Nobody ever told me,” said Jim. “But I’m not surprised.”

“Well, that is the point I’m making, James. You now have-according
to what I was told by the good Sir John Chandos-the wardship of
Robert Falon firmly in your hands. While Brian has gone on alone.”

She hesitated.

“He would not expect you to follow him,” Geronde said. “No, not
even if he knew that the matter of the wardship was now settled. He
would not ask it. But you mean a great deal to him, James. You are
the one man whom he can accept as an equal. Also, you are the
one man he would depend upon in any strait”

“Geronde,” said Jim, “you know I’m not very useful with weapons.
Brian could pick up a dozen knights, or even many less than
knights, who’d be much more skilled in fighting, and protecting his
back than I’d be.”

“But that is not the point, James!” said Geronde, leaning forward.
“It is true-and I crave your pardon for saying it to your face, James-
that you will probably never be either a goo- a great horseman, nor
a master of any weapon; nor even, possibly, a good average man
of your hands with any such. But otherwise he admires you
tremendously.”

“Oh, you mean my magic,” said Jim. “You must know that’s an
accident, Geronde. If chance hadn’t made me a dragon, I’d never
have become a magician’s apprentice in order to take care of the
magic that I happen to generate without meaning to. It all grew out
of that-by accident.”

“No!” said Geronde. “It is not that either. Though we all respect the
courage and mind in you that would send you to study that strange
Art. No. It is the fact that you are so like what Brian most admires-
that which is to be found in Sir John Chandos-a preux chevalier,
you are a truly chivalric knight in that you could never do anything
less than your knightly duty in all matters.”

“Geronde...” said Jim helplessly. He could think of no easy way of
handling a compliment like this. All he could do was sit there and
suffer under it He was quite certain that he was nowhere near being
the kind of person Geronde was talking about and Brian evidently
believed him to be; but he could also feel very clearly that it would
be doing her no favor to argue against that fact just now.

“That is why I greatly venture at this moment,” Geronde went on,
“to beg you, James, that you consider following Brian and catching
up with him, so that you can be with him on the rest of his trip. He
will be no farther than the Isle of Cyprus by now-if he is indeed that
far. I can give you the names of those he knows there; and you can
find him easily by searching them out-for they are men well known
on the island. James-by your favor, James-do not say no without
thinking about it for a moment.”

“Geronde-“ interrupted Angie; but Geronde charged on, speaking
to Jim and ignoring the interruption.

“This is why it is so important that you be with him on this search for
my father,” said Geronde. “He will listen to you, James, where he
would listen to no other-and you know that he is apt to be drawn
aside by a trifle chance at a passage of arms, or some such. He
will be stronger and more sensible if you are with him. You are
wiser than he. Yes-do not look at me like that-you are wiser than
he! So, you will keep him safer by being with him; and he knows
and I know that you would never fail him in any strait. That is why I
beg you now-I beg you on bended knee-to follow and join him,
James!”

“Whoops-whoa!” said Jim, catching her just in time, for Geronde
had literally been about to kneel to him. This was not remarkable
from a medieval point of view, but from Jim’s twentieth-century
viewpoint, the very idea made him go hot with embarrassment. “It’s
all right, Geronde. I’m going. That’s what we came here to tell you!”

She stared up at him, and all the blood drained out of her face. For
a moment it seemed as if she would collapse like the sentry who
had come so close to being hung, if Jim had not been holding her
upright.

“That’s right, Geronde,” said Angie urgently, moving to her and
putting her arms around her. “Jim’s decided to go. Haven’t you,
Jim!”

She stared at Jim. Jim had not quite realized the full meaning of
what he had just said. He did so, now.

“Of course I am!” he told Geronde, with as much heartiness as he
could manage. He let go of her elbows, because Angie was
hugging her.

The blood came back to Geronde’s face. She exploded upward
from her chair. She kissed Jim. She kissed Angie. She whirled
from one to the other, as if she was beginning to dance.

“It is dinner time!” she cried. “And we will have such a dinner! Ho,
there! Attend me!”

The door to the solar from the hall outside burst open, showing
Bernard and another man-at-arms, both with swords drawn.

“Put up your weapons, you idiots!” snapped Geronde. “Run to the
cook and the serving room. We will have two guests for dinner,
Lord and Lady Eckert. It will be the finest and best of everything we
have. We will be down in five minutes. You hear, five minutes, and I
shall expect to see a table laid, set and with the first of the meal
upon it. Run!”

“Run!” roared Bernard to the other man-at-arms, who disappeared
from sight immediately. “Your pardon, m’lady-your pardon, m’lord
and lady...”

Bernard backed hastily out, closing the door behind him.

“Now, let us pray you to forgive us, Geronde,” said Angie. “We
should have told you this right away, without letting you go through
all you had to tell us before we told you.”

“What difference makes it?” sang Geronde. This time, she actually
did twirl. “Howsomever the news comes, it is what I have dreamed
and prayed for. I shall tell five rosaries of beads tonight in
thanksgiving. I regret not a word of what I said, not a moment of not
hearing until just now. It is the fact that you are going, James, that
makes all the difference. Oh, how we shall celebrate!”

“I’ll need to know all you can tell me about how I might follow him
and where I might find him,” said Jim.

“You shall know all that I know!” said Geronde. “I shall tell you
every word he said, at dinner. But-it will be a long, hard trip for you,
James. You do go willingly?”

“Of course!” said Jim.

“Then all is well!” said Geronde. “Though the travel itself may be
none too easy.”

“Not at all,” said Jim. “From my standpoint-a nothing. You forget I
am a magician.”
CHAPTER SIX

“Magician-hah!” said Jim morosely to himself. What good was it to
be a magician, if you were deliberately never using your magic?
With magic you could say, “Let so-and-so, wherever he is, appear
before me!” and instantly the one named was there.

“Is something the matter, m’lord?” asked Hob, the official castle
hobgoblin of Malencontri (plain “Hob” as he was once more called,
like all hobgoblins, now that he had been shorn of the title Jim had
given him earlier-“Hob-One de Malencontri”).

“No,” said Jim.

But of course there was. Hob was now out of the pouch on Jim’s
back in which he normally traveled, and perched on Jim’s right
shoulder. Jim, himself, was sitting on a rock on a pebbly beach in
Cyprus, gazing out at the Mediterranean and waiting. He had been
waiting for five hours now.

He was long past the point of being impatient. He now slumped on
his rock, despondent, gazing at the Mediterranean Sea, which was
in a good mood at the moment, the curling surf coming neatly in to
the gray-blue pebble beach in front of him.

Before Jim, the waves came up, came up, one after the other, laid
down on the beach and died. Every so often-it was either the
eighth or ninth wave in the Mediterranean, except in extraordinary
circumstances when it seemed to skip a whole cycle and go
sixteen-one came farthest up the beach; and each time this
longest wave came into the island, he waited for an individual
named Rrrnlf to start emerging from the water before him. But this
friend of his, a sea devil, had not appeared.

This was all the more irritating, in that the only other time he had
taken Rrrnlf up on his invitation to summon him, by calling out over
the salt waters, Rrrnlf had arrived almost immediately. Also, he had
once told Jim-or given Jim the clear impression-that he would
always hear instantly and could always be with Jim in almost no
time at all after that.

A typical adult male sea devil, Rrrnlf was about thirty feet tall,
narrowing wedge-shaped from a great head above wide shoulders
down to feet that were only three times as big as Jim’s. How he
could move this tremendous mass of body easily around on such
tiny feet, Jim had no idea. The contrast was particularly striking
when you looked from his feet to his hands. His hands seemed big
enough, not only to pick up as much of a load as a bulldozer could
push before it, but bulldozer and load together, in one fist.

He was a Natural. That was to say that he could do some things
that could be explained only as magic; but he had no conscious
control over that magic. It was rather like a dog wagging his tail
when he was happy. When a sea devil was in the sea, possibly
thousands of feet down, he breathed water with no trouble. When
he came up on the land, he breathed air with no trouble. He had no
idea how or why he could do it. He simply took it for granted he
could.

Hob-though miniscule compared to any sea devils, and ordinarily
the hobgoblin of the serving room, back at Malencontri-was also
one of the category of what were called Naturals; but he and Rrrnlf
were, as you might say, at opposite ends of the Natural yardstick.

“M’lord,” said Hob’s voice in Jim’s ear now, timidly, “I think you are
sad. Would it help if I took you for a ride on the smoke? All you’d
have to do would be to start a small fire.”

“No,” said Jim.

Then, he realized that his tone had been a little too abrupt. The
hobgoblin’s feelings were easily hurt.

“No, thank you, Hob,” he said, more gently. “I just don’t want to go
anyplace else right now.”

“Yes, m’lord,” said Hob.

Jim concentrated on the waves again. Rrrnlf had to be out there,
underwater, somewhere. Was something keeping him from
coming, or was he simply failing to answer? Had something
happened to him? There were things far larger even than he in the
oceans. Granfer, the ancient deep-sea squid (or Kraken), for one.

Jim had now been on Cyprus for a week without finding Brian.
Brian had clearly gotten here, because a number of people had
seen him and nobody remembered him either leaving the island, or
talking about leaving. But he was being strangely difficult to locate.

If he had already gone on to the city of Tripoli, Jim should waste no
time in following him. On the other hand, if he was still here on the
island, Jim had to run him to earth so that they could go together.

Jim scowled once more at the scene before him. It had the
effrontery to be a happy, picturesque scene. The Mediterranean
was in one of its brightest, most blue moods, the salt-smelling wind
blowing off it in Jim’s face was mild and warm, and the beach itself,
although it could possibly have been improved by a few thousand
tons of very clean sand spread over the pebbles, was still a kindly
sort of beach, with most of its pebbles nicely rounded from water
action.

The only unpretty thing in the whole scene was a brownish mongrel
searching among the rocks and pebbles some little ways up the
beach. It was a small, starved-looking dog, clearly intended to be
coated with short tan hair, but the hair was either very dirty or else it
had acquired a naturally dingy appearance somewhere in the
animal’s lifetime; so that the only other living thing on the beach
beside Jim and Hob was definitely out of key with all else visible.
On the other hand, it was not bothering Jim and Jim had no real
interest in it.

Jim forgot the dog and concentrated on the waves once more. He
had called out loud more than enough times for Rrrnlf. Now he was
trying visualization-but with no magic command to appear-
concentrating on Rrrnlf wherever the sea devil should be in the
undersea, with Jim’s calls necessarily reverberating over and over
again in the large Natural’s ears.

So far this had shown no signs of working, either.

“Oh great and puissant, compassionate magician,” said a high-
pitched, but oddly gruff, voice at his elbow. “Of your mightiness
and strength, aid me in my terrible plight; and your reward shall be
greater than any could ever imagine.”

Jim came out of his concentration to discover at his elbow the dog
which, a moment before, had been nosing about, farther up the
beach.

That it was an animal speaking to him did not startle him-although it
was the first talking dog Jim had so far encountered on this
magical, medieval world. All sorts of creatures spoke, here, of
course-while others didn’t; and there seemed no rhyme or reason
to which did and which didn’t

Also, while no dog had ever addressed him until now, one of his
best friends was Aargh, an English wolf, who not only spoke but
issued very definite and uncompromising statements. So, also,
had a Northumbrian wolf whom Jim had met up near the Scottish
border. Until now, Jim had simply assumed that wolves spoke in
this fourteenth-century environment and dogs didn’t. Apparently the
rule was not universal. But he had heard so many unlikely speakers
by this time that what concerned him at the moment was the fact
that his concentration had been interrupted.

“What is it?” he asked the dog sharply.

“I am in desperate need and I cast myself on your mercy, O mighty
one!” said the dog, fawning upon him.

“Yes, yes,” said Jim, “but what do you want?”

The dog pressed close against his right leg and lowered his voice
to a murmur. Thoughts of fleas, lice and possible skin diseases
flitted momentarily through Jim’s mind, but his natural instinct not to
be unfriendly to dogs-even ratty-looking specimens like this-which
in general he liked and usually got on well with, kept him from
pulling his leg away.

“I am in desperate need of your protection, O great and invincible
master,” the dog went on, barely above a whisper. “I am in flight
from a powerful and wicked one, who most cruelly ill-used me; and
when I saw you here, casting spells upon the ocean, I knew you at
once. You are as much greater and stronger than him as he is than
me; and so I have ventured to ask you for protection, knowing that
by your Art you already knew that I was a Djinni-as is the one who
so mistreated and would now pursue me-so that I need not first
show you myself in my own real form.”

For the first time in some hours, Jim dropped his concern with
Rrrnlf and the undersea spaces. There had been one glaringly
false note in what the dog had said so far, in speaking to him.

It was not surprising the dog/Djinni might recognize him as a
magician. Unlikely sorts of non-humans had done that before.
Others had not, of course, but there was always the chance that
some of them could feel, smell or somehow tell the difference that
his magic gave him. But the other had clearly been guessing when
he threw in that bit just now about casting spells on the sea-since
Jim had been doing nothing of the kind.

Jim was instantly wary. Experience in this particular world had
taught him it was usually wisest not to disabuse a stranger’s
favorable misapprehension about him too quickly. By letting the
mistake slide by, he might be able to find out more of what was
actually going on around him-and usually he badly needed to know
what was going on around him-for his own safety’s sake, to say
nothing of that of little Hob.

He had been aware that he was now in the territory of those
middle-eastern Naturals called collectively Djinn or Jann; and,
individually, Djinni or Jinni. If this dog actually was a Djinni, then
probably the most prudent thing to do was to first find out what kind
of magiclike powers he had, while keeping him as much in the dark
as possible about the scope of Jim’s own abilities.

“You say you’re a Djinni,” Jim said. “But before I give you any kind
of protection, I’d have to know if I could trust you. I need to know
more about you. To begin with, are you really the sort of Djinni you
say you are?”

“O my master, I am. I am!” cried the dog in a high, thin voice, then
quickly looked around behind him, as if he expected somebody to
be there, listening.

“We’ll see,” said Jim. “You’re right, of course, in taking for granted
I knew you were a Djinni without having to see you in your true
shape. But what if you’re really a Djinni who’s been stripped of his
powers by some holy person because of evil things you did, and
condemned to live permanently as the dog you pretend to be?
Prove to me first you can change back to your true shape.”

“Does he have to?” whispered Hob fearfully in Jim’s ear.

“Hush!” said Jim, over his shoulder. He looked at the dog. “Well?”

The dog changed his appearance.

“Tell me when to open my eyes,” said Hob in Jim’s ear.

“That’s fine. You can change back. That’s just fine,” said Jim
hastily. “It’s all right now, Hob. You can look.”

What he had seen, and Hob had almost caught a glimpse of, was a
huge male figure with gray skin and large belly, scantily dressed in
a sort of vest plus loose billowy, purple trousers. It had possessed
a hideous face, with a third eye above and between two other eyes
not in line, a face with a mouth that was off to one side and tilted up
at the right corner. This kind of tilt should have given the face a
cheerful look. Instead it gave it a look of the deepest evil
imaginable.

Then the dog had become a dog again.

“All right,” said Jim. “That much you can do. Do you have your
other powers? For example, if I was just an ordinary person
instead of the magician I am, would you have tried to bribe me to
help you by promising me great treasure?”

“Forgive me, O my master,” said the dog, fawning on him again,
“but I would have. Of course, I know better than to bribe such as
your incorruptible self.”

“Prove to me you could have done such a thing,” said Jim. “For
example, produce a chest full of rubies, sapphires, diamonds, and
other precious gems to show me you can do it”

The chest appeared, but its top was down, its contents hidden.

“Forgive me, forgive me...” whined the dog hurriedly; and the lid of
the chest flew up, revealing its contents which were indeed colored
stones of all kinds; none of them cut and faceted, of course, since
the cutting of gems had not yet been developed on this world.

“Very well,” said Jim loftily, waving his hand. “Take it away. Such
toys do not interest me.”

The chest disappeared. Jim felt a small pang of regret-but
appearances were everything at this stage.

“Now,” said Jim, “I’ll listen to your story and then make my
decision.”

“Hearken, then,” said the dog. “My name is Kelb. For thousands of
years, I never did a false or cruel deed, or anything evil, until one
day when I was taken as a slave by another very powerful and very
evil Djinni named Sakhr al-Jinni. For some centuries he forced me
to do terrible and cruel things, at his orders. Finally, sick of it, I tried
at last to escape.”

“Good,” said Jim.

“I don’t believe him,” whispered Hob.

“But I was caught by the giant called Sharahiya, one of the keepers
of Sakhr al-Jinni’s orchard, and brought back,” Kelb went on.
“Sakhr al-Jinni had me thrown into a lake of fire as punishment.
There I suffered for six hundred and fifty-two years, three months,
two weeks, three days and nine hours, forty-seven minutes, ten
seconds. But at the end of that time, I was released.”

Jim had been thinking furiously, trying to remember. The names ‘
‘Sakhr al-Jinni” and “Sharahiya” rang a faint bell in his head,
connected possibly with Richard Burton’s Thousand Nights and a
Night. No-Sakhr al-Jinni was only referred to there. Somewhere he
had read more about him. There was a connection with King
Solomon of the Hebrews. But Kelb was clearly waiting for some
response from him before going on.

“And then what?” Jim said in the best tone of impatience he could
manage or muster. “Why did Sakhr al-Jinni let you out of the lake of
fire?”

“I was released not by him, but because the great King Solomon,
David’s son, imprisoned him, with other evil Djinn and Marids, each
in a copper bottle; stopping these up with lead which Solomon
sealed with his ring, and casting Sakhr al-Jinni into Lake Tiberius to
lie where he would forevermore be beyond harming anyone. Once
he was embottled, his powers that kept me in the lake of fire no
longer held, and I was free to go.”

“Well, then,” said Jim, “your troubles are over. I don’t see why
you’re bothering me.”

“Alas!” said Kelb. “A clumsy undersea giant, picking up the bottle
that held Sakhr al-Jinni to look at it curiously, loosened the seal only
five days ago; and that evil one is now free in the world again-full of
rage and searching for all those who were his servants before, and
particularly me, who had now escaped the punishment he had
given me. He is far stronger than I. I cannot withstand him. Help
me, O my master!”

It was all pretty far-fetched, Jim felt. But on the other hand, this was
a world of magic and unusual creatures. Anything could be true. It
might be simply that Kelb was, at most, only embroidering the story
of his life.

“Who was the clumsy undersea giant that let Sakhr al-Jinni loose?”
he asked.

“I know not,” said Kelb. “I was only told it had happened by others
like me, who were escaping at last from Sakhr al-Jinni’s wrath.”

The chances of it being Rrmlf who allowed Sakhr al-Jinni to
escape from his bottle were not very large, Jim told himself. The
ocean back in Jim’s twentieth-century world covered something
like a hundred and forty-two million square miles of the earth’s
surface. It was unlikely that the amount of ocean here on this world
was much different. That provided enough room for a high number
of sea giants, even if they weren’t to be considered common.

Also, even if Rrrnlf had been the cause of Sakhr al-Jinni’s release,
jumping from that possibility to the further possibility that Sakhr al-
Jinni had somehow managed to destroy or disable him was a
second long guess. But Jim had spent enough time now trying to
summon Rrrnlf, and this Kelb might turn out to be able to do a
great many of the things that he was hoping that Rrrnlf could help
him with.

“Have you some place where you can hide safely, until I summon
you?” Jim said to Kelb.

“I have, my master,” said Kelb.

“Well, go and hide there,” said Jim. “I’ll call you back as soon as
I’ve made up my mind about a few things. Mind you, I’m not saying
I’ll extend my protection to you. I don’t extend it to just everybody,
you know.”

“I am sure of that, master,” said Kelb humbly.

“Off with you, then,” said Jim. “I’ll call you back when I’m ready.”

Jim stood up from the rock on which he’d been sitting.

“We’ve spent enough time here,” he said. “Hob, we’ll head back to
Paphos and Sir William Brutnor’s place.”

He started back along the beach, around the headlands that
separated where he’d been sitting from the town of Paphos itself-a
place half village, half town, mainly filled by local Greeks; but with a
fair sprinkling of the descendants of crusaders, from one crusade
or another, who had never gotten any farther than Cyprus. These
latter had prospered and built themselves almost European
residences-not exactly castles, but very comfortable
establishments; and it was Sir William Brutnor who was providing
Jim with food and shelter right now in the customary fashion of
British and European upper classes, when the visitor was
someone they recognized as belonging to their part of society.

“Do you want me also to call you ‘master,’ m’lord?” asked Hob, in a
small voice, as he rode Jim’s shoulder.

“No, no, of course not,” said Jim. “Not you, Hob.”

“But you would protect me?” asked Hob. “I’m not just one of the
‘everybodies’?”

“Of course not,” said Jim. “You’re my Hob of Malencontri.”

“Of course,” echoed Hob smugly. He loosened his grip around
Jim’s neck and sat up on Jim’s shoulder, very straight
CHAPTER SEVEN

“So there you are. Sir James!” said Sir William Brutnor, striding into
Jim’s room, with the hems of his mid-eastern, silk robes flipping
around his ankles. “Been looking for you!”

“Yes,” said Jim. “I went for a stroll on the beach and ended up
going around the headland and some of the way up the coast.
Beautiful day.”

“Yes. Getting hot. Bit of a stroll, I’d say,” said Sir William. “You
missed dinner, you know? Did you have them send up food and
drink for you?”
“No,” said Jim. “It hadn’t occurred to me, yet-“

“Well, never mind, never mind,” said Sir William. He was a short,
broad man, possibly a little overweight but he carried it well. He had
a square middle-aged face, tanned and wrinkled by the sun, with
graying eyebrows, a small gray mustache and a hasty manner. “I’m
taking you off to a coffee house-actually, a coffee house in a bath
house. We can get some decent wine and food there, being
Christians. You needn’t dress up. It’s all very informal-travelers in
off the road and people like that. Oh, by the way, we’ve located this
friend of yours you’re looking for. Sir Bruno.”

“Sir Brian, you mean?” said Jim.

“That’s the gentleman,” said Sir William, “the Neville-Smythe. I
remember that much of it because of the Neville part. Related to
the Nevilles of Rabe, I think you said?”

“That’s right,” said Jim. “Where is he?”

“Where? Oh, up near Episcopi, round the coast a bit,” answered
Sir William. “Not at Episcopi itself. A little further on, at a small
fishing village. There’s a shore-castle there. Sir Mortimor Breugel
has it. He has a couple of galleys and does some off-shore
pirating, from time to time. Not great, but it’s a living; and Sir
Mortimor doesn’t want a lot, you know. He’d rather sit in his own
hall, dice and drink than anything else, anyway. But, come along
now-“

He broke off suddenly. The brown dog that was Kelb had just
appeared beside Jim.

“Master,” he said to Jim, ignoring Sir William, “if I may speak to
you-“

“Go away!” said Jim. “Later.”

The dog disappeared.

“A Djinni!” barked Sir William. “Look here, Sir James, I’m all for
hospitality to a gentleman from home, and all that. But-a Djinni!
How did you come to bring home a Djinni from this walk of yours;
and into my house? Have you any idea the trouble there is getting
rid of them? A good priest won’t do, you know, you have to get a
Holy Musselman- and then half the time it doesn’t work because
the Holy man wasn’t Holy enough; and you have to go looking
again. Give me a good old-fashioned ghost or goblin to get rid of,
any day!”

“Don’t worry,” said Jim, “I’ll take him with me when I go; and since
you’ve found Sir Brian, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll go to him right away,
without wasting any more time. It’s important I catch up with him as
soon as possible.”

“You can’t be in that much of a hurry,” said Sir William. “There’s this
coffee house-“

“I’m afraid I am,” said Jim. His mind scrambled for an excuse to
get on the road at once. He had no particular interest at the
moment in coffee houses, wine or even European style food,
notwithstanding-even less in bath houses. Inspiration came to him.
“You’ve heard of Sir John Chandos, of course?”

“Chandos?” said Sir William. “Oh, yes.”

“Well, need I say more?” said Jim, giving the other as mysterious
and diplomatic-level a look as he could manage.

“Ah, well,” said Sir William, “I suppose so. True. True. Pity, though.
You’d have liked this coffee house.”

“I’m sure I would,” said Jim. “I can’t tell you how sad I am to miss
out on it. It’s very good of you to think of taking me there.”

“Oh, well,” said Sir William. “Just a place where some gentlemen
get together about this hour. They’ll be sad to miss you too. I’ll
send someone up with directions on where Episcopi is, the way
there, and where beyond it Sir Mortimor’s shore-castle can be
found.”

He went out of the room as abruptly as he had come in.

“Kelb,” said Jim to the empty air.

The dog appeared in front of him.

“All right, Kelb,” said Jim, “what is it?”

“We Djinn have our ways,” said Kelb smugly.

“I’m sure you do,” said Jim impatiently. “Now, what did you come to
tell me?”

“By means of which only we Djinn know,” said Kelb, “I was aware
you were searching for another such as yourself. I have found him
for you. He is just above Episcopi in a tower by a small sea-village.
Do you not now see how valuable I can be as a servant to you, O
great one?”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Jim. “You wouldn’t have
happened to have been in your dog shape by the kitchen door of
this establishment, begging for scraps and just happened to
overhear the servants talking about the fact that I was looking for a
fellow knight and that he had just been located up beyond
Episcopi?”

“Are the servants indeed talking about it?” said Kelb. “Such a
strange happening at the same time is almost beyond belief; but-“

“Never mind making up excuses,” said Jim. “I told you I’d tell you
when I had made up my mind about you, and I will. Until then, go!”

“I go, master,” said Kelb, and went.

Southeast Jim went, around the coast of Cyprus to Episcopi in a
relatively small, and very smelly, boat with a huge lateen sail that
seemed once to have been red in color. Their small craft hugged
the shore all the way up, for fear of corsairs; and the ship owner-a
cheerful, black-haired, black-eyed Greek whose three sons were
his crew, explained that they stayed in shallow water so that large
enemy vessels that might prey on them could not come in after
them. They could go right up to the beach, which the larger vessels
could not do safely without damaging themselves.

“But what if you have to sail in deep water right next to the shore?”
asked Jim. As he said the words he felt a slight stirring by his right
shoulder blade, where Hob was comfortably curled up out of sight
in a sort of padded nest in a bag that resembled a knapsack. For a
moment he was afraid that Hob would stick his head out and want
to join in the conversation; but the hobgoblin said nothing after all,
staying quiet and hidden.

“If there is no way we can get away and save the boat, then we
save ourselves,” said the ship owner with a fatalistic shrug. “It is
better than being impaled or crucified if they catch us.”

Jim considered this; or rather, tried to consider it. He had thought
he was immune to seasickness, after all the sea travel he had had
on the way down from Britain. He had, in fact, traveled by a number
of means. By sea; overland on horseback, by the process of
buying horses in one place and selling them at his destination; and
also-more secretly-flying in his dragon form, usually at night, or
riding the smoke, for the little hobgoblin could ride a waft of smoke
anywhere and take him along.

He had, indeed, been tempted to ride the smoke with Hob all the
way to Cyprus. But he had to follow Brian’s route and make sure
Brian had not been captured, imprisoned, hurt or even killed by
mischance-all too likely in medieval times-along the way. As it was,
he could check at the towns he passed and with the people Brian
had planned to guest with, to make sure Brian had made it all the
way to Cyprus before Jim reached that island, himself.

Meanwhile, Hob had been a pleasant little companion; and Jim had
not regretted Angie’s insistence that the hobgoblin should be with
him, to carry the word home to her, if anything happened to Jim.

One of the side benefits of traveling by ordinary methods, Jim had
believed until now, was that he had developed an immunity to
seasickness. However, this small boat rocking and bouncing in the
near-shore waves had produced an effect on him after all. He
could not honestly say he was sick, but he was feeling cold and
uncomfortable in his stomach area; and the discomfort made it
hard for him to concentrate.

“Just suppose we had to do that-put the boat in to shore and run,”
said Jim. “What if they came in after us or sent another small boat
in after us and caught me, for example?”

In Europe, he knew that normally a person dressed as expensively
as he was would be held to ransom.

The ship owner shrugged.

“Take all you had that was worth anything, and then do the same
with you as they’d do with us,” he answered.

“If we stayed together,” said Jim, “maybe if there was just a small
boatload coming to shore after us, we could fight them off.”

The ship owner nodded his head vigorously. Jim’s heart lifted,
before he remembered what the motion meant. He was still getting
used to the fact that in some of these near-eastern areas, a nod
meant “no” and a shake of the head meant “yes.”

Once the proper message got through, however, he felt a touch of
relief. If the others would not stand and fight with him, then he
could feel a little easier about taking care of himself and Hob first;
and all that was necessary for the two of them was to duck out of
sight someplace. Then he could turn into a dragon and fly himself
and Hob out of the reach of any corsairs in a hurry.

In the event, however, they met no corsairs, and Jim did not go all
the way into actual seasickness. But he was very glad to step out
on the stony beach in front of the castle of Sir Mortimor; in spite of
the fact that waiting for them were a half-dozen very fierce-looking,
armed men with steel or leather upper body-armor and cap, over-
robes. As far as their faces went, they might have been distant
cousins of the boat owner, only lacking the boatman’s
cheerfulness. Jim had hardly set foot ashore before the sword-
point of one of them was at his throat.

“Take that away or I’ll have you whipped for it!” snapped Jim, falling
back on the proper knightly response. “Send to the castle
immediately! I am Sir James Eckert de Malencontri, the Dragon
Knight, here to see Sir Brian who is guesting in this place. Carry
that message to Sir Mortimor or Sir Brian immediately. I command
it!”

He had been in this world long enough to pick up some
understanding of how a situation like this should be handled. The
two key points were to be as richly dressed as he was, and to act
as if he was the infinite superior of any of those around him.

It worked. The man who had presented the swordpoint at his throat
did not lower his weapon, but he backed away a couple of steps
and snapped an order at one of the others to run ahead to tell them
in the castle what Jim had said.

“Come, Sir Dragon, then,” said the man with the naked sword.
“Come with us!”

They escorted him up the steeply sloping beach, through the
jumble of small buildings that were evidently half homes, half
warehouses; with nets draped on posts to dry, and fish also drying
on racks. Just beyond the village the going abruptly became very
steep indeed; and a sort of switchback path or road led up to the
castle itself, giving way at last to a flight of steps cut through the
groundcover into the rock underneath it; so that the last bit of
distance was like climbing a staircase.

The castle was really nothing but the tower, with a few precariously
attached wooden outbuildings; a simple-looking fortress. At the
same time, Jim noticed that it was not as vulnerable as it might
appear at first glance. It was built of bluish-gray stone blocks, with
a stout entrance door that was closed until the leader of Jim’s
escort pounded on it and shouted to those within-after which it was
opened and they were let into a short and narrow passage with
stone walls all around them leading to another door, equally stout.

Jim looked up as they moved toward this second door and saw a
ceiling above with holes in it through which uncomfortable things
like boiling oil could be poured down on anyone who broke through
the first door and was battering at the second; then, hopefully, it
would be set aught by burning brands pushed through those same
holes-so that the space between the two doors would become a
death trap.

In Jim’s case, however, he was led on peacefully through the
second door into a very gloomy interior. There seemed to be only
a single, further light source-and indeed this turned out to be a fact.

They went forward until he came to what was essentially an open
well, ascending through the middle of the castle right up to an
opening in the top floor of the tower. A patch of blue sky and a
glimpse of battlements could be seen. Undoubtedly this roof
opening would be closed in bad weather with one or more covers.
For now, however, it was open; and the sunlight struck strongly
down through it, its gleams bouncing off the stony walls to give
what little light this could to the rest of the castle. In the lower areas
of even the central part of this well, itself, torches burned on the
walls to reinforce the lighting.

He was led to stone stairs attached to the stone wall, the steps
spiraling up against the outer wall of the tower. On the third floor he
found Brian, with a tall, somewhat elderly-looking, thin man with a
long, mournful face and a mustache that drooped down at the ends
of his thin lips. A man who looked less like a warlord than a retired
scholar.

“James!” cried Brian, starting up from the table at which he and the
elderly man were sitting. The elderly man rose too, but more
slowly.

But as he got up, Jim rapidly changed his first impression that the
slow rise was due to age. Instead, plainly, it was the result of a
casualness, a sort of studied laziness. When the man at last stood
at his full height, he towered not only over Brian, but Jim; and if his
mustache and hair signaled age, the rest of his body signaled
some twenty or more years younger. He was at least six and a half
feet tall and of that peculiar rangy, hard-muscled build that would
probably mean he would be both strong and fast in action.

However, Jim did not have a chance to see more than this,
because Brian had darted forward from the table to embrace him
and kiss first his left cheek, then his right-a common fourteenth-
century greeting among friends that Jim had learned to accept with
some show of grace.

“You are here, James!” cried Brian, letting him go. “More welcome
than I can tell you! And just in time as well! Allow me to make you
acquainted with Sir Mortimor Breugel.”

Jim knew the proper manners for this type of situation. He inclined
his head in a near bow to the tall man standing behind the table,
who returned it.

“Honored to make your acquaintance, Sir Mortimor,” said Jim.

“Honored to make yours-“ said Sir Mortimor in a remarkable bass
voice, and paused meaningfully.

“Crave pardon!” said Brian happily. “Sir Mortimor, this is the right
worshipful Baron, Sir James Eckert, the Dragon Knight, of whom
you have heard me speak.”

“You and others,” said Sir Mortimor warmly. “It is a special
pleasure to see you, Sir James. As Sir Brian says, you come at a
good hour. Pray seat yourself with us and may I offer you some
wine and meat?”

Jim was still a little bit queasy from the boat ride, but what Sir
Mortimor was offering was ritual hospitality, which it would be
insulting to refuse; and in any case Jim was glad to find himself
welcomed so warmly. He joined the other two and they all sat down
around one end of the table. It, like all the other furnishings Jim had
seen so far in the castle, was of the barest, most utilitarian variety.
Altogether Sir Mortimor’s home reminded him of Malencontri, when
he and Angie had first moved in. The previous owner of that castle
had camped out in it, rather than actually living there; using it as a
base for any number of outside activities.

Now he touched his lips to the mazer-the large square drinking
utensil brimming with wine that was placed before him-and took a
bite of the gristly meat-mutton, he decided from the taste of it-that
a servant or one of the men-at-arms placed in front of him.

“May I ask,” he said, as soon as he had managed to chew the
piece of meat apart enough so that he could swallow it, “why you
two gentlemen talk about my coming in good time?”

“Why, James, it could not be better,” said Brian. “The chance of a
lifetime. Have you never longed to cross swords with a Sallee
Rover?”

Jim’s mind went into one of its scrambles to make the proper
connection with the term for a moment; then he remembered that a
Sallee Rover was one name for a Sallee (or Moroccan) who was of
a piratical nature. In fact, Morocco was generally considered to be
nothing but a nest of pirates-at least by Sir William Brutnor and his
friends, the gentlemen he had met on Cyprus.

“I have, I can tell you!” Brian was going on eagerly. “But never did I
think I would have the chance. But here I was, guesting up this way;
and word came that some were expected at the shore below this
castle at any moment. Our good Sir Mortimor has on occasion
picked up some of the eastern merchant ships; and it seems the
owners of the goods carried in those ships have hired a couple of
the fiercest of the Sallee Rovers to come hither and put an end to
him and this castle.”

Jim felt a pang of instinctive sympathy for the owners of the
merchant ships. Translated, what Brian had just said meant that Sir
Mortimor had been robbing some vessels to the point where their
owners and shippers decided the larceny had to be stopped; and
they had hired some of the more notorious Moroccans to do the
job for them.

But of course, he reflected, there was no such thing anyway as
justice upon the Mediterranean, any more than there was anywhere
else upon the oceans of the world. The strong took anything weak
enough to be taken, and fled from anything stronger enough to
take them.

More than that, he had already heard that it was Sir Mortimor’s way
of making a living. He himself, he thought, had no interest
whatsoever in getting into a fight with Moroccan pirates; but it was
exactly like Brian to think of this as the greatest entertainment in the
world. To say nothing of the fact that it would produce-if he lived
through it-a story that he could tell back in England to the envy and
admiration of all.

To be honest, Jim knew Brian well enough to believe that it was the
excitement of the actual life-and-death encounter that sent Brian
eagerly into these battles, rather than the wish to tell about them
afterwards. But the tale of this fight later on would not be
something without social value.

However, mentioning any of these thoughts aloud to his present
two companions would not be the most politic choice of
conversation. Jim smiled and made an effort to look not only
interested, but happily so.

“Indeed!” he said. “And you say these pirates are expected at any
moment?”

“We have a lookout on duty night and day at the top of my tower,”
said Sir Mortimor in that surprising bass of his.

Jim was ready to swear that the man was not speaking above his
normal conversational tone; but the words seemed to bounce off
the stone walls behind Jim and echo throughout the whole castle.
Sir Mortimor had the kind of voice which could be perfectly
understood by someone twenty feet away, even with an intervening
crowd of other people talking at the top of their own voices in
between.

“So far,” went on Sir Mortimor, “none of them have reported what
we expect, although sails are often seen. Of course, they are most
likely to come in galleys, possibly with their sails down and on oars
only. But still, in this clear weather we will see them coming and
have time to arm. Meanwhile, perhaps, you would care to join Sir
Brian and me in a bout with the dice?”

“I must beg your forgiveness, Sir Mortimor,” said Jim. “As Sir Brian
may have told you, I am a magician, and under certain
circumstances, my control and use of magic depends upon my
abstaining from all pleasures involved with chance. Also, Sir Brian,
I have news and word to you from the Lady Geronde, and from my
own dear wife, the Lady Angela, which I must not forget to tell you
at some other time. If you and Sir Mortimor care to dice, I shall
enjoy simply sitting and watching.”

“Sad, that; but I understand, of course,” said Sir Mortimor, with
something in his voice that seemed to Jim a little too much like the
regret of a card sharp seeing a plump but innocent victim escape.

“Howbeit,” he went on, “possibly better we acquaint you with what
Sir Brian and I were just discussing; which is our matter of defense
of this castle of mine when the marauders do land.”

“I shall be happy to hear,” said Jim.

“Come!” said Sir Mortimor, uncurling to his full height again and
leading them away from the table, up the staircase and on to the
very roof of the tower; a level circle of stone with its surrounding
battlements like jagged teeth, and the opening of the light-and-air
shaft in its center. There was another opening by the battlements
facing seaward, which must be above the entrance passage with
holes in its ceiling.

There were as well five chimneys better than six feet tall; and a
huge, soot-blackened metal kettle on wheels, with a sandbox-
firebed underneath, undoubtedly to heat boiling oil for pouring on
attackers.

Beside the kettle stood a framework in which was vertically
suspended a circular round of what looked like bronze, some four
feet across. It was not until Jim saw something like a
sledgehammer leaning against one side of the framework that he
recognized the apparatus as a large gong.

This gong stood midway between two men-plainly guards on
lookout here, both of them gazing out at the waters of the
Mediterranean. Jim, looking out himself, saw the white flecks of
several sails at varying distances; but since the watchmen took no
interest in them, they could hardly be the galleys of the enemy
coming in.

Both these men looked about as Sir Mortimor led Brian and Jim
upon the roof. Sir Mortimor flicked a pointing finger downward at
the steps from which he had just emerged, and the two ran to
them, disappearing from sight.

“They can learn about my plans,” said Sir Mortimor to Brian and
Jim, softening his voice as he led them to the battlements, well
away from the ventilation shaft and to where no chimneys
obstructed their view to seaward, “when I’m ready to tell them.
Take a look, gentlemen. You see the situation.”

Jim, with Brian, looked over the battlement and down at the
beachfront below. The tower, in effect the castle itself, was no
more than four or five stories high; but its slenderness, and its
position perched on the spire of rock with the cliff behind and
overhanging it, gave an impression of dizzying altitude; so that they
seemed much farther up than they actually were. Added to this, the
steep steps down to the almost as steep switchback path below it,
then farther on down to the beach below, increased the feeling of
height; so that it felt to Jim as if he was looking out from a precipice
half a mile high.

That illusion, however, was at odds with the fact that he knew he
was not actually that far above the sloping beach; and so the
wooden buildings upon it gave the impression of being closer than
they should be. It was as if he looked at these through a telescope
at the same time as he examined everything else from the illusory
height of the tower.

The stony, pebbled water’s edge, at which the waves lapped, was
at the greatest indentation of a small bay. The cliff behind the
castle curved forward on either hand, like horns, reaching out to
form two headlands.

The tops of these headlands were little higher than the castle roof,
itself. As far as their tops could be seen, they were almost bare,
except for some vegetation and a few sheep wandering about.

Out to sea, the Mediterranean was as peaceful as it had been
since Jim had arrived here in Cyprus, its blue surface stretching to
the curving horizon, with the sails Jim had noticed earlier apparently
passing each other and the shore on coastal business.

“I expect no less than two large galleys, each carrying a load of up
to two hundred armed landsmen,” said Sir Mortimor’s voice in
Jim’s right ear. “These, together with the crew of the galleys, will
bring to face us some five hundred fighting men. They will land,
burn the village and kill any they catch, then attempt to come at the
castle from above. But they will find that the overhang of the cliff
behind it prevents them dropping anything heavy enough to do
damage from there. Also, the grass is slippery up there and the
slope is steep toward the edge of the cliff. They will lose a few
men over the edge of the cliff merely by trying this.”

“Will they have Greek fire?” Brian asked their host.

“Greek fire is a close-held secret still, in Constantinople,” said Sir
Mortimor. “They will not. No more will they have bombards of any
kind, although they may have some gunpowder; and they may try to
place that around the base of the tower and do some damage with
it. But my lower walls are nowhere less than six feet thick and up to
ten feet in places. Gunpowder has been tried before and done no
real damage. They will burn the village below, as I say, and of
course they will make a try up the steps and through the door of the
main entrance.”

“They will be at a sore disadvantage while they are at that,” said
Brian.

Sir Mortimor nodded.

“It will cost them heavily; but if they keep trying long enough, they
may get through both doors. If that is the case, they will then
overrun the castle and we shall die. Therefore, a decision will have
to be made at the last moment-in fact I shall make it, myself,
gentlemen. With all due deference to your own skill in warfare and
with weapons, this is my castle and I will fight it the way I know best
to do. If it seems they have survived breaking through the outer
door and the boiling oil in the passage, and done enough damage
to the inner door so they will shortly be through, then we must
sally.”

“Hah!” said Brian.

“There is a secret way out of this castle that emerges some little
way down the beach,” went on Sir Mortimor. “Counting those of the
village able to fight to any purpose, we will have inside with us here
over a hundred and forty men. With a hundred of these, we can
attack those who come against us from behind, or unexpectedly in
the night, when they have withdrawn to rest, feeling that we who are
penned in the castle can nowise escape from them; and therefore
they can finish matters at their leisure. If we have the good luck to
catch most of them asleep, or unexpecting-and, since they will be
boat people, with legs not used to running up and down steep
paths to attack or escape-we may do enough damage to convince
them that we are a rescue party come from Episcopi, or
somewhere else close. A reinforcement. So that they will break
and run for their galleys.”

“Pray,” said Brian to the tall knight, “to which side of the castle
does this secret way emerge?”

Sir Mortimor looked down at him with a wintry smile.

“There is no harm in telling you that much,” he answered. “Though
all else about that escape route is a family secret.”

He waved his hand toward the close slope to die right of the castle.

“Some little distance in that direction,” he said.

Brian considered the area.

“There are some large rocks at the foot of the steep slope on the
beach no more than fifty yards from here,” he said. “Give me three
score of your men, and I will pledge to go out at night, or at some
other time when they are busy, and burn or otherwise destroy their
boats behind them.”

“That is exactly what I do not want done, Sir Brian,” said Sir
Mortimor. “If the boats are not there for their escape, then they will
be left with us-whether they or we like it or not. Recall they
outnumber us now, nearly five to one. With their boats destroyed,
they will fight to kill or be killed; and in the end they may well own
the castle and all of us will be dead-“

A shriek, followed by a wild babel of voices, unexpectedly echoed
up the air shaft.

“Hell, blood and weeping!” exploded Sir Mortimor, his voice
echoing off both headlands. He took four enormous strides to the
stairway entrance and vanished down it.
CHAPTER EIGHT

Left alone together on the roof, Jim and Brian looked at each other.
“Brian,” said Jim. “Now’s my chance to bring you up to date on
things. The reason I could follow you this quickly was because
John Chandos showed up with the order giving me wardship of
Robert Falon.”

“That was fast, indeed,” said Brian. “I have known such matters to
take years. I had little hope. But it is good to see you here, James-
doubly so, considering the circumstances.”

“I’m not as happy about the circumstances as you are, Brian,” Jim
was beginning, when he felt Hob stir in the knapsack on his back
and sit up. A second later, the hobgoblin’s small gray head poked
into sight at the comer of his right eye.

“By the way, this is Hob,” said Jim hastily, “from the chimney of my
serving room at Malencontri. Did you just wake up, Hob?”

“Oh, I wasn’t asleep,” said Hob. “We hobgoblins never sleep. We
just dream without sleeping.”

“A hobgoblin!” said Brian, staring. “What do you dream about,
hobgoblin?”

“Oh,” said Hob, “nice warm chimneys, good people with food down
below, plenty of children we can take for rides on the-“

He broke off suddenly, staring back at Brian.

“I don’t know you,” he said, shrinking back behind Jim’s head and
clasping him around the neck.

“This is Sir Brian Neville-Smythe, Hob,” said Jim. “My best friend.
He comes to Malencontri all the time; and he likes hobgoblins.”

“Likes-“ Brian broke off abruptly. “Nothing against them, actually.
You’re the first one I ever met, in fact.”

But now Hob was looking at Brian again, this time with fascination.

“Are you really Brian-I mean, Sir Brian Neville-Smythe?” asked
Hob. “Was your hair almost white, when you were very young?”

“Of course!” snapped Brian. “As for my hair-yes, it was. Not that
that is any matter for your consideration, hobgoblin!”

“Your father brought you to Malencontri with him on the way to
Malvern Castle one time when you were very little,” said Hob. “That
was when there were some humans named Claive in Malencontri.
There was a lot of eating and drinking and singing and everybody
forgot about you. I took you for a ride on the smoke. Don’t you
remember?”

“Ride on the smoke...” Brian frowned. The frown slowly cleared.
“Yes, by God! I do remember. Yes! We went out over the woods.
You showed me where the hedgehogs were sleeping, and the
bear’s den where it was sleeping. And you showed me the
magician’s house-it was Carolinus’s place, but I didn’t know that till
later. I do remember! So you’re that hobgoblin?”

“Oh, yes,” said Hob. “You were very little and your mother was
dead and your father wasn’t with you most of the time. Didn’t the
hobgoblin at Malvern take you for any more rides when you got
there?”

“Never,” said Brian.

“Well, he certainly should have,” said Hob. “I would have.”

“By St. Brian, my name-saint, I have never forgotten that! You were
most kind to me, hobgoblin.”

“Oh, no,” said Hob earnestly. “I liked taking you.”

“There, Hob,” said Jim. “I told you Sir Brian liked hobgoblins. Here,
he’s an older friend of yours than he is of mine.”

“It’s-it’s good of your knightlyness to remember,” said Hob, still a
little timidly, peering around Jim’s head at Brian.

“Hah-well,” said Brian. “I was a youngster then, of course. No idea
of rank. Still, it was a moment I’ll not forget. But Jim-what are you
doing on a trip to the Holy Land, carrying a hobgoblin?”

“That was part of what I wanted to tell you about Geronde and
Angela,” Jim said. “This is the time to say it, before Sir Mortimor
comes back. You see, Angie and I went over to Malvern to talk with
Geronde as soon as we had the wardship in our hands; and
Geronde told us as much as she knew about how I could go about
finding you. I got here to Cyprus actually over a week ago; but
nobody knew exactly where you were, and I was afraid that you’d
already taken a ship for Tripoli, which Geronde says was to be your
next stop.”

“She was quite right, you know,” said Brian. “I really didn’t expect
you to catch me, James-particularly not this soon. Otherwise I
could have left word here that would have aided you in finding me. I
take it that there were no important happenings either at Malvern or
Malencontri since I left?”

“No,” said Jim, “outside of Sir John Chandos’s bringing the
parchment on Robert’s wardship. He had some men-at-arms with
him and was headed for the Welsh border, as far as I could
understand.”

“I wonder what...” said Brian. “Outside of the building of the castle
at Caernarvon, I have heard no news of Wales in some time. But,
James, I still do not understand why you brought the hobgoblin.”

Sir Mortimor’s voice could be heard up the air shaft; and it seemed
to be drawing closer, as if the knight was climbing the stairs back to
them.

“It was Angela,” said Jim hastily. “Both she and Geronde were
more concerned than usual about this trip of yours. Geronde had
said she’d gone as far as actually asking you not to go-at this time
anyway.”

“So she did,” said Brian. “However, I saw no reason to put it off.
Also, you must understand, James, with that much gold sitting
around, there would be a danger it might be gone by the time she
felt comfortable with my leaving.”

“I understand,” said Jim. “At any rate, Angie, in particular, wanted
something from me. That was to know, and to know as quickly as
possible, if anything happened to either of us. You’ve ridden on the
smoke with Hob, so you must remember-“

“I do remember most clearly, now,” interposed Brian.

“Then maybe you’ll recall how, while you seem to be moving at a
fairly slow speed on the smoke, actually you’re covering a great
deal of distance very quickly. Hob and I used his smoke for a fair
amount of the time coming down here. We traveled by other ways
of course, but we used the smoke too. The point is, with Hob, if
anything happens to you or to me, he can get back to England in a
hurry and tell Angie-who will tell Geronde; and if there is anything
they can do, they’ll do it-“

He broke off, for Sir Mortimor’s head had just appeared above the
opening for the staircase, and a moment later the tall knight was
beside them.

“I tell you what it is, Sir James, Sir Brian,” he said. “The fears these
easterners have are enough to drive a man out of his wits. Can you
imagine what all the trouble was about? A small brown dog-a small
brown dog that was not to be found when we went looking for it.”

“Brown dog?” echoed Jim.

“Exactly!” said Sir Mortimor. “Rare imagination! Couldn’t be a dog
in my castle. If one could get in, all the damned curs in the village
would be nosing about here for scraps. Man or beast, it has to
come in through the front doors. There’s no chance for an animal
to slip in. None. But here’s my cook and half a dozen others,
swearing they saw it-and of course, you know what they took it for?
Or at least you know, Sir Brian. Sir James, you may be new enough
here not to guess. They thought it was a Djinni. Anything in animal
shape can be a Djinni as far as they’re concerned. Everything’s a
Djinni. Ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous!” faintly echoed the two headlands around the little bay
in front of the fishing village.

While Sir Mortimor had been talking, the two men who had been on
lookout had come back up and silently taken up their post. The
good knight lowered his voice to conversational level again.

“But shall we forget all that, gentlemen, and go back downstairs? I
could do with a cup of wine; and I imagine the two of you could
too.”

They followed him away from the bright sunlight down into the
shadowy interior of the castle and back to the same table at which
Jim had met him, sitting with Brian when Jim arrived. They took
benches, and mazers of wine were put before them. Jim noticed
with interest that his original mazer, from which very little of the wine
had been drunk, had been taken away-the wine almost certainly
drunk by one or more of the servants back down in the kitchen.

“But,” said Brian to Sir Mortimor, once they were seated, “if the
brown dog was indeed a Djinni, then maybe he could get in here
without being seen, or without coming by the normal route through
the doorways. They use magic, don’t they?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” said Sir Mortimor. “But it was no Djinni, of course.
What would a Djinni want here-“

He was interrupted by possibly the one thing about the castle as
penetrating in sound as his own voice. It was a sudden outburst
from the gong being beaten on top of the tower. There was a
scurry of footsteps running down the stairs toward them, and one
of the lookouts burst in, even while the clamor continued overhead.

“My Lord! My Lord!” he shouted. “They are here. They are almost
on us. They rode around the two headlands, one galley around
each just now. Within minutes they will be beaching their craft
before the village!”

“By the Wounds!” exploded Sir Mortimor, leaping to his feet and
oversetting his own brimming mazer of wine on the table. “Can’t a
Christian gentleman have a moment of peace in his own house?”

He glared at the messenger, who was standing white-faced before
him, reached absently for his own mazer, discovered it had spilled
and picked up Jim’s instead, tossing it off in what seemed to be a
single swallow. Rather a good trick, Jim thought, considering the
mazer must have held close to a full pint of wine.

The gong was still going mad overhead, and Jim’s ears were
beginning to ring. He saw Sir Brian’s lips move, but did not hear
what the other had said Sir Mortimor’s voice, however, rose
through the din without any difficulty.

“Front doors opened for villagers!” he snapped. “Slingers and
bowmen to the top of the tower. Run!”

The messenger scuttled down the stairs toward the lower levels of
the tower.

“Could that gong be silenced now. Sir Mortimor?” Brian shouted
through the din. “Surely everyone in the castle has heard it by this
time!”

“The villagers must hear too. Come with me, gentlemen!”

He stepped to the stairs, almost knocking into eternity a bowman
who was hurrying up them at the moment; and went on up, two
steps at a time, leaving Jim and Brian far behind as they began to
follow, Brian behind Jim simply because Jim had been closer to
the stairs to start off with.

“I am naked except for my poignard,” puffed Brian in Jim’s ear. “It
is well you have half armor and your own sword on, James!”

It was true. Jim had been wearing the sword, simply because, as a
knight traveling, it was unthinkable that he should go without it. His
half armor, which consisted of a chain mail shirt and a steel cap, he
had worn as a natural traveler’s protection. The men who had met
him as he stepped out of his boat after getting here had not taken
the sword from him-possibly because it was unreasonable that he
could have overpowered the dozen or so of them even with it. In
fact, Jim suddenly realized, he was getting so used to the weight of
the sword and the armor that he himself had forgotten it when he
was introduced to Sir Mortimor.

“You better go down and arm and armor yourself then, Brian,” he
said over his shoulder. “I’ll tell Sir Mortimor-“

“No, no,” said Brian. “It would not be polite. Our host should have
told us if there was need for us to dress for any trouble.”

“He may just have forgotten,” said Jim dryly. His opinion of Sir
Mortimor so far was still something of a question mark. “If it turns
out that swords are needed, Brian, I’ll pass you mine. You can
make better use of it than I could.”

Brian made some kind of noise that sounded like a protest, but
both he and Jim were too out of breath trying to catch up with Sir
Mortimor to talk much further. Also, just about then they emerged
onto the roof.

Already there were some three or four other men who had rushed
up the stairs from below at the first note of the gong. One of these
was the bowman who had almost been brushed into the air shaft by
Sir Mortimor. Jim had come up expecting to go immediately to the
edge of the battlements and look down at the invaders; and that
Brian would do the same thing. Instead, both of them had halted
where they were, their attention riveted on a man who was coming
down a long rope, like a spider descending on his own thread from
a ceiling; only in this case the rope came down from an
outcropping of rock on the overhanging cliff behind the castle, the
top of which looked as if it could be reached only by birds or
angels. Sir Mortimor was standing wide-legged, looking balefully at
the approaching man.

“Why didn’t you see them?” snarled the knight, as the man’s feet
touched the top of the tower.

“Crave pardon, m’lord,” said the man. “They must have hugged the
shore in their galleys-at least enough so that the headlands
blocked my view for several miles. They may even have slipped in
to shore under darkness last night and been waiting until now to
come close.”

“Hah!” said Sir Mortimor. “Well, in any case we have them here
now.”

Even while this brief conversation had been going, men had been
pouring up the staircase onto the roof. Jim counted only three
bowmen. But there were a number of others; thin, dark-faced men,
slim-bodied and not too tall for the most part. They seemed
unarmed, unless the large, bulging pouches at their belt contained
some kind of weapon.

In addition, there were other men coming up who were plainly
unarmed, but had their arms full of rocks, which varied from the
size of a baseball to the size of a small cantaloupe. These they
were piling close to the battlements on that side of the tower that
faced the beach and the village below.

Brian had already gone over to those same battlements to look
down at the invaders. He was standing beside Sir Mortimor, who
had also turned his attention in that direction. Jim joined them.
Below them the zigzag road up to the stairs leading to the castle’s
now-opened door was crowded with people carrying various
things, ranging from an ax to sacks holding unknown contents.

The two galleys that had been mentioned were just now turning in,
prow-first toward the beach. It was clearly their intention to come in
as close to the land as possible. Indeed, they checked themselves
and anchored not more than ten or fifteen feet from shore; and
now men were jumping overboard at the prow, landing in water
varying from waist deep to shoulder deep, and wading ashore.
They varied remarkably in both armor and the weapons they
carried; but most had a round, obviously wooden shield, and a
curved sword-the latter carried naked in their hand as they reached
the shore.

No sooner was one out of the waves than he charged up the
beach, shouting as he went, toward the village and those still trying
to escape up the road to the castle.

There was no order to the way the attackers came, but very soon a
good share of them were on the land and already in among the
villages. Jim had expected to see the buildings there go up in
flames almost immediately; but they did not. Instead the attackers
merely rushed through the structures in pursuit of those trying to
escape.

“Slingers!” said Sir Mortimor.

There were still only about half a dozen bowmen on top of the
tower, but possibly as many as three dozen of the other men.
These lined the battlements facing the beach, reached into their
pouches, and drew forth a length of doubled leather thong with a
flat leather pad in the middle of it, which had been poked or
molded into a pocket. Digging again into their pouches, they came
up with dull slugs of some sort of metal. Each at his own rate of
speed fitted a slug into the pocket of his thong arrangement, took
both ends of the thong and began one-handedly whirling the whole
arrangement lightly in a vertical circle, as they gazed down at the
beach, the weight of the slug in the pocket stretching the thong
arrangement-which was evidently and clearly a sling-to its fullest
limits, so that it rotated like a solid wand in the hand of each as he
twirled it.

“Never mind any that haven’t reached at least to the bottom of the
road,” said Sir Mortimor. “Pick off those close to the villagers. Wait
for my order.”

The row of men stood apparently idly whirling their slings. It was
not until the first of the attackers were within a few steps of
overtaking an old woman who was lagging behind the rest of those
frantically trying to reach safety, before he gave the word; and by
that time the section of the road that had been left empty behind
the villagers was now full of the Moroccan pirates.

“Now!” said Sir Mortimor and all together, as if it had been
rehearsed, one end of each sling was let go, the slingers leaning
forward all together as they released their missiles-and,
immediately, each slinger had another slug out of his pouch, fitted
it into the socket of his sling and was whirling it again, slinging now
as each one was ready.

Down below, the results were remarkable. From this height, of
course, the impact of the slugs was soundless and, unlike the
strike of arrows, there was nothing to be seen in the way of a shaft
with feathers sticking out of the person hit.

“Balearic slingers!” cried Brian with delight. “They are Balearics,
are they not, Sir Mortimor?”

“For the most part,” grunted Sir Mortimor, his eyes still on the
situation below. “They have to be trained from boyhood, like those
who use the longbow. But some of these are cheaper, raised
closer to hand, and from the standpoint of a castle like mine, it is
much easier to stock great amounts of the slugs they throw, than
the carefully made arrows a bowman must use, and which usually
cannot be recovered when a castle is being attacked and possibly
besieged. Also, they have not the range of the longbow, but at
short distances like this they are wonderfully effective.”

“Effective indeed!” said Brian.

And so they were.

To Jim, looking down from the tower, it was as if half of the closest
pursuers had suddenly collapsed on the ground; and those still on
their feet had turned and were in panicky flight back down the road.
The rearmost of these also fell; but by the time they reached the
bottom of the road, most of the slingers had stopped whirling their
slings and were looking to Sir Mortimor for further orders.

Sir Mortimor shook his head.

He had evidently signaled for wine, and someone had brought it to
him. He stood with a mazer in his hand, nearly full with the red
liquid, but was not drinking from it. There was silence on the tower
top.

Down below, however, the invaders were making enough noise for
both sides. Looking down from the battlements, Jim could see that
most of them had crowded into the little space between the
houses of the village and the beginning of the zigzag road up the
slope. They howled and shook their weapons, looking upward at
the battlements. A few of them evidently had bows, for arrows flew
from among them, none getting any higher than three-quarters of
the way up the tower before hitting the stone sides and dropping
back.

“Not surprising, that,” said Brian, watching beside Jim. “Hard to
judge the distance to your mark looking so sharply up hill as this.”

Sir Mortimor sipped at his mazer.

A few more arrows lofted into the air high enough to fall harmlessly
onto the tower top. Minutes went by, and gradually the noise below
dwindled and dwindled until there was silence there as well. Then a
strong voice shouted alone.

“English knight!” it called. “Sir Mortimor, I know you are there. I am
Abd’ul Hasan, and these are all my men. You cannot hope to hold
out against us. I would speak with you. Sir Mortimor. English knight.
Show yourself at your battlements!”

Watching from those same battlements, Brian with Jim saw the
crowd below move apart to reveal a single tall individual in a red
turban and a long, flowing white robe standing almost on the
beginning of the road up the slope itself. He was taller than most of
those around him; but even from this height, Jim could see that he
was nowhere near the height of Sir Mortimor. His brown face
looked upward, waiting.

Beside Jim, Sir Mortimor leisurely stepped forward to stand
towering over the serrated rock teeth of the battlements and
looked downward.

“What is it?” his remarkable voice rang out and down to those
below.

“We will take your castle, burn it around your ears and crucify you!”
cried Abd’ul Hasan.”But this, only if you force us to fight our way in.
I give you a choice. Come out now, leaving all behind; and you and
everyone with you shall go safely. I repeat, come out now, and you
and all with you shall go free, safely. We only want what is inside
your castle!”

Sir Mortimor stood, not answering, simply looking down at him.
After a long silence the man below shouted up again.

“What do you say, English knight?” he said. “Answer me now. You
will not get a second chance.”

“I am German,” Sir Mortimor’s voice over-rode him.

“I care not what you call yourself,” shouted Abd’ul Hasan. “Do you
accept my terms? Say yes or no now. You will not get another
chance.”

Sir Mortimor looked down at him thoughtfully. As the seconds fled
by he lifted the mazer to his lips but only sipped at it again, then
took it from his mouth. Slowly and deliberately he turned his wrist to
pour its contents through the empty air, to splatter on the last few
steps leading up to the front door of the castle. He tossed the
empty mazer after it. The cup was of metal; it fell in a straight line to
the stone steps, hit and bounced, hit again, and half tumbled, half
rolled, now an unrecognizable pounded lump of metal, almost to
the feet of Abd’ul Hasan. Then Sir Mortimor turned and walked
away from the battlements.

For a long moment there was silence below and then a swelling
roar of rage came up from the attackers. On top of the tower Sir
Mortimor’s voice came clearly through the tumult.

“Ten men on duty here at all times,” he said. “Everyone to sleep
with their weapons and-Beaupré!”

“Yes, m’lord,” said a narrow-bodied man with a sword at his side
and European body armor above the waist, as well as a steel
helmet. His hair was dark brown and plentiful; but smallpox had
made a pitted ruin of his otherwise sharp-featured face.

“You will have the charge in keeping,” said Sir Mortimor. “A special
watch to be kept on the stairs and a guard on the door; the kettle
up here to be filled with oil and a low fire under it, ready to heat it
swiftly if there’s need. You will tell me, asleep, awake, or whatever I
am doing, if they begin to show signs of attempting to force the
front door. Otherwise, it is in your hands. I expect little for a day or
so; but make note of when they try us from above, and if they try
gunpowder against the walls and any else of the usual things.”

“Yes, m’lord,” said Beaupré.

“Well, gentlemen,” said Sir Mortimor to Jim and Brian, “shall we
down stairs once more; and try again if we may not have a little
time to ourselves?”

He did not wait for an answer; but turned and went directly to the
stairs opening and down it. Jim and Brian followed.
CHAPTER NINE

“Beaupré will be my squire if I have need of such,” said Sir
Mortimor, in an unusually quiet voice.

They were seated once more at the table where they had been
before, with three more of the apparently endless supply of
mazers filled with wine before them. Sir Mortimor had waited until
the servant who brought them had left the floor.

“As it is,” the tall knight went on, “he is my second in command. If
he should call on you to do something, you will please me by
regarding it as a request from myself. I expect nothing much to
happen for a day or two. They will try all the easy things. We may
hear stones poured upon the tower from above, and some
attempts to break through the walls at ground level, but nothing
serious. Beaupré will take care of this, all of it, and call upon you
only if needed.”

“Sir Mortimor,” said Brian in a level voice, “I crave pardon if I
misunderstand you. But it seems to me that you are suggesting
that two belted knights fight if necessary under the orders of a
squire.”

“So I am,” said Sir Mortimor, meeting him eye to eye. “You
gentlemen do not know wars as they are fought in this part of the
world; and Beaupré does. I assure you he will use the best of
manners in speaking to you.”

“That is hardly the point. Sir Mortimor,” said Brian. “We are guests
of yours, I believe?”

“You are,” said Sir Mortimor. “What else might you be?”

“I expect nothing else,” said Brian. “But I also expect that if my
host would welcome my assistance in defending his house, then
my host would ask it himself, rather than sending someone of
lesser rank to demand it of me.”

“Very well,” said Sir Mortimor. “I do so ask.”

“In that case,” said Brian, “I will be only too ready to help as much
as I can.”

Jim felt the pressure of the conversation on him.

“And I too, of course. Sir Mortimor,” he said.

“Then I think we are agreed, gentlemen,” said Sir Mortimor. He
stood up, leaving his wine untouched.

“While I have put Beaupré with the charge in keeping,” he said, “it
is nonetheless my castle, and my decisions rule. I will therefore be
aware of all that is going on, and this will leave me little time to pay
attention to my guests. Sir Brian, if you would accept Sir James
into the quarters I gave you, I would appreciate it. The
possessions you brought with you when you came here by water,
Sir James, have already been carried to that room. If in any way
you are not comfortable, simply call a servant and say what you
want. If it is possible to supply you with it, my castle will supply it.
Now, if you will excuse me, I will be about my own circuit of the
castle to see how things are being readied.”

He turned, strode to the stairs and went down out of sight.

“Brian-“ began Jim. But Brian raised a forefinger and brushed it
across his lips, and Jim broke off abruptly.

Brian got to his feet, picking up his mazer as he did and beckoning
Jim. Jim followed his example, but left his wine behind. Brian led
him to the staircase and down a single level into a small space
from which three doors opened off. He took the one to the left, and
led Jim into a room that was obviously intended as a guest
bedroom.

In contrast to what Jim had been used to finding in castles in
England, it was more spacious than most such guest rooms were;
the bed was much bigger, with four posts and a canopy all the way
around it; and what might have been otherwise considered an
arrow slit in the wall was several times as wide as the ordinary
arrow slit-making a good bid at calling itself a window. There were,
however, no shutters on it. In case of bad weather not only wind,
but rain, would enter.

Jim’s possessions were piled in a corner; and, among them, he
was happy to see, was his personal, rolled-up and vermin-free
mattress. There was also a table and barrel chairs in the room.
Brian carefully closed the door behind them, beckoned him over to
the table, sat down himself with his mazer and motioned Jim to a
chair.

“James,” he said in a low voice, “unwittingly, I have led you into a
trap. If your magic gives you means of escaping from here, I beg
that you will use it. This attack on Sir Mortimor’s castle should be
no concern of yours. I am heartily sorry you have become involved
even this far with it.”

Jim looked across the table at Brian and saw that he was in deadly
earnest.

“Of course,” he said, “I could get away by magic. In fact, we both
can get away by magic. What have you got yourself into here,
Brian?”

It was not until the last words were out of his mouth, that he had
realized that he had committed an unpardonable social error by
asking such a personal question of Brian, in spite of the fact that
Brian was his closest friend. He had no right to ask Brian to tell him
why he was in any kind of situation. He opened his mouth to
apologize, but Brian spoke before him.

“Never mind it, James,” said Brian, as if he had read Jim’s mind. “I
understand you speak only out of concern for me. No, if you can
escape, you must do so. I, myself, am not free to leave.”

“Why not?” asked Jim.

“I came here as an invited guest,” Brian said, “after meeting Sir
Mortimor in Episcopi, where I was visiting with some other good
knights- English knights-whose grandfathers settled here at the
time of an earlier crusade. Sir Mortimor has not failed in his duties
as a host toward me; and I cannot fail in my obligation as a guest to
him, now that he has a difficulty on his hands. It is not so with you.
You came only to find me, and you find me tied here while you are
free to go. I beg you, James, leave while you can; and if a
message must be sent back to Geronde and Angela, say that I
was well the last you saw of me, and merely had a small bicker on
my hands which might delay me slightly in getting on with what I
came here to do.”

Jim felt Hob stir again in the knapsack on his back. The little
hobgoblin had ducked down out of sight before Sir Mortimor had
come back up to join them, at the time when they had been talking
about Brian’s childhood and his early knowledge of Hob. Now the
hobgoblin stuck his head out of the knapsack, and his breath
tickled the back of Jim’s right ear as he looked about.

“Oh!” he said happily. “Fire and smoke. A fireplace. M’lord, is it all
right if I take a look up that chimney?”

“Go right ahead, Hob,” said Jim-and in a moment the gray figure of
Hob had launched itself from his shoulder toward the fireplace and
to all appearances simply disappeared. Jim turned his attention
back to Brian. The last words that Brian had said had rung oddly
false in his ears.

“Brian,” he said, “forgive me-and you don’t have to answer me, if
you don’t want to-but is something wrong? Is there something
you’re not telling me that’s badly out of kilter? Will you really be
ready to go on as soon as this is over?”

“I pledge myself to do so,” said Brian. “And that pledge I am not
going to fail upon. I give you my word I will do my best to go back
to my search for Geronde’s father, the minute I am away from Sir
Mortimor and this castle.”
“Then why don’t we both leave?” said Jim. “Your obligations as a
guest-“

“Are my obligations!” said Brian with a snap. “I have never failed on
my word; and, before God, I never will.”

“You’re talking about your word to Sir Mortimor, now, aren’t you?”
said Jim. “What word exactly did you give him?”

“James-“ began Brian on an almost angry note, and then stopped
abruptly. He looked down at the table, looked at his mazer of wine,
took a drink from it and looked back up at Jim. “James, I will
continue in my search. There may be a slight delay, however. You
are right. There is something I have not told you; and it concerns
an error and a weakness on my part. It is-the fact is I have almost
no money left to travel with.”

“No-?” Jim broke off. “I don’t mean to-“ he continued, staring at his
friend. Brian’s square, lean-boned face with its blue eyes and
aggressively hooked nose had something defiant about it. He
checked the word “pry” that had been on the tip of his tongue and
rephrased what he was going to say.

“-Ask any impolite questions of you,” he went on, “but how does it
happen you could be out of money so quickly? It seemed to me
you had more than enough for a search here that could take you
months, or even a year.”

“So I had,” said Brian. “The fault is my own, James. We are all
sinners and have our weaknesses. One of mine, as you know, is
the dice. I should have sworn off all such things for the period of
this search, but I did not think of it.”

“But what happened, then?” asked Jim.

“I came to Cyprus, as perhaps Geronde told you,” he said,
“because a certain Sir Francis Neville, a cousin twice removed,
was a knight of the Hospitallers; and I hoped for advice from him. I
knew that he was here on Cyprus on some business between the
Hospitallers and certain well-placed and powerful gentlemen on the
island. Perhaps Geronde told you all this.”

Jim nodded.

“But when I got here,” Brian said, “Sir Francis had already left again
for the headquarters of his Brotherhood, which has long been
elsewhere than the hospital they founded in Jerusalem, in the
name of St. John of Jerusalem, whereby, of course, comes their
name of Hospitallers. Their proper title at present is the Order of
the Knights of Rhodes. I had hoped to learn from him the best way
to take myself to Palmyra, and also how I should conduct myself
and what I should be wary of on the way there.”

Brian paused. Jim, thinking he was done speaking, opened his own
mouth.

“But surely,” Jim said, “his being gone shouldn’t have cost you
most of your money-unless it was stolen from you.”

“No,” said Brian, “it would be a brave robber that tried to take what I
had on my person. No, my cousin Sir Francis was no longer here;
but he had many friends, of course, whom I discovered by
mentioning his name to other gentlemen; and those friends
welcomed me in a right neighborly manner. But you must
understand, James, they passed me from one to the other-since
one would have some knowledge of Palmyra, but not of the best
route toward it, where another might know of the route, but not the
city, and yet another might know more about ships plying back and
forth between here and Tripoli, that being the best port to come
close to it. Palmyra, you must understand, is some distance inland
from Tripoli and all other port cities to the south.”

“Go on,” said Jim.

“The trouble was, James,” said Brian, “of course, each new
gentleman I met must dine and drink and entertain me-and, of
course, together with all this there was a certain amount of dicing.”

“Oh,” said Jim. “And it added up to your losing all your money?”

“Oh no,” said Brian, “not all of it, by any means. A small portion,
only. I was most careful. But then, in Episcopi, I was introduced to
Sir Mortimor, who was up there from his castle for business of his
own, and he joined us at the dice; and I won.”

“You won?” Jim stared at him.

“Yes. I won a good deal,” said Brian. “I ended up with more than I
had when I first came to Cyprus. And I won it all from Sir Mortimor,
who seemed then to live only for dicing and drinking. I have a fair
capacity for wine, you know that, James. But Sir Mortimor’s is
heroic!”

“I can believe it,” said Jim.

“So, I did not refuse,” Brian went on, “when Sir Mortimor invited me
up here for a short stay. We were to enjoy the fishing, actually. He
had promised me that there was almost as much pleasure in trying
to boat a fish as large as a man, on a single line, as there was
besting one in single combat; and you know that we do not usually
have fish that large, to be taken by only an angle, in England.
Indeed, he was quite right. He did take me fishing at first, and I had
the experience; and it is something to remember, James!”

“I can believe that too,” said Jim. “But the last I heard you still had
money. In fact, more than you had started out with.”

“Not more than I had started out with, James,” said Brian
reproachfully. “More than I had by the time I had gotten here to
Cyprus.”

“I stand corrected,” said Jim.

“But, of course, in the evenings we would be dicing; and-I know not
how it is, James-but what I had experienced in Episcopi could only
have been the most unusual run of luck; for here at the castle it has
been just the opposite. I have lost steadily; until now I have lost
almost every coin I possess. I cannot leave without trying to get it
back; and even if I could, my sense of honor would insist that I stay
here to help Sir Mortimor in his hour of trial.”

“I’m not sure he regards it as that much of an hour of trial,” said
Jim. “So you won gaming against him in Episcopi? Won steadily.
But back here at the castle you have lost steadily? Were you
always using his dice?”

“Why, yes,” said Brian. “I never carry dice, James, you know that,
for that I might be tempted to lose what little I own. I have this
abiding fear that one day I might forget myself and even wager
Blanchard of Tours, when the fever is on me-and lose him.”

Jim nodded soberly. Brian had given all his patrimony, except the
rundown Castle Smythe itself, in order to buy Blanchard, the great
white stallion that was his war horse, and who had the intelligence
and the fighting spirit that made such horses worth a prince’s
purse. And indeed, without Blanchard, Brian would be hard put to
win the tournaments in which he essentially made his living; and in
which a horse of such weight, power and speed was a vital
necessity.

“But you cannot be suggesting that Sir Mortimor has been less
than honest in our bouts,” said Brian, staring at Jim. “A knight would
not- oh, I know there have been cases, hedge knights and pitiful
fellows not fit for a gentleman’s table. But for someone like Sir
Mortimor who owns this castle and property here... He could not
survive without the help of his neighbors; and he would not dare
cheat his neighbors for fear that sooner or later it would be
discovered; and then all would turn against him.”

“You may be right, Brian,” said Jim. “But I think you forget
something.”

“What is that?” Brian was very close to bristling.

“This is a part of the world where taking all you can get from
anyone else is the normal way of life. In fact, you know as well as I
do it’s not the only part of the world where this can happen to a
visitor. And I might point out that you’re a visitor here, a stranger.
That could make you fair game.”

“He dare not!” said Brian.

“From what I’ve seen of him,” Jim said, “Sir Mortimor is not slow
when it comes to daring things.”

Brian sat, slowly adjusting to the idea of Sir Mortimor as someone
who would cheat a fellow knight. Gradually his face became more
and more grim until the bones of it seemed to push against the
skin.
“By God!” he said. “If he has-“

He broke off; and gradually the anger seemed to leak out of him, to
be replaced by despair.

“However,” he said at last with a sigh, “there is nothing to be done
about it. It would be all the more impolite if I were to question his
honesty without proof certain-now that I am a heavy loser to him.
But game with him I must, if I am to have any hope of regaining my
funds. In any case, there is no way to tell whether he plays
honestly, or not.”

“Maybe not for you,” said Jim. He had his magic. But at the
moment he could not think how he could use it to check on the
honesty of Sir Mortimor’s dice playing. There must, however, be a
way. “But if he won’t object to my sitting and watching while you
play... if he doesn’t suspect that I’m watching to see if I can tell that
in some way or other he’s less than honest...”

“He would not suspect the honor of a fellow knight-“ Brian broke
off. ‘ ‘By St. Giles, James, it just may be that if you are right, he
would indeed be suspicious. How to avoid that, I know not.”

But Jim’s mind was working now.

“What about this, Brian?” he asked. “Would you say that Sir
Mortimor was the sort of knight who could be counted on to take up
a challenge?”

Brian stared at him.

“Of an absolute certainty!” said Brian. “Courage, he does not lack.”

“Then maybe we could get him into a dice match, where his
attention would be more on the match itself with you than on any
reason I might have for watching. If you challenged him to it, for
example, at a moment when things were at risk and two gentlemen
would normally not sit down to wine and dice. You could do that?”

“I could, of course,” said Brian. “But when? And James-I have only
a few pieces of gold left. It may be that I would have to give the
appearance of having more. It is a great deal to ask of you, but is it
possible-“

“Certainly,” Jim interrupted him. “I can give you enough extra
money to make him interested. That’s no problem.”

For that matter, he thought, he could make any amount of money
that might be needed, magically. Of course it would turn back into
whatever he had made it out of, twenty-four hours later-and also to
use such false money to cheat someone would be against the laws
of Magickdom-as Carolinus would spell that word. But to use it to
catch a cheat ought to be allowable.

“We’ll wait until the attack against this castle heats up,” he said.
CHAPTER TEN

Sir Mortimor turned out to be a true prophet, however incorrect
might be his play with the dice.

Jim woke in the middle of the night under the impression that the
castle was falling apart, and came fully awake only in time to hear
the last tremendous thunder of something or other against the wall
not six feet from his left ear. The fire had died down in the room’s
fireplace; there were only a few embers glowing with a dull redness
that left everything else in complete darkness.

“It is the pirates, only, trying to drop stones on the castle from the
cliff overhead,” came Brian’s voice out of that darkness, as soon
as the thunder had ceased. ‘ ‘As Sir Mortimor said, James, the cliff
overhangs enough so that they can do no real damage. You heard
the rocks scarcely hitting the forward side of the castle, just grazing
it, so that they will only leave scars, which you may see tomorrow
by looking down from the battlements.”

“Oh,” said Jim. He went back to sleep.

The invaders evidently agreed with Brian, for after the first fall of
stones, no more came to wake them; and the following day, Brian,
pointing down from the battlements, directed Jim’s gaze to the
whitish scars on the rounded side of the tower where the falling
rocks had scraped it. It was hard to believe in scars that slight,
considering the thunder Jim had remembered hearing in the
middle of the night.

The next attempt at the castle came several hours later, well past
mid-morning, when an unknown number of the Moroccans crept up
the steps, carrying a heavy wooden shield over their heads, so that
they were able to advance to the very foot of the tower and move
around it to a point where they apparently leaned it against the
building as a permanent protection, and went to work beneath it.

“They will be attempting to dig down either under the wall, or far
enough so that they can loosen and break out a part of the wall, so
that the castle itself may sag, or that they can build an entrance
through which they can fight their way in,” said Sir Mortimor. “But
they will be disappointed. This castle is bedded solidly on and in
the living rock of the cliff itself, in a circular trench that was cut in
that rock when the tower was commenced.”

“Still...” said Brian. They were all three, Sir Mortimor, Brian and Jim,
looking down over the battlements and listening to the scrape of
tools against the building and the other noises of work beneath the
shield. None of the castle’s fighting men had been ordered to take
any action against the diggers. “If they stay with it,” Brian went on,
“sooner or later they should be able to gnaw through whatever is
there to the interior of the castle.”

He looked at the tall knight.

“Though I would venture,” he added, “to guess it would take more
than a few days.”

“They will not,” said Sir Mortimor. “Such patience you speak of is
not theirs. A quick battle, a quick victory is more their way. Now, if
this castle were somewhere north of the Mediterranean, far inland,
you might have cause to expect such a thing. But not here.”

“You have been in the wars on the continent, sir?” asked Brian.

“Some,” said Sir Mortimor, briefly; and, turning, he left them to go
downstairs into the castle.

But again, it fell out as he had said. As the shadows of the day
lengthened, the sounds of labor under the shield became less and
less and finally ceased. Finally the shield crept back down the
stairs, with stones from the tower-top slingers seeking to find the
space between it and the ground; and at least hit the legs of those
who carried it. But it made its way back down the stairs and out of
range without leaving any wounded or dead behind.

The next night was ominously quiet, except for some singing and
noise of voices down in the abandoned village at the foot of the
castle.

“I expected them to burn those buildings right away,” said Jim, half
to himself and half to Brian, looking down at night. The only lights
visible around the village were some torches being carried by
individuals going from one part of the village to another and a torch
or so down by the two ships.

“I believe they have waited because the buildings give them a
place of shelter to sleep and eat in,” said Brian, beside him, “from
what little I understand of such things. How I envy Sir Mortimor with
his experience in wars on the continent. I wonder if he was in the
low countries, or in France-or maybe he was farther east, possibly
fighting against the heathens in the Far East.”

Jim turned to look at his friend’s face in the meager light of the
stars and a half-full moon.

“You sound almost as if you admire him, Brian,” he said.

“He is a warrior,” said Brian. “More so than I, who have never seen-
well, have never really taken part in, outside of some small actions
in France-pitched battles, sieges, or the real meat of warfare. I may
be clever with the lance and possibly with other weapons as well;
but I cannot say I have really fought in any true sense of the word.”

Since Brian’s life had consisted of almost continual fighting,
according to Jim’s ordinary meaning of the word, from the time of
Brian’s father’s death when he had taken over Castle Smythe at the
age of fifteen, Jim found this exaggerated respect for someone
who had been in recognized war a little surprising. But he did not
think his friend would appreciate his mentioning that fact; so he
said nothing aloud.

That night, however, there was an alarm of a different nature. Jim
woke to the sound of voices and rushing feet in the castle. The fire
in their fireplace blazed up suddenly; and Jim saw Brian turning
away from it after throwing extra fuel onto the still-burning embers.
His friend was pulling on his hose and shoes and buckling his belt
and sword around his waist. In the light from the newly leaping
flames in the fireplace, the scars on his naked upper body looked
black, as if they had been painted there.

“They are trying to force the door under cover of darkness,” Brian
said to him briefly. “Best we were up and armed, James. It is past
compline.”

After midnight-Jim scrambled to his feet and began to dress, with
that sinking feeling he always had when his being in actual combat
was in prospect. If anything, he was at his best in a melee, where
his greater than average weight and size could give him a sheer
muscle advantage. But it was in moments like this he was very
much aware of how inexpert he was with the sword he was now
buckling about his waist.

He and Brian, finally dressed and as fully armed as they could be,
left their room and went down toward the source of the most noise,
which was on the ground floor.

Sir Mortimor’s voice could be heard riding over the tumult by the
time they reached the floor just above ground level. It came
echoing up the stairwell with force and command.

“No more than thirty men here!” the knight was ordering, one floor
down. “Do nothing unless they actually break through the front
door. Then, if they do, open this door only long enough for the
slingers and bowmen to have at them for a moment, then lock and
bar here again. They should not gain through this time. So. Be
orderly, be on watch, be ready. The rest of you, beyond the thirty
who will stay, fill your arms with straw and up the stairs with you and
pile it by battlements above those attacking. The oil in the kettle
should already be heating. As soon as I come, we will throw down
the straw from the tower-top on those trying to get in, pour oil on
top, and throw down lighted torches. Beaupré!”

“Yes, Sir Mortimor.” The pockmarked face of Sir Mortimor’s
second in command came toward the knight from among others in
the crowd before the knight.

“Leave just enough slingers here to be effective in the passage
when the door is opened for a moment. All other slingers up to the
roof with us. Extra bowmen also. Make sure the torches are ready!”

“The torches are already there and lit, Sir Mortimor,” said Beaupré,
“and most of the other slingers and bowmen also. There are
enough here to take care of any attack through the passage. I will
take care of all.”

Sir Mortimor turned toward the stairs, saw Brian and Jim starting
down them and shook his head.

“If you please, messires,” he said, “come with me to the roof.”

He was up the stairs and past them, crowding them against the
stone wall to his left on the stairway, within seconds of having
finished speaking. He vanished upward, taking the stairs two steps
at a time and leaving them far behind as they turned to follow.

Jim, his legs still stiff from the previous day’s stair-climbing in the
castle, gazed thoughtfully at the empty steps before him. It did not
seem possible that any human being could run up the five stories
worth of levels inside the castle, taking two of the eight-to-ten-inch
steps of the staircase at each stride; but having seen Sir Mortimor
in action, he was now ready to believe that the knight would
continue his pace all the way to the roof. Possibly, even now as
Jim and Brian were climbing after him, Sir Mortimor was emerging
into the open night at the tower’s top.

They joined him eventually; and Jim saw, by the light of torches
held by men standing well back from the forward facing
battlements, where the lights they held could not make them marks
for archers from below, a respectable stack of straw already built,
ready to be thrown down.

Sir Mortimor stood, legs spread a little bit apart, watching other
men bring still more armfuls up and add to the stack. The fire was
alight, in fact blazing brightly, underneath the kettle of oil, which had
now been rolled on the metal wheels attached to its firebox to the
aperture over the passageway ceiling. The kettle itself was held
pivoted on a couple of extended metal arms, so that merely by
tilting it forward on those pivots it would pour its contents out of a
lip in its rim, to fall through the holes overhead in the passageway
far below. The heat from the firebox could be felt a dozen feet
from it. Jim was astonished to see Sir Mortimor suddenly walk
toward the kettle and casually stick his forefinger deep into the
liquid it held.

“Warm enough,” he said, stepping back. Jim stared at the finger,
but there was no sign that it had been in any way cooked, or
otherwise marked by heat. A little late, he realized that such a fire
would have to burn for some time to get the oil, itself, to an actual
boiling point. There was a lot of liquid there to be heated up.

“Fill buckets,” said Sir Mortimor. “Line them up close above the
entrance and five men stand ready to pour.”

A long iron rod was produced, and two men used it to push the top
of the kettle forward so that it swung on its gimbals, tilting enough
so that the first man to hold a bucket under its lip was able to fill it
without a problem. He carried it to the front battlements.

He was succeeded immediately by another man with an empty
bucket, and the process continued until at least a dozen buckets
were lined up just below the crenelations of the battlements.

Another man ran up from below.

“Sir Mortimor,” he panted, “Beaupré sends to say that he does not
think they will get through the outer door in any time soon. Their
battering ram strikes all over the surface of the door rather than
repeatedly at one place on it. He ventures to guess, with your
permission, Sir Mortimor, that they are finding their footing
uncertain on the steps in the darkness.”

“Good,” grunted Sir Mortimor. He waved the man away. “We will
furnish them light to work by. Tell Beaupré that.”

He looked back at the activity on the roof.

“That’s enough straw!” he said. “Be ready to throw it over. Get it as
close as possible before the door, itself. It will spread and scatter
enough falling down. Bucket-men, and all. Throw the straw!”

He took two enormous strides forward himself, scooped up a huge
armful of it in his long arms and tossed it over. All around him
everyone was doing the same, including the men who had been
standing sentinel by the battlements around the back part of the
castle. Within less than two minutes, all the straw was over.

“Oil!” snapped Sir Mortimor.

The men who had been appointed to handle the buckets seized
them and began dumping their contents over the side, crowding
each other as they did so to get as directly above the doorway as
possible.

“Now,” said Sir Mortimor, when the last bucket had been poured.
“Torches!”

The torches around the roof were seized and carried to the same
point from which everything else had been thrown and dropped.
Jim and Brian crowded close to the battlements a little off to one
side and saw light suddenly blossom in front of the castle doorway-
not at the door itself, but at least one or two steps down. The straw
had taken fire immediately and the oil was feeding its flames.

“Slingers!” Those on the roof who were slingers had already
dropped their straw and filled their slings with missiles. They were
whirling their slings ready to throw. Now they stepped forward to
the battlements, and as yells and screams came up from below
they launched the missiles downward.

An almost equal roar of excitement rose among those at the top of
the tower, with a single voice shouting out above the rest.

“They run!” cried a voice.

“Let none escape!” trumpeted Sir Mortimor. “Slingers, see to it!”

Watching, Jim saw the last two flaming figures scrambling down
the steps to fall and lie still. In front of the door, but not too close to
it, the straw still burned brightly, with dark areas here and there
among it where a body had fallen on the flames. The dropped
battering ram they had been using-a squared-off piece of timber,
with the bottom edge of its striking face slanted back from top to
bottom to compensate for the fact that they were ramming it
upward because of the slope of the steps-was outlined by fire.

“More oil on that stick of theirs,” said Sir Brian. “More straw too, if
necessary. It must burn.”

He looked around for the man who had brought him the message
from below earlier, and found him now, hovering almost at his
elbow. “Tell Beaupré to send any extra slingers and archers he has
up here. Tell him he may keep half a dozen of them only.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

The man went downstairs at a run.

A swelling hubbub could be heard from the buildings of the village
where the rest of the attackers were; but none of them stepped
outside the structures to where they might be in view of slingers
from the tower.

“Well, gentlemen,” said Sir Mortimor, looking over to Brian and Jim.
“Shall we indulge ourselves with a drop of wine?”

Brian and Jim both murmured polite formulas of acceptance and
followed him down the stairs to the floor below-Jim still a little
dazed, in spite of his several years now of medieval experience,
by the ruthless killing of the battering ram’s handlers. He pushed it
from his mind as Brian and he arrived at the floor below. It was
probably that extremely carrying voice of Sir Mortimor’s, he
decided, that caused things to start being prepared as if by magic;
but servants were already putting out three mazers filled with wine
on the table by the time they reached their floor level behind Sir
Mortimor. And just then another servant came with cheese, bread
and cold meat from the kitchen level farther down. Enclosed here,
it seemed to Jim strangely stuffy after being on top of the tower. It
had been a cool night, up out in the open, but not unpleasantly so.
It was probably the tension and the sudden change to indoors, to
say nothing of the clothing and armor he had put on, that gave him
the feeling.

Also, of course, each important room had its own fireplace; and
there was one here. The fire had been allowed to bum down, but it
was still throwing out some heat. Jim was startled, however, to see
Hob’s face appear suddenly upside down, just within the upper
edge of it. Hob smiled happily at him and disappeared again.

Luckily, Sir Mortimor’s back had been turned to the fireplace when
this happened. Come to think of it, though, Jim told himself, Hob
would probably not have shown himself if anyone but Jim or Brian
had been looking in that direction.

Jim wondered for a moment how the hobgoblin had managed to
get from the fireplace in their bedroom to this one-then the obvious
answer struck him. Of course. Hob had gone up their bedroom
chimney, then over and down the chimney of this fireplace. He had
probably been exploring every chimney and fireplace in the castle.

“Well, Sir Mortimor,” said Brian, as they sat down. “I believe you
said the only way your castle could be taken was by an attempt
through its main entrance. Yet we have just had such an attempt
made; and you had little difficulty repelling it. Surely, you have not
much to worry about from these pirates?”

Sir Mortimor put down his cup, already a quarter emptied.

“Under any ordinary conditions, no,” he said. “At least, not from a
force as small and as ill-armed as this one. Against a larger, more
determined set of attackers, with siege engines, with gunpowder or
even bombards, possibly. But what I learned from the wars I was in
on the continent was to be prepared for circumstances that are not
ordinary.”

“And you still would not welcome,” said Brian, “my sallying with a
few men to bum their ships?”

“I am not about to lose one man I do not have to,” said Sir
Mortimor dryly. “This burning of their ships would not be the
bloodless task you seem to think it, sir. Moreover, not to mince
words, you are also wrong about this castle having nothing to fear.”

“I but tell your own words back to you, sir,” said Brian. “I repeat,
you said that except they reached you through your main door they
could never get in; and from what I saw tonight that they will never
be able to do.”

“In God’s Name!” said Sir Mortimor, slapping his large palm down
hard on the table top. “What you saw tonight was not what could
be. Any place of strength can be taken, given either engines to
break their way in, or enough willing men to keep attacking until the
place is penetrated and reduced!”

He and Sir Brian were staring at each other; and Jim was sitting
with all his muscles tight. When two men with the golden spurs
(golden in name, at least) of knighthood started talking to each
other in this bareknuckle fashion, in spite of whatever courtesies
they larded their speech with, a fight with weapons was only inches
away.

“We have neither of those here,” said Brian.

“Now,” said Sir Mortimor, “we have not. But you burn their boats
and-as I told you-you will cut off their retreat. If they cannot leave,
their only other hope is to take this castle. Such as these
marauders do not go out to get themselves killed but to pick up
loot. But if cornered, they will fight as well as anyone else. From
being men unwilling to keep fighting, they will change to men willing
to fight and die-aye, die! As they are now, they have not the heart
and guts to make it in my front door.”

He and Brian were eye to eye, their faces less than the table’s
width apart.

“But give them no choice,” Sir Mortimor went on, “and they will
send men and battering rams against that front door until it goes
down, no matter how many are killed. The weaker among them will
be pressed into service first, and then those left who have become
the new weakest will be the next to go, and so forth.”

“There is a limit to how long men will continue doing that,” Brian
said.

“Not in all cases,” said Sir Mortimor. “If there was a jihad, a
Musselman Holy War, against us here, and those outside were
fighters in that cause, I promise you they would simply keep
coming. They would bring battering rams against that front door
and those who brought them would die; and they would send more
and those would die and they would send more and those would
die. But in the end, they would break through into the passage and
the first of those into the passage would die and those next to
follow would die in the oil and flame and smoke-but the time would
come when they would break through the inner door-and then we
would die.”

Jim felt an almost intolerable pressure on him to say something,
anything, to interrupt the growing tension between Brian and Sir
Mortimor, who were now leaning forward over the table toward
each other in the heat of their dispute.

“I know very little about this part of the world, and such things,” he
interrupted, in as peaceable a voice as he could manage, “but I’ve
got to confess I don’t understand why those who attack us here
should be left with nothing to do but assault the castle, if their boats
are destroyed. I got the impression you believe most of them are
Moslems; and certainly there can’t be any lack of others of their
faith in Episcopi. Why can’t they simply go by twos and threes up
to wander into Episcopi, find their fellow believers, and be helped
to some ship that will take them homeward?”

“Indeed!” Sir Mortimor’s piercing voice and angry gaze turned itself
on Jim. “You do know little about matters here. In fact, sir, you
know nothing! What makes you think that simply because there are
others of their own faith in Episcopi, they would be safe there?
There are too many of them attacking us to try to pretend to be
anything but what they are. Only a few of these would need to
wander into Episcopi, before word would reach the Christian
knights who are my friends, telling them who these men are, and
what they have been about-“

“I see,” said Jim soothingly. “Well, of course-“

Sir Mortimor’s voice drowned his out, going right on.

“Their fellow Musselmen would not wait for answer, but seize and
hold these men and any others who came after them, while
approaches were made to those I do business with-as to whether I
would pay to have these condemned as pirates and turned over to
judgment and death- and with them any other such who wandered
in from then on, no matter how reasonable their story, or how
innocent their appearance, would be put to the same fate. There
are those in Episcopi, Christians and Musselmen both, who do
business with me. Some hold my notes-of-hand for certain sums
and want them redeemed-which they cannot be if I am killed and
my castle looted. Also, they know I am in a position to repay any
rewards they offer for such pirates being taken up and disposed
of. Surely, Sir James, you are even more of an innocent than you
proclaim yourself if you cannot imagine something like this
happening!”

The mounting tension between Brian and Sir Mortimor had been
broken; but Jim found himself personally in an uncomfortable spot.
Now, instead of Sir Mortimor crowding Brian to the point where a
fight between them was inevitable, Sir Mortimor was crowding him
to the point where, if he wanted to go on calling himself a knight,
Jim must react as Brian might have, unless he could think of
something very quickly indeed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN

He had gotten out of a sticky situation once, when he had first met
Brian, by talking about Social Security numbers. Possibly, thought
Jim, something else in the way of twentieth-century concepts might
work now. He smiled amiably at Sir Mortimor.

“I’m indebted to you, Sir Mortimor,” he said heartily. “Indeed I am
very glad to hear you tell me this. I’ve been concerned these last
few days over the meteorological situation at this castle of yours,
here; the dangerous possibilities that are always there whenever a
large low-pressure cell approaches an even larger high-pressure
one. But what you say reassures me.”

Sir Mortimor’s lips, which had begun to curl into something very
closely resembling a sneer with James’s first few words, froze,
then gradually collapsed into a baffled stare. Brian was staring at
him with equal blankness.

“As you know,” Jim went along cheerfully, “events have fallen out
so that I have ended up being involved with magic. So the concern
was unavoidable. But, naturally, I didn’t wish to concern you or Sir
Brian with any matters meteorological or astrophysical, unless
absolutely necessary.”

Sir Mortimor’s stare sought Brian’s face. Brian frowned back at him
severely.

“Sir James is a mage,” said Brian frostily. “I had thought you
understood that, sir, since he mentioned his work in that art
prevented him from taking part in any gaming.”

“I knew of his deeds, of course, but I had thought then he spoke
only in regard to his changing into dragon-shape.”

“It is far more than that,” said Brian. “The rules of his Order are
extremely strict. For one, he must sleep every night not in any bed,
but on a pallet of penance he carries everywhere he goes.”

It was Jim’s turn to stare. He had never imagined Brian had put this
interpretation on his carefully deverminized, decontaminated,
traveling bedroll. Sir Mortimor’s face had gone ashen. He turned to
Jim.

“Sir James!” His voice was lowered. “I crave your pardon if some
hasty word of mine may perhaps have sounded improper or
unrespectful; but I only knew of your deeds-your deeds as a knight,
that is-I had no real notion of you as also a mage...”

It would have been impossible for Jim to have imagined such a
thing a few moments before, but the tall knight was actually
stammering.

“You mustn’t call me a mage,” said Jim hastily. “I’m really only
experienced in lower levels of magic. Only the very top levels of
magicians, those like my Master, Carolinus, should be addressed
as mage. As for any hasty words from you, I have heard none, Sir
Mortimor. In any case, tut! We are all three knights, here together.
Pray let us forget this business of my magic, except as I referred
to it a moment ago-a problem now settled. I shall speak to you, sir,
as a knight; and I will be gratified if you will speak to me as merely
another.”

“That-that is most gentle of you, Sir James,” said Sir Mortimor.
“You must understand how, living here away from normal European
society, and being rather a rough fellow to begin with, I have
become even rougher, and I do not guard my tongue the way I
should. It is so difficult these days to get your orders executed
properly. I have fallen into the habit of being more outspoken to my
equals than I should be, to anyone except those of lesser worth. I
will be most grateful to you, Sir James, if you will correct any
tendency like that in me, which you see or hear in the future, so that
I may amend my ways at once and make proper apology for them.”

“Tut,” said Jim again, at the moment totally unable to think of what
else to say.

The color flowed back into Sir Mortimor’s face.

“I am most grateful to you, Sir James-well, damn your black liver
and lights!” These last words were delivered to Beaupré, who had
come up the stairs during the knight’s final words and was standing
by his elbow, silent and waiting. “What kind of trouble are you
bringing me now?”

Beaupré showed no more sign of being affected by Sir Mortimor’s
outburst than if he had been carved out of stone.

“Your pardon, my Lord,” he said in exactly the same tone of voice
Jim had heard him use every time he had spoken, “but there is
some activity down in the village, which may be connected with our
just driving off those who had attacked the front door. The fire from
the straw and the oil in front of the castle has now burned down,
and all is darkness before the door. I could let one of our men out
the small panel in the door; or go myself, and creep a small
distance down the slope to see what I could hear and find out
about what they may be doing, or beginning to do.”

“Ignore it, Beaupré!” said Sir Mortimor. “They will do nothing until
daylight at least, when we may see them trying to find a safe way
from the village to the door. But not in darkness. Not tonight”

Beaupré hesitated.

“You may go!” said Sir Mortimor. Beaupré disappeared down the
stairs. Sir Mortimor turned back to Jim.

“You are, indeed, satisfied, Sir James,” he said, “that I meant no ill
will? Then or now?”

“It never crossed my mind,” said Jim.

“I am relieved,” said Sir Mortimor. “Well, gentlemen, shall we sit
and talk and drink a bit and then perhaps seek our beds for what
rest we may have the remainder of this night? Mayhap we may
need it tomorrow. One thought does occur to me, however, Sir
James. If you will excuse me from any further offense I may give
through ignorance, I do not suppose you would be willing to put
your magic to use in the defense of my castle? I am not without
certain resources. By that I mean that I would be more than willing
to consider any price you might think right for your assistance in
that direction-I mean to offer no offense in suggesting payment to
a fellow knight, none at all. It is merely a thought”

“In any case,” said Jim, “I’d have to disappoint you. As you just
guessed, Sir Mortimor, my magic is not for sale.”

“Oh, of course-“ Sir Mortimor broke off. “So let us drop that matter,
gentlemen, and talk of other things. Between the three of us, I am
enheartened by the speed and easiness with which we repelled
tonight’s attempt on the castle’s entrance. It may well be that
whatever reward was promised or given these sea rovers was not
enough to encourage them to a fully serious effort against the
castle. There are fish in the sea and there will have been some
food left in the village; but they will soon run out of provender; and
it may be that after a few other small attempts, they may simply
take ship and leave. I have known it to happen before.”

“I told Sir James about the fishing you told me of and then took me
out on,” said Brian, avoiding Jim’s eye with a faint pinkening of the
flesh over his lean cheekbones, “and the pleasure in bringing to
boat a fish of the size you had then spoken of. I would that he
could have the experience as well. If these pirates leave, certainly
it would be possible to take Sir James out and find him a like fish?”

“Easily, easily,” said Sir Mortimor, taking a hearty drink from his
mazer. “I have never forgotten my first experience in such fishing
with an angle, myself, on coming to this island-more wine here!” He
lowered his voice, which had been pitched up on the last three
words, and went on. “Until that time I had boated only small fish,
the kind that come like obedient dogs when you pull on the line. I
would be happy to take you out, Sir James, as soon as we are no
longer under siege.”

“Thank you, Sir Mortimor,” said Jim, “but we’ll have to see about
that when the time comes. Brian, you remember we must be about
our business, and you have been some time on Cyprus, already.”

“Surely, you could spare a few more days,” said Sir Mortimor. “We
deserve a certain amount of rest and enjoyment once these
intruders are gone in any case. Tell me, Sir James-I honor your
resolve not to sell the use of your magic, but surely if a magician
should so choose, I should assume there would be a good deal of
wealth to be gained by it? I have thought from time to time how
useful it might be if I could work some magic myself; but I never
had time to sit down and learn it. I imagine it takes a couple of
weeks or more to really master a spell? But, on the other hand,
once you have mastered it, I imagine it is no more than snapping
your fingers; and then all things obey you?”

“Not exactly,” said Jim, thinking of his hard work and the small
progress in magic it had won him during the last several years,
even with the help of Carolinus. “It’s a little more difficult than just
learning a spell.”

“Say you so!” Sir Mortimor looked at him thoughtfully. “Not the sort
of thing a gentleman could pick up, to an extent at least, in a few
months? I must tell you, sir, that I am reckoned to be very fast with
my hands. I have small tricks with which I have amused company
before now, in which things seem to appear or disappear-like
magic, but tricks only, of course-and my friends have often said
that I might easily make myself a famous magician with a bit of
effort. But you think it would require more than, say, a year or so of
work-when I had the time?”

“I’m sure it would,” said Jim firmly.

“Ah, well,” said Sir Mortimor, but the polite belief he tried to put into
his words rang false on Jim’s ear.

“How many years does it take to make a knight, Sir Mortimor?”
asked Jim.

“Eh?” said Sir Mortimor. “But you must already know that. A
lifetime, from boyhood upward of course.”

“That is why a magician must live much longer than any knight,”
said Jim. “Because it takes a lifetime for him, also, to make him a
full master of his craft.”

Sir Mortimor stared back at him, puzzled. Slowly, Jim saw
understanding begin to dawn as the little frown line between his
eyebrows erased, and something of a flush colored his face. But
before he could say anything in answer, Beaupré was again at his
elbow.

“Forgive me, m’lord,” said Beaupré in the same unvarying voice.
“But I have had the carpenter from the village listening at the
escape panel in the front door; and he says that they are now
pounding stakes in somewhere partway down the steps; and in
addition they are building something, or some things, in the houses
of the village. He swears he can hear his long-saw at work; and he
begs permission to go out and listen more closely to what is going
on.”

“He is the only master carpenter we have,” said Sir Mortimor
irritably. “Is there not someone else who could go out and listen
and be more easily spared if he did not come back?”

“I can send a man with good ears, who has some knowledge of the
sounds in a carpenter shop, m’lord,” said Beaupré.

“Then take care of it, Beaupré” said Sir Mortimor. “Take care of it
yourself; and stop bothering me about minor matters like this.”

The servant whom Sir Mortimor had called for some moments
before to refill their mazers was now doing so. Beaupré went
downstairs and Sir Mortimor soothed his nerves with some of the
newly poured wine.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “perhaps we shall have some peace
now. It is a misfortune that you cannot indulge in play with the dice,
Sir James; since I hesitate to suggest to Sir Brian that we pass a
little of our time now in that sport, so that we may the more quietly
go to sleep when we retire. I know not what else I can suggest by
way of amusement; but it would be ill-mannered of us to play while
you merely sat idle.”

“Not at all,” said Jim. “I enjoy watching. It is the next best thing to
being able to play myself. The two of you go ahead. I’ll just sit here
and enjoy myself.”

“Well then,” said Sir Mortimor, looking at Brian. “What do you say
to a short bout, sir? As it falls out, I still have my dice in my purse
here, along with my winnings of the last time we played. I had
meant to set both away, but failed to get around to it.”

“All the better,” said Brian. “On my part, I happen to have a fair
amount of my money with me; so that there need be no interrupting
to fetch it from the room Sir James and I share.”

He reached into the broad purse attached to his belt and brought
out a heavy handful of moutons d’or, broad French pieces in gold,
that brought a gleam to Sir Mortimor’s face, although it was gone
almost as quickly as it appeared. In his turn he brought up a
handful of coins almost as large, but they were all in silver, with
some lesser silver and brass change mixed with them.

“Shall we say ten silver to one gold?” he said to Sir Brian.

“Willingly,” answered Brian.

The dicing began; and to Jim’s surprise, Brian began to win
immediately. In fact, he won the first four bouts before he had his
first loss, and then he won three more. Both he and Sir Mortimor
were becoming caught up in the game. Their eyes followed the
dice with an avid eagerness, concentrating on the dancing cubes
alone to the point where Jim began to feel he was next to invisible.

He also found that he was blaming himself for not having made
plans for watching a dice game that might show him if Sir Mortimor
cheated. He had made a mental note to find a way to use magic to
test the matter; but he had not gone beyond that point.

Also, it was awkward that Brian was continuing to win, an average
of something like three bouts out of five; and Sir Mortimor’s silver
was swiftly moving to Brian’s side of the table. Letting Brian win
could simply be a clever move on Sir Mortimor’s part to allay
suspicion, particularly since he had come to realize that Jim had
considerable magical powers which might make any cheating
dangerous.

Sir Mortimor could simply be cheating against himself, to let Brian
win; or he could be playing honestly at the moment; and Brian was
having a legitimate run of luck.

It could even be that Jim’s suspicions were unfounded.

The whole business of Brian winning in Episcopi and losing here
might have been the result of honest play after all, with Brian having
a run of luck in Episcopi and Sir Mortimor having his here. If it had
all been honest, then Brian’s only hope was to get lucky again.

The dicing went on. For a little time, luck seemed to flow against
Brian after all; but this did not last. After a short run in which he lost,
he began to win again and continued. They were approaching a
point of decisions, since the money Sir Mortimor had on the table
was now down to a few pieces. He would soon either have to call
an end to dice-play for the evening or go to wherever in the castle
his wealth was stored, and bring back a fresh supply of coins.

“Well, well,” said Sir Mortimor, pushing his last few coins together.
“The dice have not been my friend this evening. Heigh-ho, but so it
goes. At any rate, we have gotten away from our present problems
and mayhap we will all sleep well. We should probably call it quits
for the moment, Sir Brian.”

“I feel distressed, sir,” said Brian. “It seems less than gentlemanly
of me to stop without giving you a chance to win back what you
have lost just now. If you are weary, yourself, I would not keep you
from your rest. But I assure you-“

“Oh,” said Sir Mortimor, “I spoke only out of courtesy. Myself, I am
not sleepy at all; and, in fact, I would be up and around in the castle
for the rest of the night from time to time, anyway. If you wish, I will
be glad to dice on. I own, I would not be loath to win back what you
just took from me. Give me but a few moments to fetch more coin,
so that we can play like gentlemen with the worth of our wagers
openly upon the table-“

“By all means!” cried Brian, determinedly ignoring Jim’s attempts
to signal him that quitting now would be a good idea. “I will be
happy to wait. So, I’m sure, will be Sir James.”

“Then I shall be right back,” said Sir Mortimor.

“Brian,” said Jim, in a low voice, after the tall knight had gone, “you
really should have stopped. Even this much ahead must have
recouped you for at least part of your losses.”

“It does, of course,” said Brian. “But, James, it is unthinkable that I
should not give the man the chance to have his revenge. It is as
unthinkable as if I was in a tourney, and the saddle girth of he who
is to ride against me broke before we had even a chance to cross
lances. I were no gentleman at all, then, if I did not lift my lance
point in the air, rein in my horse, and ride back to my end of the list,
to wait until he could be resaddled and ready to come again with
full force.”

“Well, now,” said Sir Mortimor, sitting down at the table with them
once more. “Since you offered to wager tonight with gold, Sir
Brian, I thought it only fair to match your coins with those of the
same metal.”

He poured from his wallet a double handful of English rose nobles,
such as Brian had won at the Christmas tournament a few months
before. Almost undoubtedly, thought Jim, they had been Brian’s.
But now the value of the money at play on both sides was
considerable.

The dicing began again. At first, Brian continued to win. Then the
tide turned against him for a short time before he began to win
again. But his second session of winning with the rose nobles on
the table was shorter than the one before, and very soon the play
settled down to an exchange that seesawed back and forth, first in
one man’s favor, then the other, but gradually-and, Jim noticed,
steadily-Brian’s pile of coins began to diminish, and Sir Mortimor’s
to grow.

Both men were deep in the game, oblivious to anything outside it;
and Jim found himself being drawn into each pass of the dice with
the same sort of tension. He was growing more and more certain
that somehow Sir Mortimor was controlling the fall of the dice, one
way or another. But, though he stared carefully at the way Sir
Mortimor threw the cubes, he could see nothing strange about
either the throws, or the dice themselves, when Sir Mortimor won;
nothing different in them from the times Brian won.

Still, his feeling that Sir Mortimor was controlling the game
somehow continued to grow from a suspicion to a near-certainty.
There was something artificial about the rhythm of the way the
winning went back and forth, with Brian regaining the lead for a
moment, only to lose it again, and then to lose more deeply than
Sir Mortimor had lost the time before.

Jim wished he knew more about cheating and gambling in general.
All he could remember were little tags of information floating
around in his memory.

Two things only floated to the surface of his mind from among
these tags. One was something he was almost sure he had read in
a story, rather than in knowledgeable nonfiction: a reference to
some gambler putting the “happy hop” on dice when he threw
them. The other was something else that he was more sure he had
read; something about the edges of dice being shaved, so that
when set rolling they always ended with certain sides upward.

But if his memory was not playing tricks on him, and Sir Mortimor’s
dice were shaved, Brian would also be winning with them every
time he used them.

That is, unless there actually was something like a “happy hop”-but
it could only be put on shaved dice by an experienced player with
them... some special way of throwing...

However, the idea of the skill involved to make such dice work for
Sir Mortimor and not for Brian rang a little far-fetched to Jim’s mind.
His mind, hunting for an answer, stumbled over a very obvious one.
Sir Mortimor could have more than one set of dice. He could be
throwing one set himself and making sure that Brian threw the
other.

But this sounded almost as unbelievable as the idea of the “happy
hop.” Jim frowned internally. If Sir Mortimor was switching the sets
of dice, he had to do it before their very eyes, without the
exchange being noticeable-arid that was impossible.

Or was it?

Something was tickling that memory of his again, someone,
perhaps some fictional detective had said it-when all reasonable
answers fail, and only one unreasonable possibility is left, then the
unreasonable possibility is possible-or words to that effect. The
thing to do here was to simply start from the assumption that Sir
Mortimor was somehow switching two pairs of dice back and forth,
and try to figure out how he was doing it.

Jim had never diced in his life, even back in the twentieth century.
He was one of those unusual people who get bored by gambling,
with anything less than his own life as a stake. Whatever pattern of
play Sir Mortimor and Brian were using with their two cubes at a
time, it was a game that involved the one who was winning holding
on to the dice and calling for a certain number, and then throwing
the dice a certain number of times to achieve what he had called
for.

If he did so within the number of throws allowed him, he won; if he
did not, he lost. If he lost, then the dice changed hands and the
other player had his chance to throw, name a number and try to
achieve it within the same certain number of throws.

Jim concentrated on Sir Mortimor’s hands. They were very long
hands, longer even than they were large; and he had not been
exaggerating when he said that they were unusually quick. He
would shake the dice in his fist and then release them just above
the table top with his hand palm down and his fingers flicking out to
start them rolling. The minute the dice had flown, his fingers curled
back toward his palm almost reflexively-not into a tight fist but one
almost so.

He was able to throw these dice with either hand. In fact, Jim
decided, the man must be ambidextrous, because he handled the
dice equally well with both hands; and both hands released dice
with the same palm-down, finger-flicking motion.

Brian, by contrast, shook his dice with his fist in the same position
in which he would have pounded a table, little finger bottommost;
and then turned his hand palm down only slightly, to let the dice
out.

By contrast, there was something unusually skillful about the way
Sir Mortimor released the little white cubes from his hand. It had
the flowing sort of perfection about it that Brian showed in his use
of weapons-a movement that seemed to have been stripped down
to its absolute essentials, and become almost a single, graceful,
unthinking action. Brian’s handling of the dice was nowhere nearly
as graceful. He threw the dice, in fact, about the way Jim assumed
that he himself would have thrown them.

The one thing in particular that riveted Jim’s attention was the fact
that Sir Mortimor’s release and recapture of the dice, out of his
hand and back again, was so swift as to make the movement of his
fingers almost a blur before Jim’s eyes. A suspicion crept into
Jim’s mind. It could be that speed was intentional, to hide
something. If so, here was something where even a small amount
of magic could help him investigate.

He visualized his eyes as lenses of a camera capable of high-
speed recording, so that it could play back Sir Mortimor’s throw in
slow motion.

He concentrated on Sir Mortimor’s release of the dice, then
mentally reran it inside his own head. In his visualization, he saw
the hand move out over the table, only the back of the hand and the
knuckles visible; then they opened, with the thumb dropping away
from the other fingers and the other fingers beginning to uncurl
outward.

Now, for the first time in this slow-motion version, he saw that they
did not open up all the way, and no dice came out from them.
Instead, the two dice were held by the top joints only of the four
ringers that had enclosed them; and now that he saw the whole
image instead of concentrating on Sir Mortimor’s one active hand,
he caught sight of another pair of dice that dropped from the under
part of Sir Mortimor’s other sleeve, hidden beneath his
outstretched wrist and hand; and it was these dice that rattled and
rolled on the table top a moment later, for Brian to pick up and use.

In the same instant the fingers that held the unreleased dice
closed back toward his wrist; and as Jim watched, the original dice
they held, thrown by the quick action of the fingertips, flicked back
up into the sleeve behind them.

Brian’s hand went forward to the dice. This had been Sir Mortimor’s
last attempt to throw the winning point. Brian picked up, shook and
threw the second pair of dice.

Jim put the visualization out of his mind, and concentrated once
more on what was going on at the table.

Brian rolled the dice he had picked up, got a five showing on one
and a two on the other, tried to match this point of seven and failed.
Sir Mortimor swiftly scooped up the dice; and Jim, watching-even
without the need for magic slow motion now-noticed that Sir
Mortimor gathered them in with his other hand and flicked them
back into the empty sleeve they had left only seconds before. At
the same time, Jim saw the original dice, hidden from Brian by the
palm-down position, drop secretly into Sir Mortimor’s other hand.

Sir Mortimor shook the dice with both hands like a boxer
congratulating himself. Then with his right hand again, he threw and
made a point of eight; which, three throws later, he matched to win
his point and another of Brian’s rose nobles. The second set of
dice would be the ones shaved to win-the first set shaved to lose.
Sir Mortimor was controlling Brian’s winning or losing by choosing
which dice Brian used.

Well, Jim told himself with satisfaction, that explained how Sir
Mortimor was able to win at will with the dice. Finding that out had
been the hard part. Now it was simply a matter of using his magic
to cure the situation so that Brian had his money back-and that
should be the easy part.

No it won’t, said Carolinus’s voice in his head.
CHAPTER TWELVE

Jim suddenly found himself standing, completely transparent, and
looking down at his own body still sitting at the table with the equally
solid bodies of Brian and Sir Mortimor. Carolinus, also wraithlike
and transparent, was standing facing him; while the two very solid
players were continuing to dice on, oblivious to the pair of wraiths
standing beside their table.

Haven’t you forgotten a couple of things, Jim? said Carolinus. To
begin with, are you sure it’d be a proper use of magickal energy to
change or perhaps reverse the outcome of this dicing going on
between Brian and Sir Mortimor? Remember, our great Science
and Art is a defensive one; and its powers are never to be used
aggressively. How sure are you that in getting Brian his money
back, you wouldn’t be taking it improperly from Sir Mortimor-in
effect, robbing him?

Why, he got it by cheating, Jim thought back.

The right or wrong of what humans do isn’t the concern of the
Accounting Office and the magickal energy that has been helping
the human race this far upward on its way to Civilization, replied
Carolinus. If magick is to be put solely to that purpose, then all
magickians would have their hands full just righting the wrongs in
their immediate vicinity; instead of working at those things that
move humanity toward a better understanding of the world and
themselves. Of necessity, the Art of Magick must be apart from
individual matters of right or wrong-except as those concern either
the magickian himself, or those under his protection.

And Brian isn’t under your protection, is that it? said Jim.

He is not, said Carolinus.

And he’s not under mine, either? demanded Jim.

Is he? said Carolinus. That’s a question you have to answer for
yourself, Jim. If he’s under your protection, then to what extent is
he under your protection-in all things? Or just in the present
instance?

You mean I have to choose now the extent to which he’s under my
protection? said Jim. And I’ll be forever stuck with what I said at
this moment?

Not at all, said Carolinus. You can amend your position in that
regard at any point and as many times as you want to. But you’re
going to have to be careful at every decision point how far you may
be stepping outside the essentially defensive nature of magick.

Jim glared at him.

And you talked about there being a couple of things, he said.
What’s the other?

It’s a simple point, but a telling one, said Carolinus. Have you
considered Sir Brian’s personal code of honor?

Jim felt as if he had just been punched in the stomach. This
second question was worse than the first. If he were to magically
alter the situation so that Sir Mortimor lost back to Brian everything
that he had taken from him, how would Brian react if he knew Jim
had arranged it?

The answer was all too obvious. Brian would be deeply-maybe
critically-offended. Offended and angry. In Brian’s personal code,
a knight did not take an unfair advantage; not even to get his money
back from one who had gotten it unfairly. Brian would insist on
giving back to Sir Mortimor all that Jim had magically won back for
him. Then, and only then, if he had been thoroughly convinced that
Sir Mortimor had been cheating, he would undoubtedly accuse the
other knight in plain terms and fight him to the death.

But the money would still have been with Sir Mortimor, if and when
it was Sir Mortimor who died. Brian would not have taken it back
even from the dead body. But his friendship with Jim almost
undoubtedly would be severed-possibly for life.

The answer-the only answer-was one Jim would have given
anything not to face. It was that he could only straighten things out
here at the expense of leaving Brian, as well as Sir Mortimor, in
complete ignorance of how the money had come back. Unless,
that was, he could think up some excuse to explain matters to Brian
afterwards; hopefully, at some distance in time, after it was too late
for Brian to do anything about Sir Mortimor. Perhaps by that time he
could come up with some way of explaining it to Brian that would
make it all right.

Damn it, Carolinus! said Jim. This is a gray area! A situation where
the directives you talk about point in two exactly opposite ways. If I
help Brian, then I’ll be harming him.

Yes, said Carolinus, unfortunately, this is the sort of problem you
bump into and have to make a decision on when you get into
Advanced Magick. Here’s a place where I can’t help you, of
course. This is something of a bittersweet moment for me, Jim. It’s
not unlike that of a parent watching a child growing up, to the point
where the child has to use his or her own judgment; and the parent
must stand aside. You’ve reached the stage of Discretion, Jim. It’s
been approaching you for some time, though you may not have
read the shadow it cast before it.

I don’t know what you mean by its shadow, said Jim.

Come now, answered Carolinus, of course you do. For some time
now you’ve been thinking that I was ignoring you more than you’d
like; and not always explaining things fully to you-even thinking that I
was possibly lying to you at times. It’s true that in some cases I’ve
had to tell you only part of the truth. When at last you’re fully
fledged as a Master Magickian-if you ever reach that day-you’ll
understand. In any case, none of this alters the fact that right now
you have a decision to make that you must make by yourself. I can
watch; but I can’t help.

Carolinus disappeared; and an instant later Jim was back in his
own body, his solid body sitting at the table, watching Sir Mortimor
still taking coins away from Brian in bout after bout

Jim’s mind felt torn this way and that; and then suddenly everything
fell into a simple, clear choice between two alternatives. One was
keeping the relationship he valued highest-aside from what he had
with Angie- a relationship with Brian that had to a large extent made
his existence in this fourteenth-century world not merely bearable
but possible. The other was that he could risk losing that
friendship, but see Brian with a chance that might never come
again-to find Geronde’s father at last and marry Geronde-the
chance for those two to end up married, as they had wished to be
for so long.

There was no comparison between the two choices. The first was
an entirely personal, selfish one on Jim’s part. The other was
something that could better the whole lifetime of the two closest
friends he and Angie had.

The hell with it! thought Jim. That money belongs to Brian; and
Brian’s going to have it.

He had expected to have to hunt and search for the ideal magic to
do it; but it presented itself to him, almost as if it had been in
waiting there in the back of his mind. He half closed his eyes and
visualized the two sets of dice in Sir Mortimor’s possession.
Magically, he would cause them to trade places under certain
specific conditions. Whenever Sir Mortimor turned the dice over to
Brian, it would be the winning dice that Brian picked up, and
whenever Brian turned over the dice to Sir Mortimor, they would
become the losing dice again.

Sitting, he watched the luck at the table change. Brian won, and
won, and won... until Jim suddenly woke up to the fact that his run
of luck had been unnaturally long. Hastily he amended his magic
command, so that he could cause the changing of the dice to be
such that Brian would lose when Jim decided he should, and Sir
Mortimor would win until Jim decided to change the dice he was
throwing back to the losing pair.

To begin with, he allowed Sir Mortimor to win back quite a fair
amount of what he had lost. The tall knight had begun to look very
darkly indeed at the way things were going at the table. But now his
face cleared up. Jim altered things back so that Brian won again
and after a short bout of winning that just about matched what Sir
Mortimor had won back, Jim had him lose and Sir Mortimor begin
to win again.

But only briefly so. Controlling the game silently as he sat there,
Jim gradually continued to shift the balance of winnings over to
Brian’s side. It continued until there were no coins left on Sir
Mortimor’s side of the table.

“By all the Saints!” said the tall knight, getting to his feet. He was
not exactly scowling, but he was not far from it. “Luck seems to
have deserted me, sir. If you will wait while I fetch more coins to
wager with-“

“By all means,” said Brian. “By all means, Sir Mortimor. But-much
as I enjoy winning, it pains me to see you losing so steadily. If you
would wish to take your revenge at a later time...”

“Hell, no!” said Sir Mortimor.

“Then, sir,” said Brian, “I’ll be glad to wait until you return with fresh
funds.”

Sir Mortimor stalked over to the staircase and disappeared down it.

“James!” said Brian in a delighted whisper, turning to him. “Did you
ever see the like? Why, I have recouped more than half of all I
have lost to him, already. May Heaven be with me for a while
longer; and if I once come out of this with anything like the weight
of purse I had to begin, I take my oath never to touch dice again
until I am once more safely back in England.”

“That would be a wise decision, all right, Brian,” said Jim. His voice
stuck in his throat a little. “I’m delighted you’re winning.”

“I give you leave to be so delighted!” said Sir Brian. “It is the most
perfect thing!”

He sat back, waiting and silent. Jim waited with him in equal
silence; and it was not long before Sir Mortimor’s steps were heard
on the staircase again and he emerged onto the floor to stride over
and sit down in his place at the table.

This time, what he dumped on the table was a combination of rose
nobles and moutons d’or. A much greater stake than he had
placed on the table before.

Jim remembered hearing someplace that seasoned gamblers, as
long as they knew the odds were at all even for them, believed that
the trick was to keep on gambling, because sooner or later the tide
of good fortune would begin to flow in their direction.

Looking at Sir Mortimor now, particularly with eyes remarkably clear
since he had made his hard decision, Jim thought he saw in the
man a clear case of the fever of addictive gambling, such as he
had suspected from time to time in the case of Brian. However
baffled Sir Mortimor might be that his tricks with the dice were not
working. Sir Mortimor had clearly set that problem aside now, and
was thinking of only one thing- dicing until he won.

The pressure at the table seemed to have gone up a hundredfold;
and the tension between the two men was such that Jim had the
feeling that if he put out his hand he would feel it stretched
between them like a tightwire.

There were emotions at work here that could explode into violence
all too easily. But in spite of that, Jim had made up his mind. He
shifted the winning once more back into Brian’s hands.

The pile of gold in front of Sir Mortimor continued to melt, with
small reversals now and then; and gradually, as it dwindled, his jaw
tightened, his face darkened and his tall body settled into a crouch
like that of a leopard about to pounce. All resemblance to the
scholarly, elderly man Jim thought he had seen at first glance was
lost and he was pure warrior.

But now Beaupré was at Sir Mortimor’s elbow again.

Sir Mortimor ignored him.

“M’lord,” said Beaupré, at last.

“Go!” said Sir Mortimor, without looking up from the table.

“M’lord,” said Beaupré, “the carpenter and one other man I sent out
have come back. The Moroccans are building somewhat in front of
our door that goes level back some little distance; but is supported
on the hillside some ways down. They have made remarkable
progress with it in the darkness; and it may be finished before first
light.”

“What of it?” muttered Sir Mortimor, watching the dice rattle from
Brian’s fist. “As soon as there’s light we will burn it.”

“They have covered the wood they build with goat hides. So many
it is thought they must have carried some here in their ship as they
came. With that protection, what they build will not burn easily.”

“I told you to leave,” growled Sir Mortimor.

“M’lord,” said Beaupré, “something must be done.”

“See to it then, Beaupré” said Sir Mortimor.

“M’lord-“

“See to it, Beaupré’!”

There was a moment’s pause.

“Yes, m’lord,” said Beaupré, turning away. He went down the stairs
out of sight. The game went on with hardly a word from either of
the players. Only the sound of their breathing could be heard, the
rattle of the dice and the scrape of the money being pushed out as
a wager, or raked in as winnings. Jim found his eyelids beginning
to feel heavy. It seemed they had been at this for hours now; and
he gave in a little to the temptation to let Brian’s winning stretches
be longer ones, and Sir Mortimor’s shorter.

Sir Mortimor’s face grew darker still as his supply of money
dwindled; darker and more dangerous-looking. As the dice went
over to Brian for yet another time, he had reached a point where
Jim found his tendency toward sleepiness suddenly evaporating.
Sir Mortimor was watching each movement of the dice like a wild
animal about to pounce, and the tension at the table had grown to
the point where the very air about them seemed to quiver with it.

Jim looked from Sir Mortimor to Brian. His friend may have been
innocent in some ways, but he was not lacking perception when
danger was in the air. Brian’s face also was showing a change. It
was not in him to show the kind of dark threat that Sir Mortimor was
showing; but in his own way he was displaying a matching
readiness to violence. His face seemed to have sharpened, the
skin drawn tighter over cheek bones and jaw; his blue eyes
appeared smaller and sharper, and their gaze was unwavering on
the man sitting opposite him and on the dice.

A sudden temptation seized Jim to have Brian lose and let the dice
move back to Sir Mortimor before an explosion could occur, but he
hated to make Brian’s winning stretch so short, when indeed he
had given Sir Mortimor quite a stretch of wins; and the plan should
have been at this point for Brian to match that with an even greater
amount of wins.

As a result, he let Brian go on winning. The gold moved from Sir
Mortimor’s side of the table to Brian’s.

At last, Jim let the dice go over to Sir Mortimor, on a loss from
Brian. The tall knight snatched them up and stared at them closely.

“Why, these dice are cracked!” he said, jerking to his feet. “It were
a shame on me that I offered such dice to a guest to play with. I will
be back in a moment with another pair.”

He turned on his heel and in a second he had reached the
staircase and disappeared down it. Brian stared at the empty
opening through which the other had disappeared.

“That was not done as a gentleman should,” said Brian in a quiet
but steely voice, staring at the opening around the staircase where
Sir Mortimor had disappeared. “I would be in my rights if I should
say that in taking away the dice he took away my luck. But though
he may lack manners, I do not. Nonetheless, I will remember this.”

“Brian-“ began Jim.

Brian turned and looked at him, with the same implacable gaze with
which he had been staring after the missing Sir Mortimor. Then his
face relaxed.

“Do not concern yourself, James,” he said. “If necessary, I will tell
our host that I do not care to play any longer; and since I have not
even yet won back all I have lost to him over the last week or so-
though I am close to that amount, indeed-he can hardly object-“

He broke off at the sound of feet on the staircase, and Sir Mortimor
was back with them.

He dropped into his seat and spilled from his hand a clean, white
pair of dice on the table.

“These are new, and I warrant them sound,” he said carelessly. He
gathered them into his long hand again, shook them in his usual
fashion and spilled them on the table. Jim made sure that he won.

Sir Mortimor smiled. He threw again and matched his point, taking
in the wager that Brian had already pushed forward. The dice were
still with him, and he threw again for three more bouts, winning.

His smile came back.

“Strange that I did not notice that crack before,” he said. “A
gentleman should be able to be aware of such things-“

He broke off abruptly, because Jim had just arranged for him to
lose again. He stared at the two dice on the table and their
uppermost surfaces as if he could not believe his eyes.

Brian reached for the dice.

“Hold-“ said Sir Mortimor-and Brian’s hand stopped before it
touched them. Brian’s eyes slowly lifted from the dice until they
looked directly into the eyes of Sir Mortimor, and a wild bell of
alarm sounded in Jim’s mind. All he could think of at the moment
was that neither man was wearing a sword. But they both had their
poignards at their belts, since no one walked around without at
least one edged weapon.

“I smell smoke!” cried Jim hastily-it had been the first thing he
could think of, since Sir Mortimor with that one word had already
crossed the border of acceptable politeness; but now that the
words were out of his mouth it came to him that indeed he did
smell smoke. He had been smelling smoke for some little time,
and paying no conscious attention to it, as obviously neither had
the other two men.

A smell of smoke where there should be none, in a castle, meant
fire; and fire was something universally feared by those who lived
within such stone walls.

These same thick barriers that enclosed them and protected them
could make it almost impossible to come close to and successfully
put out a fire once it was started inside the castle structure; so that,
unstopped, it crept from room to room, while smoke was building
up from it, and herding those in the castle that were alive farther
and farther back from the flames they needed to come to grips
with.

In the end it became an unstoppable enemy. The only escape
from it was to leave the castle; and to leave this castle right now
meant only one end for those within it.

Both other men lifted their heads and sniffed the air, and the
sudden change in their faces signaled their recognition of the
danger.

“Forgive me. Sir Brian,” said Sir Mortimor swiftly, seizing on the
opportunity for the one excuse that could take any possible danger
out of the word he had just uttered. “I had indeed just smelled the
smoke myself. Beaupré!”

Beaupré appeared even as the word rang on the air. Clearly he had
already been on his way to them.

“M’lord,” he said to Sir Mortimor, “they have built their shelter right
against the outer door, and in their shelter, had burning coals
against the bottom of it for some time now, without our realizing.
The lower part of the door is almost eaten through by fire. The
carpenter believes that they have made a flat platform on which
men can also swing a battering ram. They are just beginning to
hammer now.”

“Five more men here! Ho!” Sir Mortimor ordered the empty air.

It struck Jim, rather ridiculously, that Sir Mortimor was the
equivalent of his own PA system. All he had to do was speak with a
raised voice and anyone in the castle would hear and obey. He had
not specified where “here” was. It was obviously up to the five men
he wanted to know where Sir Mortimor was calling from.

A second thought suggested to Jim’s mind that there was no real
trick in that, either. He had no doubt that when he and Angie were at
home in Malencontri, every servant then in the castle would know
where either of them was at any moment. It was part of their
business to know; and the word of any shift of either their Lord or
Lady from one place to another was transferred immediately
throughout all the body of those who worked in the castle, as if by
telepathy.

The five men appeared, one of them carrying a bow and with a
quiver of arrows slung at his belt.

“You,” said Sir Mortimor, pointing at the bowman, “to the roof. Have
them empty the oil that’s in the kettle up there and fill it instead with
water. Get men to help you and slide it forward on its rails so that it
will pour out over the walls down before the door. Keep the oil
that’s taken out in buckets handy to be put back in, however. Go!”

The bowman ran off and up the stairway.

“You other four and Beaupré gather everyone in the castle who can
fight. Join me in the large room behind the inner entrance door on
the first floor. These gentlemen and I will be down as soon as
possible. Beau-pré, I must be fully armed, and these gentlemen
will need help arming too. See to it!”

“By your leave, sir,” said Brian coldly. “Sir James and I can armor
each other.”

“Good,” said Sir Mortimor with no hesitation. “I will meet you down
on the ground floor there.”

He strode off to the stairs and disappeared down them, followed
by Beaupré and the remaining four men. Jim and Brian went after
them.

“I think that smoke is coming in through the arrow slits and
windows,” remarked Jim, as he and Brian were helping each other
to buckle on armor and fasten sword belts.

“Most like,” grunted Brian. He paused and looked Jim frankly in the
face. “I own I am happy at the prospect of action. It was becoming
other than pleasant, there at the table.”

“You’ve got the money you’ve won back?” Jim asked.

“As much as I won tonight,” said Brian. “I am still lacking somewhat
of what Sir Mortimor won originally; but he is welcome to it. I would
rather not dice with him again.”

“But you’ll fight alongside him,” said Jim, as they began to leave
the room.

“I have eaten his food and drunk his wine. What else can I do?”
said Brian. “Also”-he added, looking over his shoulder at Jim-“if
those outside get in, we all die. We fight for our own lives, you and
I. That Sir Mortimor does the same thing beside us is of less
import.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

However, as Brian said these words, he did not look to Jim as if he
was facing a fight for his life. The expression on his face was more
the happy excitement of someone going to a picnic.

It was characteristic of Brian to look like this before any action. Jim
had seen it before; and curiously, in this strange place, under these
strange conditions, it made him feel better. They finished helping
each other put on their armor and weapons and left their room to
go down to the ground floor.

Jim had not paid close attention to the ground floor when he
entered the castle, since his escorts had hurried him up the stairs
to Sir Mortimor and Brian. Now he saw that it was mostly taken up
with a large open space, one end of which had been divided with
wooden partitions some five feet high, as stalls for horses, so that
these could be brought inside if necessary; though Jim found it
hard to imagine what kind of horse could climb the switchback road
up to the steps leading to the castle’s front door-let alone up the
steps itself.

Right now, however, these stalls were filled with villagers. All the
rest of the space was taken up by what looked like a hundred or
more armed men, packed as tightly as sardines; and all, to Jim,
looking rather pale, caught between the ominous figure of their
Lord, towering over them, and the ominous knowledge of the
enemy outside who was burning a route into the castle.

“Sir James! Sir Brian!” roared Sir Mortimor, as he saw Brian and
Jim coming down the stairway. He broke off what he had been
saying, pushed his way to the stairs and took three double-step
strides up to meet them before they reached the floor.

“It is good to see you two gentlemen!” said Sir Mortimor, his voice
ringing off the walls. “Particularly at this moment when the enemy is
becoming troublesome. There could be no two chevaliers I would
rather have with me at this moment than the famous Dragon Knight,
victor over ogres and evil men alike, and Sir Brian, well known as
the best lance in England!”

The statement was obviously for public consumption; and it was
not without effect. Jim saw some of the paleness begin to
disappear from the up-staring faces below them, and less of an
atmosphere of panic seemed to pervade the area.

“A word with you gentlemen privily, first,” barked Sir Mortimor,
pushing past them and beckoning them to follow him back up to
the floor above. Once out of the sight and hearing of those
beneath them, he lowered his voice to a murmur that could not
possibly be heard below.

“You are a Godsend at this time, sirs,” he said in that low voice. His
face and manner had completely changed. It was as if the dice
game had never been and money was of no importance. In fact,
though Jim found it hard to believe, there was something of the
same happy excitement about Sir Mortimor that Jim had just seen,
and was used to seeing, in Brian.

“Here is the situation,” went on Sir Mortimor. “My men are good
fighters-none better-but like all such common cattle, an unfamiliar
situation takes the heart out of them. They become little more than
sheep. They know how much those outside outnumber us; and
now this business of burning through the outer door has made
them feel helpless-with no hope but to wait to be slaughtered when
the enemy finally breaks in. But they will rouse themselves and do
what needs to be done-and indeed there is a great deal more that
can be done and no certainty that this castle will be taken after all.
But first, let me ask you again, Sir James. Would you be willing, for
any way at all by which I may recompense you, to use your magic
to help in the defense here?”

“As I said, I’m afraid not,” said Jim. “I regret having to continue to
answer you that way, Sir Mortimor; but I’ve got duties and
obligations.”

“I fully understand. Sir James,” said Sir Mortimor. “In fact, I had not
really hoped for that help from you. The aid you give simply by
fighting with us is all but magic in itself. No doubt you felt the
difference down below, the minute I announced my pleasure in
your presence. They already knew who you were, of course, but I
think they had not fully realized what paladins you are; and knowing
that has enheartened them greatly.”

“We will hope to live up to your expectations, sir,” said Brian.

“I had no doubt you would in any case, sir,” said Sir Mortimor.
“Now, as to the situation. Let me give it to you in as few words as
possible. Beaupré has privily assured me that they have made a
roof over the fire they have built against my door, so although we
will be pouring water from the roof even now, there is little chance
the fire can be dealt with that way. Also, this roof is covered with
fresh animal hides, which would resist even burning oil-though it
would be hardly sensible to pour oil of any heat upon already
burning fuel.”

“This,” Brian said, “we have heard Beaupré tell you.”

“Yes,” said Sir Mortimor. “The fire must be gotten rid of, however;
and it is my intent to make a rush from the inside, by weight of men
and bodies, unbarring the burning door and attempting to push it
open. It may be the attackers have gone to some trouble to make
sure that it cannot be pushed open; but if it can, that very opening
will sweep the fire aside. So men can rush out and hold any attack
at bay while some inside douse the fire with water; after which we
retreat once more within the castle. The door is weakened, true.
But if the fire were out, and no easy opportunity to light it again for
an hour or so, it could be greatly strengthened from inside by our
carpenter using wood that is already in the castle here in the shape
of doors and furniture. This is my plan and I intend to use it; but I
would welcome any advice from either of you.”

He paused. Jim could think of nothing to say, but Brian spoke
again.

“I have offered to lead a sally through your private escape way,” he
said. “May I offer to do it, once again. It seems to me that the best
way of dealing with this structure outside, let alone the fire at the
door, is to attack whoever is out there unexpectedly from outside,
and not only free the burning matter from the door itself, but put to
flame all the rest of what they have built, with fire from the inside. A
relatively small force of men, moving fast, could do that, sir, and I
would be honored to lead them!”

Sir Mortimor looked at him and slowly shook his head.

“We are not in that desperate a pass yet, Sir Brian,” he said. “You
must know as well as I do, that such ways as you speak about are
the secrets of the lord of the castle only; and not to be easily
shared with others. If need be, I will share it with men of honor like
yourselves; but any others who go out with you must die before
they come back in, to ensure that they do not pass on to others
word of this way out of the castle.”

Jim winced internally, but Brian seemed to take this in stride. Sir
Mortimor went on.

“Once it were known,” he said, lowering his voice still more, “there
are many here-and not just the villagers-who would want to escape
immediately, hoping to get away and hide themselves in the hills.
Therefore, as I say, any you took with you must die. I do not know
how you would encompass that; and even if you did, it would
further reduce the force I have here to resist those who come
against us.”

“I see no other way,” said Brian coldly. “My offer remains open, sir.
You may take it up at any time in the future, if the situation here has
not changed so as to make it impractical from my standpoint”

“I will keep it in mind,” said Sir Mortimor, equally coldly; and for a
moment they were back as they had been at the dice table. Then,
to Jim’s relief, the hardness of both their expressions cleared.

“It remains then,” said Sir Mortimor, “to attempt what I had in mind,
forcing the burning door from the inside. We will proceed with that.”

“If you wish, then,” said Brian, “I will be glad to lead the charge on
the door.”

Sir Mortimor grinned at him. A grim and martial grin.

“Right willingly would I see you do so,” he said, “and give you most
hearty thanks. But my fellows fight best when they are under my
eye and within arm’s reach. No one but I can lead the charge on
the door. What I would wish of you and Sir James is that you take
charge of what I shall call the afterguard, those who stay behind
while the rest of us charge.”

He glanced at the stairway for a moment.

“Your appearance here, and my naming you to them, has
heartened them mightily,” he said. “But there may still be some
faint hearts among them. If you stand with them, none will dare
skulk off, hoping by hiding to at least prolong their lives by a few
moments or an hour.”

“It is a strange train you have about here, Sir Mortimor,” said Brian.
“Without offense, Sir Mortimor, I seem to gather that these men of
yours are lions one moment and mice the next.”

Sir Mortimor shrugged.

“What would you?” he said, still in a low voice. “It is their nature in
these parts. They do nearly all things for profit; and if there is no
profit, then they think only of their skins. Honor is but a word,
except to those who are great men among them-as Sala-ad-Din
was during the First Crusade, or Baybars, who won the battle at
‘Ayn Jalut.”

He turned abruptly and led his way down the stairs. Within
moments he had separated out those he wanted to join him in a
charge on the outer door, and those who would stay with Brian and
Jim.

“Keep the inner door open for us, messires!” he called to Jim and
Brian over the heads of those around him, as they clustered facing
the opening revealed by that same door right now. He turned to
face the open passageway and lifted a long sword in one large
hand high over his head. “With me, children!”

He ran forward into the passageway and they ran with him. Jim and
Brian, standing near the front of those who were left behind,
watched as they swiftly approached the door, which was now
smoking visibly around its bottom edge.

“Use your swords!” he shouted at those about him. “Lift the bar that
way. It is too hot to handle!”

The foremost men obeyed. The heavy bar was pried upward out of
the iron sockets that held it firmly to the stone on either side, and
tumbled to the floor.

“Now!” roared Sir Mortimor. “Open it!”

The mice had become lions. Fearlessly, more than half a dozen
men threw themselves bodily at the door, which must be even
hotter than the thick piece of timber that had been barring it. They
fell back, only to have others throw their weight against it, and
gradually the door opened with jerks, obviously pushing a
considerable load of the burning material piled up against it

A spear flew through the opening from the other side, and Sir
Mortimor’s long blade caught it in mid-air, cutting it in half and
throwing the parts aside before it could pierce one of the packed
bodies behind the knight. Bowmen and slingers at the back of Sir
Mortimor’s attacking group began to send their missiles in return
through the opening, and no more spears came.

Meanwhile, bit by bit, the door was being forced outward, opening
an ever larger gap as the fire beyond was pushed aside. Finally,
there was room for a man to slip through-and one did, followed by
others as swiftly as they could, while the rest shouted in wild
triumph and threw themselves even more heavily against the
burning door.

Suddenly the door gave all at once, its lower half breaking off, and
a couple of men falling directly into the flames beyond. If they
screamed, their voices were lost in the general uproar; for
immediately the rest of Sir Mortimor’s fighters were going out,
either through the open gap or over the broken half of the door like
hurdlers.

Clearly, there had been only a small party tending the fire and
guarding it in the wooden passage that had been built almost up to
the door. Those guardians were now suddenly in flight, with Sir
Mortimor’s men after them like hunting hounds who had already
tasted blood.

The men with Jim and Brian stirred, talking, moving toward the
passageway, now eager to be in on the fight.

“Hold!” shouted Brian.

They hesitated, then stopped; looking at him, and then quickly
looking away again. Clearly they still wanted to rush to join their
fellows around Sir Mortimor; but from the way their Lord had talked
about these two knights, perhaps that would be imprudent. Brian
now had his naked sword in his hand, holding it up over his head in
plain sight; Jim drew his and held it up likewise. The two blades
shone and the men stood still.

“Messires!” came the voice of Sir Mortimor. “Come forward to me-
alone!”

The last word was added as, once more, the fighters around Jim
and Brian began to move toward the passageway. But they
stopped at the sound of Sir Mortimor’s last word. Brian and Jim
went forward alone.

“You see what they have built,” said Sir Mortimor, sheathing his
sword, as they came up to him. “A fine platform for using a
battering ram, if the fire did not work for them, and a roof over all. I
wonder that they should build so quickly-but then, they are seamen;
and seamen are used to making such things, quickly, on order.
Though Beaupré did say that the number of hides they have
covering this structure suggests they flayed more goats than they
would find in my village alone. What do you think of it, gentlemen?”

Jim and Brian looked about at it. Neither had anything to say. What
they saw was simply a long, roofed shed made of wood and heavy
cloth, stretching out and backward from the castle door on a level
with the top step of the stairway. Its farther end was open; but there
was nothing to be seen there but darkness, with stars above, and-
far below-some flickering lights among the still-standing structures
of the village.

“I will have my men start to tear this down, before those below can
get more people up here. We will use the timbers to barricade the
front door from the inside,” said Sir Mortimor. “Also, we will take
away the goat hides, so any future advance on the castle will not be
protected from fire. Sir Brian, you offered yourself earlier. Would
you go up and take charge of the watch from the top of the tower
right now? Sir James, I have nothing to ask you at the moment.
Perhaps you will think of something yourself-or you might even
wish to join Sir Brian at the top of the tower. I will be up there
shortly, as soon as barricading the door is well underway.”

“I will be glad to hold the tower,” said Brian. “James, will you
accompany me?”

“Yes,” said Jim thoughtfully, as they turned away from Sir Mortimor,
who had already started to turn away himself to give orders for the
dismantling of the structure and the scattering of the burning
embers of the fire. Jim and Brian went up the stairs, climbing them
side by side, in silence. Once they reached the floor that held their
own room, they both turned toward it without needing to say
anything to each other.

“James,” said Brian in a low voice, once they were inside with the
door closed, “Sir Mortimor thinks only of holding his castle until
these pirates grow tired of attempting it, and sail away. That is not
the way to deal with a situation like this. He should be thinking of
ways in which he can attack and defeat these who have come
against him.”

“If you say so, I’ll believe you,” said Jim. “I’ve got a lot more faith in
you than I have in anyone else where it comes to fighting.”

Brian looked embarrassed.

“That is a kind thing to say, James,” he said. “I know not if I truly
deserve it, considering that Sir Mortimor has had war experience;
and I, in any real sense, have not. But I have had experience with
castles attacked, and the attacking of castles, and I vow I am right.
But it warms me that you should take my word for it so easily.”

“It shouldn’t,” said Jim. “I wouldn’t have ventured a guess that way
myself; but the way you think sounds better to me than the way Sir
Mortimor is obviously thinking. I’ll think along the lines you’ve just
mentioned, myself; and tell you if anything comes to me. Is that all
right?”

“Nothing could be better, James,” said Brian. “Now, shall we go up
to the top of the tower?”

“You go ahead,” said Jim. “I’m going to try to get hold of Hob, and
see if he can’t go out and spy over the enemy territory for us. I
think if I call him through the fireplace that he’s used to us being
close to, he’ll hear me; even if he’s in another chimney. I’ll join you
at the tower-top as soon as I talk to him.”

“Good,” said Brian.

He went out.

With his going, the room suddenly seemed unusually empty. Jim
looked around himself. It was a small room, not too clean, now lit-
but poorly so-by the flames of what was unburnt of the fuel in the
iron basket of the cresset on one wall. Beyond the wide arrow slit,
or window-whichever it was-the blackness of night still showed. Yet
it must be getting on toward dawn. Also, it was cold.

Jim looked at the fireplace. It, like the cresset, had burnt down to
the remains of its fuel. There were some pieces of glowing wood;
a few of these were putting out feeble flames, but not throwing
much in the way of heat-an unthinkable situation in any inhabited
room of Malencontri during cold weather. Equally, it was something
he had never encountered as a guest in any other castle or
ecclesiastical building where he had been a guest.

Happily, some extra wood had been left by it; although it was
equally unthinkable that someone of Jim’s rank should have to feed
the fire in his own fireplace, except in an extreme emergency. Jim
thankfully put it all on the embers; and they were hot enough so that
the flames licked up freshly.

It would be some time before the cold stone walls warmed up, but
the very sight of the fire was warming and he could feel some heat
on his face as he leaned down toward the fireplace opening and
called into it

“Hob!” he shouted. “Hob, would you come here, please?”

The words were hardly out of his mouth before Hob’s face
appeared upside down peering into the room under the top edge
of the fireplace opening.

“M’lord!” he said, and popped out into the room, to sit cross-
legged on a waft of smoke that seemed to pour endlessly forward
from the fire, but vanished completely an inch or so beyond Hob,
so that Jim did not even smell smoke.

“I suppose you know what’s been going on, Hob.” said Jim.

“Oh yes, m’lord,” said Hob cheerfully. “I know all about what’s been
going on here and just about everything else as well.”

“I see,” said Jim.

“You’re looking tired now, m’lord,” said Hob, concernedly
examining Jim’s face. “And you’ve still got that sad look. I wish
you’d let me take you for a ride-“

“I’m sorry,” said Jim. “There just isn’t time for that now. Look, Hob,
I was going to ask you if you could leave the castle and go down
and look around the village below, where those men are who’re
attacking this castle. Do you suppose you could do that-ride the
smoke and just sort of listen at the walls and look around and
things like that?”

“Oh, I’ve already done that,” said Hob. “There’s nothing to it. I go
up on smoke here and ride it down there; and then I can go
anywhere I want from their fires in their buildings, coming out the
smoke holes at the top. They don’t really have fireplaces there,
m’lord. They’ve got sort of a hole dug in the earth and they build
the fire in that. There’s no stone floors there. Just dirt.”

“That’s excellent,” said Jim. “In that case, you can probably tell me
what they’ve been talking about.”

“Talking about, m’lord?”

“Yes, I mean generally, the men down there, particularly when they
aren’t doing anything toward the castle, but are just sitting around
by themselves. What do they say to each other and what do they
talk about?”

“Oh, all sorts of things,” said Hob. “Ships and fish and things to eat
and just about everything. Of course, at night like this they talk a lot
about demons. It’s very scary. I’ve been very careful when I go out
at night, but I haven’t seen any demons so far.”

“I don’t think you will,” said Jim. “Anyway, you’re dark and almost
invisible at night, and riding on some smoke you wouldn’t attract
attention anyway.”

“That’s good,” said Hob. “The kind of demons they talk the most
about are called Djinni-you know, like that dog that was pretending
to be one?”

“Why do you say pretending?” asked Jim.

“Well, you remember,” said Hob, “when you asked him to prove he
was a Djinni, he just turned into a sort of fat man.”

“That fat man was a Djinni,” said Jim.

Hob was suddenly on Jim’s shoulder clutching him tightly around
the neck.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered in Jim’s ear. “I thought he was just a
dog and lying. He’s here, you know.”

“Here? In the castle?” asked Jim.

“No, not in the castle-not since he tried to come in and they chased
him all over the place and he couldn’t find anywhere to hide,” said
Hob. “He was being a dog then, you know. But is he really a Djinni?
Oh, dear!”

“Don’t be frightened,” said Jim. “He won’t hurt you. He wouldn’t
want to hurt you for fear of offending me.”

“Is that true?” Hob’s grip on Jim’s neck relaxed. “I feel much
better, then. Anyway, as I say, he’s not in the castle. He’s around
someplace, probably in the village or near it or something. But
those men down there don’t seem to know. A demon, right there
amongst them. And I never knew it, either.”

“He’s not a demon,” said Jim. “He’s a Natural. Like you.”

Hob bounced from Jim’s shoulder back onto a waft of smoke that
appeared unexpectedly about two feet in front of Jim’s face.

“He’s not like me!” said Hob, staring at him.

“Well, I mean, he’s a Natural, as you are. Like you only in that
sense,” Jim said, “just like trolls, and naiads and sea devils, and all
sorts of others are Naturals-as opposed to people like Angie, Brian
and me.”

“But demons are full of bad magic, the men down there say; and-
now that I remember-the dog-Djinni not only changed himself into a
fat man, he made that chest with all the colored stones in it appear.
The chest you didn’t want.”

“He has some powers that are like magic,” said Jim. “Lots of
Naturals do. They’ll have a special power or two, or even more, but
they don’t have a lot of control over them. They can only do certain
things-sort of turn them on and off-like the way you ride the smoke.
That would seem like magic to anyone who had never heard of
hobgoblins.”

“Is that magic?” said Hob. “I never thought it was anything special.
You mean I could be a demon?”

“No,” said Jim. “As I just pointed out, you’re a Natural. Naturals
aren’t demons, and demons aren’t Naturals. Demons belong to a
different kingdom than Naturals.”

“Oh, that’s good,” said Hob with a deep sigh. “For a terrible
moment there I thought I’d have to be afraid of myself.”

“Well, there’s no need,” said Jim. “But this is valuable information,
what you tell me about these attackers being afraid of demons. Are
they particularly afraid of demons just because they’re here?”

“Maybe,” said Hob doubtfully. “I know they know there’s a great
magician in the castle-that’s you, m’lord. I don’t know how they
know, but they do; and they think maybe magicians and demons go
together.”

“I can assure you,” said Jim, “they don’t. Different kingdoms,
absolutely. But now I think, for the first time, you’ve given me the
beginnings of an idea for doing something about this situation
here. Tell me one more thing, Hob. Is there some way you could
move smoke from the castle’s chimneys into the far end of each of
the two boats touching the shore in front of the castle here? I’d like
it to look as if there was a fire going on back there in both boats.”

“Move smoke?” said Hob. “Oh, certainly. I’d just do the same thing
I do when I move the smoke to carry me along.”

“Bingo!” said Jim.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Bingo?” echoed Hob, staring at him.

“Never mind,” said Jim hastily. “That’s just a word that means I’m
pleased.”

Hob’s small round face with its tiny sharp-pointed chin broke into a
wide smile.

“I’m happy you’re happy,” he said. “I’ll be glad to move the smoke
for you, m’lord. When? Now?”

“You can do it in the daytime?” asked Jim.

“Oh, yes,” said Hob. “I’ll just bundle the smoke up small, then ride
a waft of it high up, so people won’t see me take it far out over the
water. Then I can come down very low some distance away out to
sea and ride the smoke back just above the waves. Then I’ll slip
into the boats when nobody’s looking, bundle the smoke in with me
and tell it to rise up the way I want it to. The way you want it to,
m’lord.”

“Thank you. Hob,” said Jim. “Now, there’s something else to be
done first. Will you be where I can get you quickly if I call for you in
a fireplace? I’ve got to go and talk to a couple of people. Then
we’ll come back here to talk; and you can listen.”

“I’ll always be right where you can get me, m’lord,” said Hob.

Jim left the room and headed for the top of the stairs. He had two
others to convince, and the first one was Brian. That should be
relatively easy; but the second one was Sir Mortimor. The tall knight
should see the advantage of what Jim had in mind, but might have
some reason against it that Jim could not now imagine. But that,
Jim would have to argue down when he came up against it. Brian
was the easier, and the sensible thing would be to talk to Brian first.

Brian did, indeed, turn out to be the easier. He liked Jim’s idea,
which was in essence a sally by the full force of fighting men under
Sir Mortimor’s command, just at daylight, when presumably the
enemy would still be either half asleep, or just beginning to wake
up; and while those who had worked during the night would still be
sleeping.

“I’ve been recommending a sally in any case, as you know-don’t
see how anything can be done without one,” he said. “As for
anything else, James, I have complete trust in your wisdom. If you
think this will work, then I will ask no further assurance than that.”

“Good,” said Jim. “Can you leave this tower-top? I’d like you to
come along with me to find Sir Mortimor, so I can suggest we talk it
over in our room-yours and mine.”

“I see no reason why not,” said Brian. “Beaupré is just over there.
I’ll go have a word with him.”

He stepped across to the pockmarked man, spoke quietly to him
for a moment, and then came back to Jim.

“As I thought, there’s no real need for me here, except in an
emergency; and any emergency at the top of this tower is most
unlikely. I left word with Beaupré. He will send a messenger to Sir
Mortimor saying we would be honored if he would meet with us
privily in the room he gave us, to talk of matters that should not be
noised about. I said we would await his answer or him there.”

“Good,” said Jim.

They went down the stairs together and back into the room.

By this time the fire in the room’s fireplace had been further
refreshed with fresh fuel, and the room had a brighter, more lively
look to it. There was also a jug of wine and two pewter cups now
on the table. There had been time for the small cubicle to warm up
slightly; and the whole place had a more comfortable air. It was
even pleasant, sitting at the table with Brian and drinking some of
the wine. Water had not been provided.

“Well, gentlemen,” said Sir Mortimor, sitting down with them less
than ten minutes later. “I understand you have something of import
to discuss.”

He glared at a servant following him, who hastily put another metal
cup in front of his lord, and filled it from the wine jug, then ran off
with the wine jug, presumably to refill it in no time at all.

“It is a plan of Sir James,” said Brian. “He has been so good as to
tell me of it; and within the limitations of what I know, I find it most
attractive. But let him tell you, himself.”

Sir Mortimor nodded; but at that moment the door opened behind
him and the servant came back with not one, but two, jugs of wine,
brimming. Sir Mortimor glared at him again, for his own cup had
been empty for some seconds.

“Sorry, m’lord,” said the servant miserably and ducked out, closing
the door behind him.

“Well then, Sir James,” said Sir Mortimor, taking another hearty
draught of wine from his cup. “What is it you have in mind?”

“Something that’ll have to be done before full sunrise,” said Jim,
“otherwise I wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to talk to you about
it.”

“It’s a good time to talk.” Sir Mortimor sat back in his chair and took
another deep swallow from his wine cup. His face was harsh with
the lines of middle-age tiredness. They were all tired. “Those
Moroccans have given up and gone to sleep down in the village.
My men are sleeping too-all those who aren’t required to be
awake.”

“That’s the very reason I wanted to talk to you as soon as
possible,” said Jim. “Because if what I have to suggest to you is
workable, we’ll need to move quickly before the sun is up. It’s all to
our advantage that those attacking us are probably asleep right
now.”

“Well, well,” said Sir Mortimor, drumming his fingers on the table
top. “What is this you wanted to say?”

“I think there’s just a chance we might drive them off,” said Jim.
“My problem’s been I don’t know these people and this part of the
world as you do, Sir Mortimor. How would they react, say, if they
saw smoke coming out from the seaward end of each of their two
ships?”

“I’ve already told you two gentlemen,” said Sir Mortimor, “I will not
countenance a sally through my secret escape route in the vain
hope of firing the ships-since the last thing I want to do is to
deprive the villains of the means of escaping.”

“Hear me out,” said Jim, sharply enough so that some of the signs
of fatigue about Sir Mortimor’s face vanished and his eyes
narrowed on Jim. “I’m not suggesting any such thing. I asked for
information. I asked how they’d react if they saw smoke coming up
from the seaward end of their vessels. Would you be kind enough
to tell me, sir?”

“If they saw smoke,” said Sir Mortimor, “of course they would
sound the alarm and all rush like madmen for the ships to put out
any fire there. But I repeat-I do not want those ships fired!”

“And I have said I am suggesting no such thing,” said Jim. “I’m
making a suggestion that could involve my helping you with
elements of my magical art.”

Sir Mortimor’s face changed markedly.

“And I do not want any payment,” said Jim. “I would be doing this in
the spirit, and only in the spirit, in which a guest helps out his host
under special situations. Now if you will assist me with information
and listen, Sir Mortimor-“

“I’ll most gladly tell and listen. Sir James,” said Sir Mortimor. “Most
gladly. Forgive me if I sounded overhasty.”

“Well then,” said Jim, “picture all of them who are sleeping now,
suddenly woken up by a shouting that there is fire in their boats.
They rush to the boats to find out where the fire is. While they are
all clustered around there, some of them scrambling around inside
the boats and finding no fire, only smoke, they are suddenly struck
by all your men, fully armed and ready for battle. Most of them will
have nothing but their belt knives, or perhaps not even that; having
just been roused from their slumber, and not expecting to fight
men, but a fire.”

Sir Mortimor’s face lit up.

“We could cut them to pieces!” he said. But then he frowned.
“They would have to remain disorganized, however; and all must
go perfectly so that we come upon them at just the right moment. If
we could only be sure they would stay alarmed, disorganized and
not knowing what to do- then, I believe we could simply slay at will.
Until a few woke to the fact that there was nothing here for them but
death, scrambled aboard their ships and pulled away. By that time
they would be too few in numbers to come back again at us. They
would leave. But there is that problem. They are fighting men. They
might grasp the situation, escape our first rush, get back to their
arms-and, as we know, they outnumber us almost five to one.”

“Don’t you think they’d stay disorganized?” Jim asked. “Particularly
if they saw an eight-foot-tall demon fighting with your men? They
already know there’s a magician with you in this castle-myself.”

“How do you know that?” said Sir Mortimor. “How do you know they
know you are here and a magician?”

“Because I am a magician,” said Jim, in the most ominous voice
he could manage.

“Oh, of course-“ Sir Mortimor’s features suddenly became as
obliging as Jim had remembered seeing them the moment he had
first set foot in the castle. “Of course. Forgive me, I do not mean to
doubt your word at all, Sir James. Can you indeed produce a
demon to fight with us?”

“I can,” said Jim. “It will take me perhaps half an hour. But there
may be a difficulty. How will your men feel, having a demon among
them?”

Sir Mortimor’s face, which had lit up, lost a good deal of its
illumination.

“Now,” he said, rubbing his chin, “that is a question. What I must do
is introduce the demon to them here, in the castle before they go
out. You would not be willing to change into demon form before
them?”

“I did not say I would change myself into a demon,” said Jim. “I
said I would produce a demon to fight with you and your men.”

It may have been an illusion of the firelight and the cresset-light,
but Jim was almost ready to believe that Sir Mortimor’s face had
become slightly pale.

“A real demon?” said Sir Mortimor.

“I have said what I said,” said Jim. “It does not become me to
explain myself. Either you approve my plan, or not. The how and
why of it involve matters not spoken of with those who are not
magicians.”

“No, no. Of course not,” said Sir Mortimor.

He gulped from his wine cup and did not refill it.

“A half-hour, you said?” He got to his feet. “Indeed, it will be light,
then, but the sun is not yet up. The best of times to strike at men
who think they now can spend the morning sleeping, and have
been up all night. True, our lads have been up all night too; but they
will forget that once they are in the melee. Half an hour from now,
then, messires, I will have all my fighting men on the lowest floor of
the castle. If Sir Brian will come down first to hold the men, I will
then come up to meet this demon and walk down with you to
introduce it to them all. Seeing it with you will give them courage to
let you close to them. But you will be with me, Sir James, will you
not, when I bring the demon down?”

“No,” said Jim.

Sir Mortimor paled once more.

“Oh,” he said.

“I will be where I can control everything the demon does. You may
not ask where.”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” said Sir Mortimor hastily. “I was only
concerned with allaying the fear of my men.”

“As for that,” put in Brian, “I will venture to guess that the greater
their alarm on seeing the demon, the greater their courage once
fighting the pirates begins.”

“You are right in that.” Sir Mortimor got to his feet. “I will leave you
now, Sir James-Sir Brian. In half an hour, look for me again.”

He went out.

“James,” said Brian, “will you really raise an actual demon?”

“Not exactly, Brian,” said Jim. “There’s something I should tell you.
I haven’t had a chance to, up until now. I had a talk with Carolinus
shortly before I left to follow you-about the Christmas party at the
Earl’s a few months back-you remember that-“

“How could I forget it?” said Brian.

“Well, I used my magic rather freely there, as you know,” said Jim.
“I was able to do this because I’ve got a special drawing account.
However, afterwards, and before the assignment of wardship
came to me for young Robert, I had this talk with Carolinus; and he
explained something to me, for reasons which I’d rather not go
into, even with you. Reasons why I shouldn’t be so spendthrift with
my magic. Just believe me-they’re serious.”

“I had not guessed this, James.” Brian looked concerned.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Jim said. “But because of that talk, I
now need to be a miser with my magic. So, I’m not going to raise
any demon-a magician’s not supposed to, anyhow. I am, actually,
going to make myself look so much like a demon it’ll have the
same effect. To do that I’m going to have to be completely alone
for the next twenty minutes or so. Could I ask you-I know it’s asking
you to do something beneath your rank, but we’re strangers here,
and I don’t trust the servants-would you stand guard outside the
door of this room and see I’m not interrupted for that time? I think if
you simply tell anyone I’m doing magic here, nobody would want to
come in.”

“Gladly will I do this for you,” said Brian. “And I promise none shall
enter.”

“Thanks, Brian,” said Jim.

“It is but a little thing,” said Brian.

He stepped out; and Jim, left to himself, gathered his attention and
visualized a make-up kit appearing on the table. It was a good deal
smaller use of magic than transforming his appearance. He
visualized very clearly what he wanted, and what those things he
wanted should be able to do for him. The tusks should seal to his
present teeth and look natural. They and the green skin dye should
disappear, the minute he visualized himself as no longer needing
it. The horns should fit naturally to his scalp through his hair; and
vanish as conveniently, when the time came... and so forth. Last,
but most important, he should have some boots that enabled him
to walk quite naturally, but extended his legs a good two feet above
whatever he was standing on.

There was a moment’s pause. Then the things he had ordered
appeared, with a puff of displaced air, on the table where he, Brian
and Sir Mortimor had been sitting a few moments before.

They were all small items, except for the boots, which looked
perfectly ordinary, except that their tops appeared as if they would
reach well above his knees if he tried to put them on. He decided
to leave trying them on until the last.

Instead, he tried the tusks first, simply laying them against his
upper teeth under his lip, at the right and left corners of his mouth
so that their sharp points curved out over his lower lip, with their
points almost touching his chin.

They stuck firmly. The green dye for his skin only required dabbing
on the back of one hand, and it spread by itself over all the skin of
his body that was exposed-and for all he knew underneath his
clothes as well.

The two horns fastened themselves to his head as firmly and
easily as the tusks had attached themselves. His only difficulty was
with placing them so that they would be level with each other. He
found himself wishing he had a mirror to look in as he worked; and
then suddenly realized that with only a small extra expenditure of
magic he could have one.

He visualized it. It appeared, standing on the table, eight inches
high and five wide, as ordered. He stared at what he saw reflected
in it. The tusks and green skin by themselves were enough to
make a remarkable change in his appearance. He had not counted
on the fact that the tusks pushed out his upper lip at the right and
left comers, distorting the skin of the rest of his face.

It occurred to him suddenly that he might try this trick of making
himself up to amuse Robert-but Angie would never permit it

The thought of Robert was unfortunate. He had a sudden vision of
Robert, about ten years old, after hearing Brian’s story about this,
asking him, “What did you do in the battle?”

Jim found himself suddenly depressed. Brian should be bringing
up Robert-but Brian, like just about everyone else he had met so
far in the fourteenth century, was too rough. He had seen Brian
playfully cuffing his squire around. In spite of the years that he and
Angie had been here now, he, at least, really did not fit this time.
Those belonging here ignored pain and expected all others to do
so.

He pushed the feeling from him. No time for that now. Getting the
horns on straight helped take his mind off it. He added contact
lenses, which from the outside made his eyes look as if they had
diamondlike pupils surrounded by blackness.

He attached claws to his fingernails. From inside he could see
through the contact lenses quite clearly, with as good a view as he
had possessed without them; and to his relief, they were not
uncomfortable. He had never worn contact lenses in the twentieth
century-which now seemed a long time ago rather than something
in the future. The last things to go on were the boots. He sat down
and pulled on the left one, gingerly.

But his foot slipped easily into it and seemed to go the full length
of it. Encouraged, he pulled on the right boot and stood up,
banging his head on the room’s ceiling. He had not banged it hard
enough to do damage, but the contact was painful. The pain made
him angry; and since there was no one else around to get angry
with, he was angry with himself. He adorned himself with the few
more items of make-up that remained.

He took another look in the mirror-and almost jumped. He was the
ugliest creature he had ever laid eyes on. He had thought Kelb, in
his manlike Djinni body, held this record; but if ugliness was
considered as a subdivision of beauty, he was more beautiful than
a dozen Djinn, rolled into one.

However, he reminded himself, this was no time for speculating.
He raised his voice. “Brian, would you come in now?”

“Gladly, James,” said Brian, without. The door opened; Brian
stepped into the room, and checked, his right hand jumping to his
left hip, to the hilt of his sword in its scabbard.

“James?” he said uncertainly. “Is that you, James?”

His other hand had now flown to his opposite hip and seized the
handle of his poignard, so that he was ready to cross-draw both
weapons.

“It’s me, all right,” said Jim hastily. “Do I look that much different,
Brian?”

“By all the Saints!” said Brian, staring at him. “If you had not
answered me finally with your ordinary voice, James, I would be
sure that some demon had seized and eaten you while I was
outside. It is you?”

“Yes, it’s me, Brian,” said Jim. “Sorry I startled you. But at the
same time, I’m pleased. If I can do that to an old friend, I should
be sure of scaring our foes.”

“By our Lady!” said Brian. “They will die of fright!”

“So much the easier,” said Jim. “Now, I’ve got to get hold of Hob,
and put him to gathering the smoke to make the pirate ships look
like they’re on fire. Brian, could I bother you to step outside again;
and if Sir Mortimor comes along, would you hold him up and knock
on the door first, so I’ll have some warning before he comes in?”

“Better,” said Brian, “that I knock on the door, then come in myself
and make sure you are ready, before you call him in. I would like to
see his face when he sees you!”

“Fine,” said Jim. “Let’s do it that way.”

With Brian out of the room he went over to the fireplace, leaned
down-way down, it turned out, with the boots on-and called into the
top of the fireplace opening.

“Hob? Hob, would you come here a moment? I want to talk to you.”

“Yes, m’lord!” chirped a cheerful little voice. Hob popped into view,
stared at him aghast and immediately popped back out of sight up
the chimney.

“Hob!” called Jim again, awkwardly bending even farther to make
sure his voice carried all the way up the chimney. “Come back.
Never mind what I look like. It’s me, Sir James, your Lord. Pay no
attention to my face. This is just a false appearance.”

There was no answer. He kept talking up the chimney, pleading
with Hob to come down, with his belt buckle earnestly trying to dig
its way through the middle part of his body to his spine. It was hard
to find breath to talk with, bent awkwardly double this way. Finally,
however, a small voice answered.

“You’re not m’lord James,” came Hob’s tones tremulously. “You’re
a Djinni.”

“I am not a Djinni,” said Jim earnestly. “I’m a demon-I mean, I’m
your Lord James Eckert that you know very well, just pretending to
be a demon. I know I’ve made myself look like a demon, but it’s
me. Come down here, Hob! I have to talk with you! It’s time for us
to rush out at the men who’ve been trying to get into this castle; and
that means I’m depending upon you to get things done too. Come
on down so we can talk about it.”

The top of Hob’s head inched into view upside down. It took a
good half-minute for all of his face to appear.

“If you’re m’lord James,” he said, “what was the name you gave
me, before you had to take it back?”

“I named you Hob-One de Malencontri,” said Jim. “And I’ll still call
you by that name when I want to. It’s just that the rest of the world
can’t.”

Slowly, fearfully, Hob came out into the room. Jim was very careful
not to move at all.

“If it’s really you, m’lord,” said Hob quaveringly, “what do you want
from me?”

“I want you to do what we talked about you doing,” said Jim. “Sir
Mortimor’s going to be along in a moment; and I’ll be going down
with him to let the rest of his men see me, and reassure them all’s
well. I’m not going to tell them I’m Sir James; but I don’t want them
to be afraid of me, looking like this. Also, I want them to believe I’m
there to help them, fighting on their side.”

“You look terrible!” said Hob, coming slowly but fully into view. “Are
you sure you’re you?”

“Of course I’m sure,” said Jim. “But all that means is we’re just
about ready to go; because the sun’ll be up soon. I want you to get
busy right away gathering smoke so that we can have it coming up
from the end of the ships for perhaps a good fifteen or twenty
minutes. They may not notice the smoke going up right away.”

“Oh, I’ve already got the smoke all bundled up,” said Hob, more
strongly now. “There wasn’t anything to that. What do you want me
to do next?”

“There’s a fireplace on the ground floor where all Sir Mortimor’s
men are gathered,” said Jim. “Will you take the bundle of smoke,
go down that chimney and listen from that fireplace to what we talk
about down there? Then, as soon as it looks like we’re just about to
start the attack, I want you to go ahead to the boats and start the
smoke going up. We’ll probably all come outside the castle, but
wait there until we see the smoke, ourselves; and until the men who
have been attacking us start running down to the ships to put out
the fire they’ll think is on them. How long will it take you after you
stop listening to reach the ships and start the smoke rising?”

“Oh, almost no time at all,” said Hob. “By the time you and
everyone else are outside, I’ll have the smoke going up. I can’t do
anything about the men down in the village seeing it, though.”

“That’s all right,” said Jim. “I don’t expect you to-“

There was a scratching at the door.

“Brian?” called Jim. “By all means come in. I’ll be gone when you
get here, because I have things magical to do. But the demon will
be waiting for you. Have you told Sir Mortimor what he may expect
to see?”

“I have,” said Brian. “Do you want me to step in alone, first?”

“If you please, Brian,” said Jim. “If Sir Mortimor will be so kind as to
wait just a moment, there are things I must say to you before I
leave- things unconnected with matters here.”

The door opened and Brian came through.

Jim beckoned him to come close and whispered to him.

“Brian, I’m going to use a different voice for the demon. Don’t let it
bother you. And you can tell Sir Mortimor that I just simply vanished
after speaking a few words to you. I think that takes care of things.”

“Doubtless,” said Brian.

“Then let him in,” said Jim.

Brian turned to the door now, and spoke to Sir Mortimor outside.
The tall knight came in, saw Jim in his demon’s make-up, stopped,
opened his mouth, closed it again and crossed himself in the
process of reaching for his sword.

“I am invincible!” boomed Jim in a voice a full octave below his
normal tones and one that he tried to fill with menace. “None can
stand against me; and I take commands from no one! But I will
assist you in this matter. Now, you may lead me to where others
like you await.”

Sir Mortimor stiffened and some of the color came back to his
face. Slowly, he let go of his sword.

“Then, demon,” he said coldly, “come with me.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Where the hell,” demanded Sir Mortimor of himself, but aloud,
stopping them both just above the floor on which his men waited,
“is Sir Brian? He was with us upstairs!”

“That great magician, Sir James,” boomed Jim, for the first time
making full use of the magical voice he had invented to go with his
demon persona, three times as loud and a full octave deeper than
his ordinary human voice, “required that Sir Brian wait outside the
room. Consequently he had no chance to make his devotions
before battle-as is his custom-before you arrived. He should be
with us in minutes.”

Sir Mortimor looked stunned-probably, Jim thought, not so much by
the idea of Brian praying before fighting as by finding himself
outvoiced. But he recovered quickly.

“Now, damn it, they’ll have heard you down there! Why didn’t he-“
Chancing to look up at his companion just then, Sir Mortimor’s
voice underwent a sudden change to a much milder and more
pleasant tone. “-didn’t Sir Brian tell me he intended that when he
met me outside your door? Well, we needn’t wait for him. Since
they did hear you, best that we go down right now. I’ll lead the way.”

He moved off, down the staircase, and Jim followed a few steps
behind. They descended under the ceiling that had been the floor
beneath their feet a moment before, and into full view of the space
packed with men armed to the teeth. In spite of their weapons, at
the sight of the demon these were already trying to crowd into the
corner of the room farthest from the foot of the stairs.

“Rejoice, my children!” Sir Mortimor’s voice rang out. “Sir James
has provided us with what we need to be sure of victory. You see
behind me a demon under his command, who will fight along with
us; and in whose company we shall send those who attack us flying
from our shores.”

It hardly seemed possible; but by this time, the crowd of armed
men below them had now managed to compress itself to three-
quarters of the size it had been a moment before.

Sir Mortimor continued to descend the stairs, with Jim behind him.
They reached the floor.

“Fear not!” shouted Sir Mortimor. “This demon, named Invincible,
is completely under the control of Sir James, my good and loyal
friend. Sir James’s magic forbids him from coming with us himself;
so he has sent this deputy to make sure we cannot fail. Now,
outside with all of you- but quietly so as not to wake them below.
Sir Brian will be joining us soon. We must watch for the first sign
that their boats are on fire!”

With grateful and surprising speed, the population of the room
emptied itself through the inner door to the passageway, then the
now unbarricaded outer door, on to the steep hillside. They poured
out around the steps on to the stairs and slopes before the castle.
Below them, the whole land and sea was monochrome, most of its
color lost in the pale light of the not-yet-risen sun. No one was
moving in the village. There was no sound. No more was there any
sound or movement aboard the two ships; so that the repeated
talking of the waves, coming up and breaking on the pebbly shore,
came clearly to the ears of all of them.

“Ah, Sir Mortimor-demon!” said the voice of Sir Brian behind Jim
and the tall knight.

He joined them, fully weaponed and ready. And stood beside
them.

“Anything happening yet?” he asked cheerfully. Sir Mortimor
scowled at him.

“We are waiting for a sign that the ships have been fired,” Sir
Mortimor said. “So far there is none.”

“I have little doubt we will see evidence shortly,” said Brian. “A fine,
clear morning, is it not?”

This was Brian’s usual high spirits before any kind of a fight
showing themselves, as Jim well knew. Sir Mortimor was evidently
of a different nature; and not necessarily pleased by cheerfulness
over the prospect of a dawn encounter after a sleepless night that
might cost him everything he owned, to say nothing of his life.

“It’s taking long enough-“ he began; but at that moment, a gray
wisp of smoke lifted from the seaward end of the ship to their right
and a second later another wisp went up from the nearby end of
the ship beside it.

The columns of smoke went straight up in the still air. They
thickened and darkened.

“Wake up, wake up, you blind infidel idiots!” muttered Sir Mortimor
between his teeth. “Haven’t you at least one hell-bound sentry
awake? Isn’t there at least one of you who has to step outside for
some reason or other?”

The village slumbered on, deaf to his complaints. The smoke
poured up even more thickly from the seaward ends of the two
boats; and now voices began to cry out from the boats
themselves, yells and screams of alarm. Still, there was no sign
that could be seen from the hillside of anyone moving along the
visible deck portion of either one.

“All praise!” breathed Sir Mortimor; and then suddenly his voice
rang out in its full force to the men around him, more than loudly
enough to wake most of those in the village. “The rowers are taking
alarm! They will be slaves chained in place and fearing to be
burned to death!”

Sir Mortimor’s men started a cheer-and throttled it immediately as
Sir Mortimor glared at them. Below, a first few figures began to
stagger, still half asleep, out of the buildings below. They stared
about, focused seaward, saw the boats, and began to run toward
them, shouting as they ran. Other figures began to boil from the
flimsy village structures.

“Wait, wait,” ordered Sir Mortimor in a lower voice, one pitched just
enough to reach his own men. “Let them get well away from their
weapons. Wait... wait. Now!”
“A Breugel! A Breugel-“

Shouting his war cry, he went leaping down the steps, three and
four at a time.

His men streamed after him, waving their weapons. Jim and Brian
followed, more cautiously until they were on less steep ground;
then Brian began to put on his best speed, charging into the mass
of Sir Mortimor’s men ahead of him and pushing them aside.

Jim followed as quickly as he could, but matching Brian’s speed of
foot was impossible, let alone that of most of Sir Mortimor’s
fighting men; with the exception of those who were, he suspected,
deliberately lagging back a little. In any case, it was only a moment
or two before they were upon the stream of corsairs, headed
toward the boat, and these, turning to discover an armed group
descending on them and themselves unarmed except for knives,
were bolting in all directions.

Sir Mortimor had reached the shore end of the two ships. He
turned and shouted to his men.

“Turn! Turn! Back to the village!”

Those with him faced about and reversed their charge. The
distance between the village buildings and the shore was no
distance at all; and almost immediately they ran head-on into men
still coming out of the buildings, some of them still half awake and
empty-handed, but some, at least, now armed with swords and
shields and ready to fight. By the time Jim caught up, the melee
was in full activity.

Jim cursed himself internally for not having thought to have brought
at least a sword. It might not have fitted with his demon image; but
he would have felt a lot better right now if he had something in his
hand to keep enemies at a distance. He tried to make up for the
lack of it by bellowing at the top of his voice and flailing his clawed
arms in the air.

It was a few moments before he realized that he was not forcing
anyone to stand back from him-for the very good reason that
everyone was being very careful not to get close to him without
being forced in any way. That included Sir Mortimor’s men. But
Brian was locked in tight combat in the midst of the fight,
surrounded by half a dozen Moroccans.

He was a much better swordsman than any of those around him,
and his armor was good enough to turn the edges of most of their
blades; but there were entirely too many concentrating on him
alone for Jim’s peace of mind. Jim charged in his direction,
therefore, making as much noise and trying to look as fearsome as
possible. It worked. Brian’s attackers caught sight of him coming,
and ran. Jim came up to Brian, who was now leaning on his sword,
its point shoved into the beach before him, and catching his breath.

“Damn it, James!” gasped Brian. “You frightened them all away!”

The use of Jim’s name was safe enough. The hubbub around
them would have covered up the sound of it, even if any of those
nearby had time to listen; and none had.

“Don’t be an idiot yourself, Brian,” said Jim, likewise gasping for
breath. His magic boots, which added a couple of feet to his size,
had not made running easy and he also was out of breath. “There
were too many of them!”

“I did not call for rescue-“ snapped Brian, then checked himself.
“But there, James, I honor your thought to aid a fellow knight
possibly in distress.”

“A fellow knight and an old friend!” said Jim.

“I would rather believe you would have given that response to any
knight in my position,” said Brian. “But there, let it be. I am sensible
of your friendship, James. But look! It is all but over now. Those
who were not slain, or too badly hurt to do so, have reached their
ships and are putting out to sea, leaving their friends behind.”

Jim turned to look. At first glance, it seemed all too easy, almost
ridiculous after the undeniable alarm and concern up in the castle;
but then he saw all the bodies lying around on the ground. The
streets-if they could be called that-in the village, the pebbly shore
down to the water’s edge, was strewn with fallen men. Most of Sir
Mortimor’s warriors seemed busy in robbing the dead bodies of
their enemies-also those of the near-dead.

“Brian,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll be glad to be out of here.”

“And I also,” answered Brian. “In God’s name, I will be glad to be
in Tripoli.”

They were in Tripoli, four days later, but where in Tripoli was
another question.

“Do you suppose the damn fellow really knows the way?” growled
Brian.

“The shipmaster said he did,” answered Jim.

Brian grunted. What Jim had just said was of course no answer at
all. Jim sympathized, but he had nothing more to offer his friend in
the way of reassurance. The trading ship that had brought them
down from Cyprus to the port of Tripoli on what would be the coast
of Lebanon-if the future of this medieval world followed the same
pattern as the twentieth-century world from which Jim had come-
had carried as master a villainous-looking fellow, who, however,
had not overcharged them for the trip, according to what Brian’s
friends in Cyprus had assured them. Whether this meant he was
honest in everything else, however, might be doubtful.

He was a lank-haired, shifty-eyed individual with a drooping gray-
black mustache in a narrow olive-colored face; with the ample
stomach of a glutton and the skinny arms and legs of a miser. He
had hired the local man who was leading them to their destination,
as well as the other two that were coming along behind and
carrying their possessions. In their innocence, neither Brian nor
Jim had any idea whether the price he had negotiated with these
three was an overcharge or not; but they could not do without
direction and porters, so they had no choice but to pay it.

But their guide had led them now through a completely bewildering
maze of streets and alleyways so narrow in some places they
literally had to turn sideways to get between buildings, the ground
underfoot all but carpeted with human and animal wastes,
particularly in the smaller streets. In addition, Jim-like Brian-was
fully armored and weaponed, with a travel cloak over everything
else, the hood of which concealed the knap-sacklike bag in which
Hob rode; and Brian was similarly armed, armored and clothed. All
this in a climate that was showing a warmer spring than they were
used to in England. They were hot and thirsty, and their tempers
were beginning to wear thin.

It did seem as if the home of a local magician, to which their guide
was supposedly leading them, could hardly be this much of a
distance in a medieval town, which while crawling with population
like an anthill, was also crammed tightly into as small a space as
could be practical. On the other hand, thought Jim, the maze of
streets could have deluded them with the notion they had walked
farther than they thought

“Yet another corner!” said Brian sharply. “That’s enough! I’m going
to confront the fellow. Here, you, come back here!”

The guide stopped, turned and met them halfway as they came up.

“Oh, master,” he said, “thou shinest before my eyes like a flower
beloved of Allah, and thy sweetness perfumes the air. In what way
can I oblige thee?”

“Enough of that chatter,” snapped Brian. “When do we get to the
magician’s house? How much farther is it? Answer me, fellow, and
if your answer is not a good one, on your head be it!”

He put his hand on his sword hilt.

“Great lords and masters!” said the guide. “May I be blinded and
cast down into the seventh hell, if we are not upon the place right
now. It is but three doors down.”

“You’re sure?” snapped Brian.

“It is as I’ve said,” said the guide. “In Allah’s name, it is but three
doors down.”

“It had best be so,” said Brian.

The man turned and ran ahead a short distance through the dim
alleyway they were traversing, and stopped beside what seemed
to be a solid wall.

“It is here, my lords and masters!” he called. “This is the place!”

“Let’s go look,” said Jim. He and Brian slogged forward, and there
was indeed a slight indentation in the wooden wall beside which the
guide had stopped; and in that indentation was a door that probably
once had been painted green, but there was very little of that color
left to it now.

“Lo, I have done what was promised. Pay me and those two who
carry your wealth, and let us go,” said the guide.

“Wait a minute,” said Jim, as Brian reached up under his chain mail
shirt for his purse. “Let’s get them to answer that door and find out
if we actually are at the right place, first. Then we’ll pay you.”

“Your wish is my command, O mighty one!” said the guide.
Turning, he began to hammer on the door. He hammered for some
little time, but there was no sound from within nor anything to signify
he had been heard. He turned and looked hopelessly at Jim and
Brian, shrugging his shoulders; but Brian was scowling now, and he
quickly turned back to the door and began hammering on it again.

“Open!” he cried in a piercing, high-pitched voice. “Open, in the
name of Allah, the beneficent, the all-hospitable. Two great men,
beloved of Allah, the sultan and our Bey, here in Tripoli, are come
to visit with abu al-Qusayr.”

There still was no response, but Brian growled and the man kept
up his pounding and his cries. Finally, there was the noise of bolts
being drawn and bars being lifted, and the door opened to reveal a
tall, stately-looking man in a rich, heavy robe of red. He was silver-
haired and upright. He glared down at the guide.

“Dog of the wharf,” he said. “Why do you clamor at this door? Do
you not know what you risk by disturbing the mind of abu al-
Qusayr?”

“Forgive me, O gracious one!” said the guide. “But with me are two
great men, lords among the Franks and nasranies of the north, who
are directed here by friends of abu al-Qusayr. Not for a king’s
ransom would I disturb so all-wise and powerful a man. But I think
that these with me are expected by him.”

The silver-haired man in the red robe directed his glance at Jim
and Brian.

“Your names, sirs?” he asked, with a surprising change of speech
to a courtly, even European manner.

“I am Sir Brian Neville-Smythe,” said Brian. “With me is the Mage,
Baron Sir James Eckert de Malencontri, whom your master is
expecting.”

“I must not claim the title of Mage, however,” said Jim hurriedly, for
the eyebrows of the silver-haired man had climbed up on his
forehead on hearing that title. “I am a magician of relatively low
rank; apprentice, however, to the Mage S. Carolinus, who has said
that I would find friendship and direction from abu al-Qusayr, as a
fellow member of the Magician’s Kingdom.”

The man in the doorway relaxed.

“You are expected, sir,” he said-again with more of a European
way of speaking than that of one of the locals. Jim wondered if his
invisible translator was carrying him over what essentially was a
switch from one language to another. Looking past Jim and Brian
now, this man beckoned the two luggage-carriers forward and
pointed just inside the doorway.

“Leave your burdens there,” he said. “They will be taken care of.”

“My pay! Our pay!” cried the guide. “O munificent masters, we
have not yet been paid!”

Jim produced a silver coin and passed it to the guide.

“But it was to be a gold dinar,” wailed the guide.

“That’s not what the shipmaster told us,” said Jim.

“It was to be gold! It was to be gold-“ clamored the guide.

“Cease thy clamor,” snapped the man in the red robe, “and get
thee hence happily with what thou hast, lest devils and scorpions
follow thee to thy grave!”

Ignoring the guide and the bearers, he turned once more to Jim
and Brian.

“Enter, messires,” he said. He stood aside to let them come
through the doorway in the narrow space left between himself and
their luggage. Then he closed the door behind them upon the
sound of lamentations and protests from both the guides and the
carriers. “Five drachmas would have been ample. You have been
robbed, messires, but there is little help for it, I know, in a city like
this, where you are not known and you do not know its ways.
Come, Sir Brian, Sir James. Sir James, my master is indeed
expecting you. Follow me.”

He led them down the short, dim-lit and narrow corridor toward a
farther door, from which several other men, obviously lesser
servants, ran in, ducked past them and ran on to the outer door.
Jim heard the sound of the bolts being driven home and the heavy
bar being lifted back into place. They stepped through the inner
door.

Suddenly, it was as if they had stepped back into a palace out of
the Arabian Nights.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

They had entered a large room with a lofty, white dome-shaped
ceiling and one wall that was not a wall but spaced pillars, showing
either an open corridor or a balcony beyond them. Entrances, both
high and wide, in the other two walls ahead, opened on further
rooms beyond, giving glimpses of similar high ceilings and stone
walls.

The stone itself was beautifully fitted, and jutted out to make a
gallery on the wall to Jim’s left, its floor some fifteen feet up.
Shielding the gallery was a screen of worked stone, with intricately
curved, small apertures piercing every part of it, so that it was in
effect a screen of wrought stone to hide anyone who might be
standing behind it and looking down. A few pieces of furniture,
mainly hassocks, cushions and low tables, were lined up against
the walls of the room, leaving the center of it completely open,
increasing the appearance of its size-an appearance that was
reinforced by the light-colored stone of the walls. Bright daylight
seemed to be flooding in, not only through the pillars, but from
other, hidden parts of the room, either by clever architecture or
magic, so that the whole place seemed to float in mid-air.

“If you will follow me, messires,” said the red-robed man; and led
them off through one of the farther entrances which were
rectangular to about six feet off the ground, and then swelled into
an onion-shaped arch with a sharp upward point in the center.

They followed him, through rooms that were almost identical with
the first they had seen. Carpets, with indecipherable figuring upon
them, were everywhere. Occasionally they caught sight of men,
dressed in loose green blouses and trousers, passing through the
corner of a room-from doorway to doorway-in the same rooms they
traversed.

Now that he stopped to think of it, Jim remembered that the
servants that had run to rebar the door had also been dressed in
green. The red-robed man paid no attention to these, however, so
Jim and Brian also ignored them; and they went for some distance,
always flooded by the remarkable daylight that seemed to
penetrate into every room, even those that had walls on four sides
and no visible form of lighting otherwise.

At last, they came to a small closed door, a rectangular door, not
unlike the two by which they had entered from the street; but this
door was of highly polished, dark, rich wood, with a handgrip in its
outer side that seemed to be of shining silver.

Red-robe stopped before it, and Jim and Brian necessarily
stopped with him. The silver-haired man spoke to the door.

“Master,” he said, “Sir James Eckert, the Dragon Knight, is come.
He is with me now, outside your door, with a companion, Sir Brian
Neville-Smythe. What is your will, O my master?”

“They may come in,” said a deep, quiet voice from beyond the
door. “You may go, Majid.”

“At once, my master,” said Majid. He turned to Jim and Brian. “Abu
al-Qusayr bids you enter.”

He stood aside from the door, which opened softly and apparently
of its own power. Looking through the entrance, Jim saw a smaller
room than they had encountered so far, still high-ceilinged, but
completely windowless, with all four of the walls windowless, but
bright with the same ever-present daylight.

Against a far wall, a square-shouldered man sat cross-legged on a
thick, white cushion, with a round table of black wood before him.
On the table was a bowl apparently filled with clear water; and
beside this stood some pieces of silver apparatus, very intricately
fitted together and with jointed parts that were probably movable,
but which now stood still.

The man, himself, behind the table, had a wispy white beard on a
firm chin. He looked to be of something more than middle age, but
his actual age was anyone’s guess. He was a strong-looking man,
sitting straight-backed, dressed in a long robe that covered his
legs and feet completely in his present cross-legged position-a
robe of the same color of red as that Carolinus habitually wore, a
softer red than Majid’s robe. His brow was lofty, his eyes dark and
his face square and suntanned beneath a straight nose and a
straight mouth.

He gave the impression of being utterly reliable, utterly to be
trusted. The sort of person who is like a glimpse of land to
someone helplessly adrift in a storm-torn sea.

Jim and Brian advanced into the room, and the door closed almost
noiselessly behind them. Curiously, in spite of the warmth that
seemed to emanate from the man himself, the air in here was
cooler and strangely fresh. The man gestured toward other pillows
against the wall, and three of these slipped out in front of his table,
apparently on their own power.

“Sit down, Jim, and you too, Brian,” he said. He smiled. “I see
Majid didn’t realize there were three of you.”

“Three of us, sir?” said Brian, a little sharply as, more easily than
Jim, he dropped into a cross-legged position on one of the pillows
before the desk.

“You forget your little friend, whom Jim is carrying, Brian,” said abu
al-Qusayr. He turned to the already seated Jim. “Come out, little
one. Don’t be afraid.”

Jim felt a stirring in the small hidden knapsack on his back, and
Hob climbed out onto his shoulder. He stood erect, holding onto
Jim’s neck, his feet on Jim’s shoulder and looking at the bearded
magician.

“Come,” said abu al-Qusayr, patting the table top in front of him.
“Come and sit here, little friend.”

To Jim’s surprise, Hob leaped absolutely fearlessly forward onto
the table top and sat down cross-legged on the spot indicated,
staring interestedly up at abu al-Qusayr, who examined him in
return.

“You are a Natural,” said abu al-Qusayr. “What I believe is called a
hobgoblin, back in the place you come from. Isn’t that right?”

“Oh, yes,” said Hob confidently. “Actually, I’m also Hob-One de
Malencontri-but nobody but m’lord Jim and m’lady Angela can call
me that. Maybe you can call me that. Do you suppose?”

“I suppose I could,” said abu al-Qusayr. “But it’s a long, rather
formal name. I’d rather just call you Hob too, if you don’t mind”

“I don’t mind if you do it,” said Hob confidentially.

“Good,” said abu al-Qusayr. “How did you happen to come along
with m’lord Jim and Sir Brian?”

“I came so I could hurry back and tell m’lady Angela if m’lord gets
into any trouble at all,” said Hob. “She’d like to know. She worries
about him.”

“I can understand that,” said abu al-Qusayr. He looked at Jim.

“With all due respect,” said Jim, “don’t you suppose you could be
asking me those questions?”

“I could, of course.” Abu al-Qusayr stroked his small white beard.
“But I was curious. I wanted a little conversation with your Hob. I’d
never met his form of Natural before. Are you gentlemen quite
comfortable? You may be a little overdressed for this climate.”

“Why, damme,” said Brian, almost wonderingly, “I was a little more
than comfortably warm on the way here, but this house of yours is
very airy, cool and pleasant. I’m quite at ease, now.”

“And the pillows,” said abu al-Qusayr. “Can you manage to sit on
them comfortably? I know you people from northern Europe are
not used to sitting in this position.”

“We do it a fair amount, when out away from home or any other
lodging,” said Brian. “We’ll sit like this around a fire of nights when
we’re far from any lodging. I find no discomfort in it.”

Brian, to Jim’s ears, was beginning to sound almost as trusting as
Hob had, toward this magician. Abu al-Qusayr seemed out to
charm them all. Jim waited, a little grimly, for the force of that
persuasion to be tried on him.

“As for you, Jim,” said abu al-Qusayr, with no attempt at all to put
him at his ease, but speaking as if they had been old friends from
the start, “trouble follows you like bees after a man smeared with
honey. Have you been aware of a small brown dog around you,
since you left the European shore?”

“You mean Kelb? The Djinni? He’s already approached me about
getting my protection,” Jim said. “It seems his master was another,
very powerful Djinni, who’s angry with him for having escaped from
a lake of fire into which the other Djinni had him thrown.”

He heard his own voice coming out warmly and confidentially.

I’m already falling into the same sort of soft trap that this man got
Hob and Brian into, he told himself. He stiffened his back and
deliberately spoke coldly. “I told him I’d think about it. He’s been
hanging around me, but I haven’t had any trouble with him.”

“Well,” said abu al-Qusayr, “he’s perfectly right to be afraid. Sakhr
al-Jinni is one of the most powerful of the Djinn. You, yourself,
should be careful of him, also. I would counsel you to have little to
do with this Kelb.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” said Jim.

“Good,” said abu al-Qusayr. “You’re ranked as a C magickian, now,
I believe?”

“Yes,” said Jim, feeling a twinge of embarrassment, and becoming
angry with himself almost immediately for feeling anything at all.
Why, he asked himself, should it matter to him what rank this bunch
of magicians chose to consider he should hold?

“I don’t think a Djinni like Kelb should give a C-rank magickian any
great problems,” said abu al-Qusayr. “But you want to avoid
anything that might lead you into getting mixed up with Sakhr al-
Jinni. It’s true he’s only a Natural, but he’s one of the very powerful
Naturals, and one of the most vindictive.”

“I was planning on avoiding him,” said Jim.

“I thought you would,” said abu al-Qusayr. “Still, no harm in
mentioning it. But there’s something else I unfortunately have to
mention to you. Carolinus just passed word to me that he’d gotten
notice of another complaint filed against you by a separate
kingdom. The Grand Demon accuses you of impersonating a
demon. Would you care to tell me your side of that matter?”

Jim told him.
“I see,” said abu al-Qusayr, when he was done. “Excuse me a
moment, then-“

He bent over the bowl of water or whatever it was on the table in
front of him and stared into it. While Jim, Brian and Hob sat silently
waiting- Jim with an uneasy feeling in his stomach-there was
silence in the room. Finally abu al-Qusayr lifted his gaze from the
bowl of water.

“Much more cheap and convenient, you know,” he said to Jim,
“doing your scrying in a clear bowl of water. You don’t have to have
a glass globe, as you northerners do. Everyone to his own taste, of
course. Well, I would say that you’d have no trouble answering that
accusation. I’ll have to disqualify myself as one of your judges, of
course-“

“One of my judges?” said Jim.

“Quite naturally,” said abu al-Qusayr. “Naturally, I know this region,
and I’ve had a few contacts with demons myself-just in passing,
you understand. However, they would still have to call me as an
expert witness because of my local knowledge; and what I can tell
them should clear you completely. Not, actually, that you need my
testimony. The facts are plain enough.”

“You were looking at what happened a couple of days ago? At the
castle of Sir Mortimor Breugel?” asked Jim.

“Yes,” answered abu al-Qusayr. “As I hope you know, scrying is
usually limited to events happening at the present or possibly in the
near future; but under special circumstances, of which a capital
accusation is one-“

“Capital!” echoed Jim. Capital crimes even in the first part of his
twentieth century normally called for a death sentence. “What
would happen to me if I was convicted of actually having violated
the demon kingdom?”

“We’d have to turn you over to the demons, of course,” said abu al-
Qusayr. “Just as you would have had to have been turned over to
the King and Queen of the Dead, if that earlier charge of willful
trespass upon their kingdom had been proven against you. Of
course, it wasn’t. The guilt in that case actually lay with Malvinne,
the French AAA magickian-and you saw what happened to him, I
believe.”

“I did,” said Jim. He would never forget the sight-Malvinne being
drawn up into dark clouds sculpted into the forms of the King and
Queen of the Dead on their thrones; pulled up as if he had been a
drowned rat at the end of a string.

“Well, as I say, it doesn’t matter,” said abu al-Qusayr. “As I just told
you, even without my expert testimony, the facts are indisputable.
You made it very clear, for the record, in speaking to Sir Mortimor,
that you would not turn yourself into a demon. You only said you
would produce one. You lied to him, of course, which is perfectly
justifiable under circumstances where the magickian needs
defense, but wishes to do no harm. You merely let him think you
had produced a demon, which is not a violation of demon
sovereignty in any way. The fact that Sir Mortimor, Sir Mortimor’s
men and those who were attacking his castle believed you to be a
demon was their mistake, and their responsibility. You fulfilled the
magickian’s command to defend himself without harming anyone
else. You did no harm.”

“No harm,” echoed Jim, in a low voice. In his mind’s eye he saw
the bodies of the Moroccans scattered all over the beach, being
searched and even cut into by Sir Mortimor’s men, to see if they
had swallowed anything small but valuable to protect it from being
stolen.

“Don’t let it disturb you,” said abu al-Qusayr, as if he had read Jim’s
mind. “If it hadn’t been the Moroccans who were killed, it would
have been Sir Mortimor’s men. Sir Mortimor-and possibly you three
as well. But come now, let’s have something to eat and drink and
talk about more interesting things.”

Jim felt a sudden breath of air on the back of his neck; and a
moment later a green-clad servant set down on the table top a tray
of cakes and three tiny cups of what looked like very black coffee,
one each in front of himself and Brian; and the third in front of abu
al-Qusayr. He also put down a bowl of milk before Hob-who lapped
it up like a cat. The bowl of clear water and the other apparatus on
the table had vanished a second before the servant appeared.

Abu al-Qusayr immediately sipped from his coffee cup and nibbled
at one of the cakes. Jim vaguely remembered from his reading that
such was good manners in this part of the world. The host would
eat and drink before his guests, to show that neither food nor drink
were poisoned.

Jim lifted his own cup to his lips; and, sure enough, it was very
strong coffee, very heavily sugared. He saw Brian tasting his; and a
look of astonishment coming over his friend’s face before he set
the cup down. Brian, surrounded by transplanted Europeans, had
obviously so far not been offered anything but wine and water until
this moment. Still, Brian’s manners were enough to keep him from
making any comment on this hot, bittersweet brew.

“I am sorry I can’t offer you wine,” said abu al-Qusayr. “There is
none in this house. The Koran, as you know, forbids it to true
Muslims, of which I am one. As I understand it, Brian, you are in
search of the father of your beloved, so arrangements may be
made that she be given you in matrimony; and James, here, has
out of friendship come with you on this trip-albeit a little behind you,
catching up with you in Cyprus.”

“That is so,” said Brian. He had only taken a couple more sips of
coffee, but he had already eaten five of the little cakes. Jim noticed
that they were magically replenishing themselves on the tray, as
fast as those that were there were devoured. “My lady’s father went
off on a crusade, though few would do so, nowadays; but he
hoped that good fortune would attend him, if he did. We had lost
track of him until just lately. Then a knight returning from this part of
the world gave her word that her father had been seen in Palmyra,
which we understand is inland from this city of Tripoli.”

“It is indeed inland,” said abu al-Qusayr, “on the other side of the
mountains and then a distance. But it is still on the caravan routes
and it is a city of merchants. Perhaps her father has become a
merchant and that is the reason for his staying there. If he is doing
well he may have chosen not to return home.”

“How do we get there?” asked Brian.

“I would say,” answered abu al-Qusayr, “the only sensible way for
you will be to join a caravan taking goods shipped from Tripoli to
that city and others beyond. The route lies through the mountains,
which are now dangerous because of a nest of Assassins that
have flourished there in the Kasr al-Abiyadh, or the White Palace,
in the last few years.”

“Assassins?” asked Jim, beating Brian to the question by seconds.

“Yes,” said abu al-Qusayr, “at least they claim to be Hashasheen;
and I would not risk doubting it. They are not, of course, of the
original Assassins, which began with Hassan ibn al-Sabbah, who
was the first ‘Old Man of the Mountain.’ He seized the castle of
Alamut, in a valley near Kazvin, nearly three hundred years ago;
and Alamut was their headquarters for many years, until the
Mongols took them, one by one. Finally, Alamut itself fell to the
Mongols; and the last of the Assassins’ castles in Syria, Kahf, was
conquered less than a hundred years ago. But still the brotherhood
crops up from time to time. I do not know the name of the one who
calls himself Grandmaster of this group in the mountains you will
be passing through; but he was a Sufi, one of the Orthodox who
worship Allah, but in their own strange ways. He felt called upon to
become an Isma’ili and joined those Isma’ilis who are
Hashasheen, or Assassins, as you would say. But the caravan
itself will be armed and ready; and if you stay with the caravan, your
chances should be good of getting to Palmyra.”

“That sounds not too difficult,” said Brian. “Indeed a small bicker
along the way would possibly be welcome, to break the tedium of
the trip.”

“I’m glad to hear you so confident,” said abu al-Qusayr. “I suggest,
however, you keep an eye out. Not only for Assassins, but for other
enemies, most of them Naturals. There are actual demons among
those rocks, as well as ghouls and spirits of various kinds. You
might even encounter a griffin or a cockatrice; although these are
rare nowadays and are not likely to approach something as large
as a caravan.”

Jim noticed Brian’s face had paled. Hob leaped from the top of the
table to Jim’s shoulder and clutched him around the neck.

“Would they want me?” he cried at abu al-Qusayr. “Would any of
them want a hobgoblin like me?”

“Never mind,” said Jim, shortly. “I’ll make sure that nothing from an
Assassin to a cockatrice has anything to do with you.”

Hob sighed with relief, and sat down on Jim’s shoulder. Jim
noticed that abu al-Qusayr was looking at him with a curious
interest.

“Do you,” said Hob, addressing abu al-Qusayr, then hesitating, “do
you have a fireplace around here some place?”

“I’m sorry, little friend,” said abu al-Qusayr. “There are no
fireplaces here. However, there are fires in places like the kitchens.
Sir Brian, I must speak privily with Sir James, here. Would you be
good enough to allow yourself to be shown your quarters, now? On
the way, then, you could be taken past the kitchen, and Hob could
be shown what we have by way of fire and smoke in this building.”

“I would be glad to do so,” said Brian, rising smoothly and
athletically from his pillow without even putting a hand to the
ground. “We will be staying with you, then?”

“Just overnight, I believe,” said abu al-Qusayr. “I have arranged for
you to join the caravan to leave tomorrow.”

Behind him, Jim felt another puff of air, and the voice of Majid
spoke behind them.

“What is your will, master?” said the voice of the silver-haired man.

“Show Sir Brian to the room set aside for him and Sir James,” said
abu al-Qusayr. “On the way, go past the kitchen; so that our small
friend, now on Jim’s shoulder, can see the cooking fires there.
Perhaps Hob would like to ride on Sir Brian’s shoulder?”

Hob immediately leaped over to land on Brian’s shoulder. Brian
looked a little startled, but did not object as Hob took a firm grip
around his neck. Jim turned his head to watch them go out through
the door, which closed noiselessly behind them, then looked back
at abu al-Qusayr.

“You don’t even want Hob listening to what you have to say?” he
asked abu al-Qusayr.

“In this case, I think it’s just as well,” said the older magician. “I’m
glad you sounded so confident now about dealing with these other
creatures that might threaten you in the caravan. Actually, the threat
is small. Most of them like to find their victims alone. On the other
hand, if you see the Mongols at all, they may come in such force
that the caravan will be helpless before them. In that case, I
suggest you not resist them. Just explain why you’re going to
Palmyra. I’ve arranged for some wine, and a certain amount also of
cooked wine-I believe in the north you call it brandy, as well as
other names-to use as a bribe on the Mongols. You might promise
them whatever you think it might take to give you safe passage.
Also, it might be wise if you made the cooked wine appear as if by
magick, whether you actually use magick or not-I understand you’re
limiting your use of it at the present, and I applaud that. But
magicking the cooked wine into existence would keep them from
thinking there’s more of it hidden around the caravan, someplace;
in which case they would tear everything apart. The Mongols are
known to be fond of alcohol.”

“I’ve heard that,” said Jim; and, indeed, he had, although he had
not remembered it until just this moment. It was another tag of
knowledge from the twentieth-century world he and Angie had left
behind.

“What about my using magic?” he said. “How do you suppose the
Mongols would react to that?”

“I think it would serve you very well,” said abu al-Qusayr. “It may
even gain you some respect among them. They will class you with
their shamans, who indeed are magickians of a sort, although they
are other things as well, including being religious figures among
the Mongols.”

“Speaking of magic,” said Jim, “I’ve been enjoying the control of
temperature you have in this house of yours. That will be magic, of
course?”

“It is my one indulgence,” said abu al-Qusayr, with something very
like a sigh, “as your Master, Carolinus, indulges himself with
flowers and green turf through the year, around his small cottage.
When you reach A level, my son, experience will have made you
clever in knowing how you can achieve your ends without magick;
and consequently you will have magickal energy to spend on an
indulgence or two.”

He sighed again.

“I say an indulgence or two,” he went on, “because the architecture
of this home of mine reflects an ancient memory, an ancient, fond
memory, of the time when ours was a great civilization here to the
south of the Mediterranean Sea. We had builders and scholars and
wise men of many kinds. But then Genghis Khan’s Mongols came
and the cities were conquered or destroyed; and with them went
much of the ways of thought and wisdom. Now I live alone and
quietly; and seldom do I have a chance for discourse with one who
thinks and ponders what he thinks and looks at the world to try and
understand what he sees in it.”

He paused, and then almost visibly shook himself out of what
seemed to be a sort of half-dream.

“But I talk too much about myself,” he said. “More to the point is
that, speaking of wise men and scholars, there are still a few
thinkers wandering the world. You’ll encounter one in the caravan.
He’s a young man still-no more than thirty years of age I would say-
his name is ibn-Tariq and you may find his conversation a boon to
you on the long ride to Palmyra. Have you ever ridden a camel
before?”

“No,” said Jim.

“You will find it interesting,” said abu al-Qusayr.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Interesting” was not the word Jim would have chosen for the
experience of riding a camel.

The caravan with which he, along with Brian and Hob, had left was
five days out of Tripoli on the route that would take it eventually
through Palmyra, climbing the steep path into the mountains, and
Jim had yet to get any real control over the beast he rode.

It had to be made to kneel in order for him to get on the saddle
because of the enormous height of its legs; and anyone else in the
caravan, except Brian who was having the same sort of trouble,
could make it do so simply by tapping its neck with a thin stick. Jim
could tap away lightly or strongly or any way he wanted; and the
camel simply ignored him. What the trick was, he had yet to learn.
Also, the camel was equipped with reins, with which he should be
able to guide it like a horse. But it ignored Jim’s attempt to do any
such thing.

What it would do, entirely on its own, was plod along in line with the
other camels as long as they kept moving. When the other camels
stopped, it stopped. It smelled, it made noisy bubbling sounds,
and it was as indifferent to Jim on its back as if he had been a
piece of baggage.

The one welcome thing about it was its pace, after the familiar
jolting of a trotting horse. The camel traveled by moving both legs
on one side forward at the same time. The result was joltless, and
gave an almost soothing, rocking motion to the saddle. It occurred
to Jim that it would be almost easy to sleep on the move in such a
saddle-even more easy than in the Tuareg saddle with its high
cross before the rider on which he could sleep, resting his arms on
the crossbar and putting his head down on them.

In fact, Jim had already seen one of his fellow travelers sleeping
hunched in his ordinary camel saddle.

This was a small, black-haired, bullet-headed man, with a short,
curved sword and a couple of knives stuck into his belt, who rode
with his legs crossed on the camel’s neck before him, and who, it
turned out, was a Mongol.

His name was Baiju; and he was apparently one of a Mongol tribe
or group that was in disagreement with the Mongols they might
meet along the way. It was difficult to learn much from him; but
there was a strangely dangerous air about him, and Jim noticed
that the population of the caravan in general either avoided him or
were careful about doing anything that might offend him.

But another traveler was indeed a blessing. He was ibn-Tariq, the
wandering scholar and thinker that abu al-Qusayr had mentioned to
Jim.

He was obviously a man of means. His clothes, his baggage, his
voice and actions and even the way he sat his camel proclaimed
the educated aristocrat. In any case, whether he actually was an
aristocrat or not, he was most certainly educated.

Jim could not make his camel go to this man; but ibn-Tariq had no
trouble bringing his alongside Jim, and telling him much about the
country as they went through it, about caravans, trade, and the
history of the land. He was a camel-portable encyclopedia.

Often, during their conversations, Brian would either manage to
urge his camel up to join them, or else he would get the help of
someone else to do it for him; for ibn-Tariq was interesting to listen
to.

Baiju the Mongol, however, never came over to speak with Jim
when ibn-Tariq was there; and came seldom enough when Jim was
alone. It seemed to Jim that Baiju looked at him, and his inability to
manage the beast he rode, with a certain amount of contempt. But
it was a tolerant contempt, mixed with a remarkable amount of
respect. Somehow, he had learned that Jim was a magician.

Jim wondered if ibn-Tariq also knew; but if so, he was having
trouble thinking of a way to ask about this politely. Ibn-Tariq himself
was a model of politeness.

“About the ghouls and demons and such in these mountains,” Jim
ventured finally during a conversation between them on the fifth
day. “How likely are we to run into them?”

“I have no doubt they are all about us now, and will continue to be
so for the length of our journey,” said ibn-Tariq. Like Brian, he sat
very straight-backed in his saddle so that he seemed taller than his
actual height, which was actually slightly shorter than Jim’s, but not
by much. He had a high bridge to his nose, but otherwise his face
was handsome in a lean sort of way, and remarkably relaxed. His
brown eyes seemed to see beyond anything he looked at, as if he
was aware of all the forces that moved it or caused it to be. “To say
nothing of Djinn and the lesser devils, as well as Assassins,
Mongols and wild tribesmen who would rob us if they could.”

“Shouldn’t we be taking more care to protect ourselves against
them, then?” Jim asked.

“I think we have relatively little to fear,” said ibn-Tariq. “The ghouls
prefer a single man, lost in the wastes. To him they appear as
beautiful women-only when they open their mouths, it will be seen
that the insides of those mouths are green. As you undoubtedly
know, they devour mainly the dead, but will not hesitate to devour
the living who are helpless to keep them off. The demons prefer
for their prey those who have transgressed against the laws of God
as laid down in the Koran. You are a nasraney, of course; and as
an infidel would not be of great interest to them. I understand there
are demons in your part of the world who would be, however; and
of course against those you would have the protection of your faith,
such as it is. Here, of course, it would not protect you against one
of our demons, who know that there is no God but Allah. But I am
interested. In what way would you protect yourself against one of
your northern infidel demons?”

It was a polite opening for Jim to hint that magic, though unlike that
of a demon, was also his game.

“I’m not all that sure we have individual demons where I come
from, any more,” said Jim. “They actually belong more to pagan
superstition than anything else. There’s the Dark Powers, of
course; and they make and use such creatures as ogres, harpies
and Worms. But none of those could properly be called demons.
They’re merely creatures created to physically attack humankind.
They cannot be turned away, as ordinarily can all the Powers of
Darkness, by such things as crossing yourself or saying the Lord’s
Prayer.”

“Ah, yes,” said ibn Tariq. “The prayer of Jesus of Nazareth. He is
one of our saints, too, you know. A Muslim can invoke the name of
Allah and hope for his protection; but whether he receives it or not
will depend upon Allah’s will. Few men are so sure of that, that they
would chance going unscathed among the creatures of darkness.
On the other hand, as I say, it is often those who have
transgressed in the eyes of Allah, whom these creatures
deliberately seek out.”

“And the Assassins or the Mongols?” asked Jim. “Any human
enemies?”

“We are a large caravan,” answered ibn-Tariq. “The Assassins like
to outnumber those they attack. Like whatever tribes that would
prey upon us and live in these mountains, they are probably not
numerous enough to make an attempt against us. Against a force
of Mongols, of course, we would be helpless. They would
outnumber us and they are very fierce fighters. On the other hand,
a force of Mongols would not be interested in anything as small as
a caravan. They would probably be happening across us in the
process of going toward something more important that they
intended to attack, like a city.”

He paused and looked at Jim, clearly inviting him to speak. Jim
hesitated. It was very clear that ibn-Tariq wanted to ask if he had
some magical powers that would allow him to defend himself, and
possibly all of the caravan, against Mongols, if they should appear;
but politeness would not allow him to ask the question in any direct
or leading manner.

Unfortunately, a comparable wariness made Jim hesitate to bring it
up himself. By this time he was almost certain that ibn-Tariq knew
he was a magician; but that was not the same thing as the fact
being openly acknowledged between them.

Jim’s mind struggled for some subtle way of dealing with the
situation. He was not capable of the intricate, polite ways of
approaching the topic that ibn-Tariq possessed. On the other hand,
ibn-Tariq was pointedly leaving it to him to be the one to establish
the fact; and Jim, while not wanting to hide his magical status, on
the other hand wanted to preserve as much as possible of his
primary character as a bluff English knight. An English knight who
might have many other failings, but had certainly had some
schooling in courtesy-at least enough not to boast of his
accomplishments.

It made for a definite awkwardness. Ibn-Tariq, as a traveling
scholar, was eager to trade information for information. He would
have liked to have learned from Jim as much about magic as Jim
would tell him, the names of any particular magicians he had
studied under, and so forth. He had been trying to prod Jim
delicately into talking about this for four days now.

“I was fascinated,” went on ibn-Tariq, when the pause had reached
unnatural proportions, “to learn about the great nasraney magician
of Córdoba, and how he saved the city from an attack once more
than half a century ago.”

It was another delicate feeler; clearly designed to give Jim the
opportunity to talk of comparable powers and situations with regard
to an appearance of the Mongols. Unfortunately, Jim had never
heard of the great nasraney magician of Córdoba, a city in Spain
which, during the eleventh and twelfth centuries, had been almost
the center of the western world, as far as North Africa was
concerned.

“Ah well,” Jim said. “I suppose if the Mongols show up, we’ll just
have to be polite to them and hope everything goes well.”

“Inshallah” (“It is the will of God”), said ibn-Tariq, defeated. “In any
case, the sun is close to the mountain tops, now. Shortly we will be
stopping for the night. I will ride forward and find out what our
chosen stopping place will be like.”

Ibn-Tariq rode on ahead, and Jim was left alone. He was not
particularly disappointed in this because he wanted to think. He
would have liked to have asked ibn-Tariq more about Palmyra, and
the chance of finding Geronde’s father there. But he hesitated to
talk about that until this business of his being a magician had been
abandoned between them. What he really wanted-and, in fact, he
had been trying to get into words-was to ask ibn-Tariq to keep any
information on both Jim and Brian to himself.

It could probably not be kept entirely quiet, but the problem was
that the name “magician” in ordinary gossip and conversation
easily slipped into being “great magician”; and great magicians
attracted great interest. Great interest would stand in the way of his
and Brian’s investigation of Palmyra and the whereabouts of the
Lord of Malvern, by as many discreet routes as possible.

Jim’s main difficulty lay in the fact that, even with the help of his
invisible and undoubtedly magic translator, he simply did not have
the clever control of his tongue that ibn-Tariq had. He had yet to
think of a good way of meeting ibn-Tariq halfway about the subject;
so that it could be acknowledged between them without ever being
put into words.

He was in the midst of this particular study when he became aware
that he was no longer riding alone. Another camel had moved in
beside him, and it was the one with Baiju, the Mongol, on its back.

Baiju had been riding along with him for several minutes; but in his
usual fashion, he seemed in no hurry to open conversation with
Jim.

It was strange, thought Jim. According to all visible characteristics,
Baiju should appear unimportant, if not ridiculous. He was not only
a little man, but he seemed to ride hunched in the saddle, although
Jim had finally decided that his posture was indeed not so much
hunched, as completely relaxed.

In fact, he seemed more at home in his saddle than anyone else in
the caravan. His face was dish-shaped, with slightly slanted eyes
and high cheek bones and yellow skin. His very dark eyes were
essentially expressionless. It was impossible to read anything from
them as to how he was feeling, let alone what his intentions might
be.

Still, he had been friendly enough, in his laconic way. He was the
very opposite of ibn-Tariq, in that he did not so much reply to what
was said to him, as simply utter flat statements. Jim knew he would
not speak until Jim initiated the conversation.

“We will be stopping for the night, soon,” said Jim. “It seems to me
it’s already starting to get cool; but then, we’re steadily moving
higher into the mountains.”

He looked at Baiju, who, under a coat of mail, appeared to be
wearing nothing but a thin shirt of dark blue color, made of what
looked like some surprisingly modern, close-woven, thin material.

“You do not notice the cold of the mountain heights with only that
shirt under your mail?” he asked.

“The shirt is silk,” said Baiju.

Jim felt a little foolish. Of course the Mongols, with their
connections to the Far East, would tend to have garments made of
silk. In fact, now that he stopped to think about the robe he had
seen abu al-Qusayr wear...

“Still,” he said, “in the west, we’re used to wearing a garment of
padding under our chain mail. Don’t you usually prefer wearing
something like that? Or are ways of dressing simply different
here?”

“It is silk because of the arrows,” said Baiju. “When an arrow goes
into the body, the silk is pushed in with it. It is then easy to remove
the arrow by pulling gently on the silk.”

Jim winced internally. He had never heard of such a way of dealing
with arrows; but perhaps it made sense. Silk was an interesting
cloth in many ways, and it might well have the characteristic of
entangling the barbed ends of an arrow and the strength not to tear
loose, but bring the arrowhead out when pulled, instead of just
tearing loose when it was pulled upon. At the same time, having an
arrow removed that way would not be the most comfortable of
experiences-though, come to think of it, having the arrow cut out
might be even worse.

“Are Mongol arrows always barbed?” he asked.

“Always,” said Baiju.

“And do the arrows and suchlike vary from tribe to tribe?” Jim
asked. “Maybe I should say from kingdom to kingdom-“

“They do not vary,” said Baiju.

“In the west, our weapons vary,” said Jim. “Generally, of course
there’s the short sword and the long; and various styles of them.
But usually you can tell by the weapon and the way a man’s
dressed where he’s from. How do you tell where another Mongol’s
from?”

“You look,” said Baiju. Jim thought he would go on from those first
two words, but evidently they were his complete answer.

“I suppose what I meant to ask,” said Jim, “is what differences do
you look for? What about him, his clothes or his weapons, or
whatever, tell you who he is?”

“You look,” said Baiju. “That is all. You look-and you know.”

“I see,” said Jim. “If we run into a force of Mongols, have you any
idea which kingdom of Mongols they’ll be?”

“They would be of the Golden Horde.” Baiju leaned from his
saddle and spat on the ground.

“Your people?” asked Jim.

“No,” said Baiju. “I am of the Il-khanate,” said Baiju. “We hold this
land against the House of Juchi in the Golden Horde, to the north.”

They rode in silence together for a little ways.

“Are the Golden Horde friends of the Assassins?” asked Jim,
finally. “Are there any Mongols among the Assassins?”

“No,” said Baiju. “The Assassins are not warriors. Mongols are
warriors.”

“Ibn-Tariq,” said Jim, “said the chances were we wouldn’t be
disturbed by Assassins, anyway; because the caravan is too
strong.”

Baiju turned his head and looked directly into Jim’s eyes. Then he
looked away again. Jim was growing used to the little man’s ways,
and he recognized this as another gesture of contempt. Clearly
Baiju did not think much of the caravan’s fighting ability.

They had been climbing a rocky defile between two large stony
cliffs that ended in what looked like razor-edged rocks. But now
they came to the head of the defile and the walls dwindled on each
side, letting them out into an open space, filled with boulders of all
sizes, from that of a pebble to that of a small house.

It looked like an ancient water course; and indeed it had a stream
running through it. The stream was from a spring jetting out of the
near vertical wall of a cliff right before them. Jim could hear the
cries of camel riders ahead of him, reining in their camels and
beginning to make them kneel. The stopping place for the night
had been reached.

As the sun disappeared behind the mountains, and the light
dwindled, most of the camels were at least partially unloaded and
tents or tentlike shelters were set up. Thanks to abu al-Qusayr, Jim
and Brian had two baggage camels as well as the two beasts they
were riding, and one of these carried a tent, which they had learned
to set up for themselves.

They got it up, got a cooking fire started just outside its front flap,
using dried camel dung for fuel-it having formed part of their load
for this section of the trip over the mountains. Baiju had gone off by
himself. As far as Jim could see, the little man had no tent and
merely curled up next to his camel, or in any convenient shelter
from the wind he could find.

Ibn-Tariq had evidently joined another group, barely visible
between the boulders at some little distance off, but it looked like a
gathering of half a dozen of the merchants of the caravan in a sort
of communal meal.

“These infidel messes do not really feed a man,” grumbled Brian,
as they sat down to eat the stew, made up of foodstuffs that were
also part of their camel loads, and courtesy of abu al-Qusayr.

“Meat is scarce in these parts, evidently,” said Jim. “For one thing
they seemed to have nothing but goats-or perhaps sheep;
although we haven’t see many sheep so far.”

“There were at least adequate sheep on Cyprus,” said Brian. “A
roast of mutton can fill a man’s stomach. But a few strings of this
goat meat can hardly make anything of a handful of vegetables.”

In spite of what he was saying, Brian was managing to eat more
heartily than Jim at this, their late meal of the day. They only had
two, one on getting started in the morning and one after stopping at
night.

“Perhaps we will see some wild goats, or other game that live in
these mountains,” said Jim. He started to take off the thick leather
ankle-boots he had bought in Tripoli for this mountain crossing;
then changed his mind. His feet would be warmer overnight if he
left them on. “And be able to kill an animal or two to provide
ourselves with meat.”

“May St. Francis mercifully send it so,” said Brian.

Hob had come out of his knapsack on Jim’s back and was perched
on Jim’s shoulder. They were far enough away from other
members of the caravan so that he would be invisible in the last of
the twilight, and the faint illumination of the fire. In fact, anyone
there seeing him would probably have taken him for a monkey-a
hairless, rather strange-looking monkey, but a monkey,
nonetheless. He was about the right size and shape.

In any case, he was good at being as near to invisible as possible.
He reveled in these evening caravan stops; and went riding from
one waft of smoke to another, over all the cooking fires of the
caravan, to come back bursting with useless information; plus
stories of demons and monsters he had overheard-in the talk of
men who never thought of looking up into where the thinning
smoke was lost against the darkening skies. Talk that he could
hardly wait to tell Jim all about.

However, he was a considerate hobgoblin; and when he came
back to their tent this night, to find both Jim and Brian asleep, he let
them slumber peacefully. He went back out to lie on a waft of
smoke from what was left above their own cooking fire;
thoughtfully, when it burned low, stoking it up with more of the fuel
that had been planned to last them until the end of their journey.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Jim woke to the feeling he was being suffocated. His mind was
stunned and baffled, but his survival reflexes were working at full
capacity. He burst through the front flap of the tent and came to full
awakeness rolling down a rocky slope just outside it, rolling over
and over, tightly locked with a slighter, hooded figure, who had
been trying to wind a cloth around his head and tightly over his
mouth and nose.

With his mind working again, at least slightly, he shifted his grip to
the shoulders of his attacker, thrust out a knee to incapacitate him
at a moment when Jim was on top, and banged the other’s head
upon the stony ground. The figure went limp and he got to his feet,
only to be knocked off them again by three other hooded figures,
who held him down and wrapped another cloth tightly around him in
the same way. He fought mightily; and something hit him on the
side of the head so lightly he scarcely felt it.

But, curiously, that was the last he remembered for some little
time.

He came fully to his senses finally, with a feeling that quite some
time had passed. He was walking along a narrow ridge of rock
somewhere in the mountains, with Brian ahead of him, his hands
tied behind his back. Also walking ahead of both him and Brian
were a number of robed, brown-skinned men, none of whom he
recognized. But then, he had really known only two or three people
in the caravan. Whoever they were, they were not hooded; but that
was little help. They could, for all he knew, have been merchants
from the caravan itself.

He was aware of others like them behind him; and he had a
confused memory of being half-conscious at some time earlier. He
also had the feeling he had been walking for a long time, as much
as a day or two. The left side of his head ached. He instinctively
tried to put his hands up to touch it and see if it was sore, and
abruptly realized that, like Brian’s, they were tied behind him at the
wrists-uncomfortably tied, as a matter of fact.

He had a memory some time back of stopping while walking in
order to be deathly sick for some little time. The men about him
had been very annoyed by this; but someone who was evidently
their leader had come back, riding on a horse, and ordered them
sharply to leave him alone until he was fit to walk again.

He remembered the blow on the side of his head then, and the
word “concussion” jumped into his mind. Those were some of the
signals- the impact that was enough to make him lose
consciousness, the present headache and the soreness of his
head, which he was now feeling on the right side of his head, the
opposite of the side with the headache. There was a medical term
for that pair of symptoms he could not remember right now. But all
these three things pointed to a possible concussion. If he had
been concussed, he shouldn’t be walking like this. He should be
resting as much as possible.

A concussion could cause brain damage, he remembered,
because the blow on one side of the head made the brain dash
itself against the bony cage of the skull on the opposite side; and it
was on that opposite side that the damage to the brain occurred.
He was not quite sure about the rest of it; the brain was either
bleeding on the side that had been hurt, or swelling against the
immovable bone of the skull, causing the pressure there that made
concussion dangerous. Someone with a bad concussion could
suddenly drop dead a day or so after being hit, without even
knowing he or she had been badly hurt.

Now that he had concentrated on how he was feeling, he was also
aware of exhaustion, an unsureness of balance and a heaviness of
his whole body; as if it had been worn out by trudging along
through the mountains this way, with hands bound behind it.

It made no sense. These men had apparently sneaked into the
caravan when everyone was asleep; but they had taken only Brian
and him as prisoners and were now leading them off someplace.
He could release both Brian and himself with magic. For that
matter, he could also transport Brian and himself away from here
with magic, probably. But that could be done later, if necessary.
Right now, he wanted to find out why this had happened. It might
just be moving them closer to Geronde’s father, if they stuck it out
until they knew more about it.

But he wished his head would stop aching so he could think more
clearly. He also wished he could put his hands up and feel the sore
side of his head and find exactly what kind of a bump or cut was
there.

Well, there was one thing he could certainly do; and if there was
ever a legitimate use of magic, this would be it. Magic could not
cure disease, but it could heal wounds. The hit on the head he had
taken was clearly a wound; his brain had been wounded. He had to
fight the headache to do it, but with a little effort he managed to
visualize his brain as red and swollen on the side that wasn’t
aching; and then visualize both the redness and the swelling as
going away.

It took a moment before he realized this had worked. The sudden
stopping of his headache was the most noticeable thing of all. He
realized that he had almost become used to that headache-now
that it was gone.

That didn’t matter, though. The main thing was, whatever danger
might have been there from concussion should be gone. Indeed,
his head was very clear now; and unfortunately, one result of this
was that he was much more conscious of the way the thongs, or
whatever it was that was binding his wrists together, had been tied
so tightly that his hands were aching from the interruption in normal
blood flow.

He was ready, unthinkingly, to simply visualize his bonds as being
more loose, so the blood could get back into them. But a new
thought occurred to him-one that he silently condemned himself for
not having had sooner. This was a land of all sorts of magic and
near-magic; much of it, in the case of the Naturals, unconscious
and not deliberately controlled; but there could be some from other
sources that was deliberate. It was just possible that if he used
noticeable magic, he would draw to himself the attention of
someone who wanted to catch him doing just that, demonstrating
whatever powers he had.

Perhaps it might be better to see if he could not get the bindings
loosened some other way.

While all this had been going through his mind, they had come out
into an opening in the path, which had formerly been a ridge
running along a mountain face. Now it was entering into another
little stony valley, with another spring coming out of the mountains
and a small pool underneath it, from which water over-spilled and
trickled away down the mountainside.

Those of his captors ahead of him were already gathered around
the pool of the spring and drinking. Jim himself was suddenly
conscious of a raging thirst at the sight of the water. He lengthened
his strides toward it, but came to a halt behind the bodies of the
captors ahead of him who were still waiting their turn to drink.

“Stand back, nasraney!” snapped one of his escort who had come
up from behind him. There was nothing compassionate about his
voice, but Jim seized the opportunity to speak to him.

“Look,” he said. “I don’t know where I am, and there’s no way I
could get away from you now. Can’t you take these ropes, or
whatever they are, off my wrists? Or at least loosen them? They’re
so tight my hands have gone numb; and I won’t be able to drink
unless I can scoop up the water.”

For answer, the man swung a backhanded blow at his face mat
was so completely unexpected Jim was nearly knocked off his
feet.

Instantly there was a hubbub around him, and another figure
pushed itself through the crowd-or rather the crowd parted to let
this other man through. He came up to Jim and the man who had
hit him.

“What happened?” he asked the man.

“He tried to escape,” said the man.

“He lies!” croaked a voice.

It was Brian’s voice, and Brian shouldered his way through the
crowd that had now closed tightly around them to confront this new
authority. “He only asked that our bonds be loosened. They should
be. Mine also. We are unarmed and have nowhere to run.”

“He did not try to escape?” asked the man he spoke to.

“He did not, damn your black souls all to hell!” said Brian. “I am an
English knight; and my word is good.”

Brian was a battered sight. Both eyes were black, his nose was a
little crooked now and his face had been cut or tom open in a few
places. Also, he had limped as he had appeared through the
crowd.

“It is he who lies-“ The man who had hit Jim was beginning again,
when the man who had just arrived struck him the same sort of
backhanded blow the other had hit Jim with; and the man went
down.

“I shall judge who lies, here!” said the leader. “You lie. These
infidels do not.”

Jim was not so sure of that. If he did not have his magic to fall back
on, he told himself, he would have no more compunction about
lying than the man now on the ground.

“Take off the bindings on their wrists!” said the leader, turning away
and heading back toward the spring. “And let them drink!” He
added over his shoulder.

Fingers fumbled with Jim’s wrists. The bonds fell away; and a
moment later Jim felt as if his hands were being put through the
cleverest of torture machines that any medieval mind could
imagine. It was simply the blood returning to his fingers, but for a
moment he almost regretted that his wrists had been untied.

However, Brian was giving no sign of how his hands must feel-and
they could not feel much different from Jim’s. Also, those captors
standing close around them, it seemed to Jim, were plainly-almost
eagerly- watching for any sign of weakness or admitted pain. Jim
managed to keep his own face straight; and slowly, the pain began
to ebb away. He passed through a stage where he could actually
feel the blood pulsing in his hands. Then this, too, faded; and he
was left with the soreness of his wrists as his main concern.

He lifted his arms before him and looked at his wrists. They were
an unlovely sight. The cords, thongs or whatever they were had cut
through the skin and the flesh was furrowed and coated with blood.
He made use of the pool to wash them off after drinking-he and
Brian were the last to be allowed at the water. Clean, the wrists
showed themselves to be more bruised than cut. Magic could have
healed them, too; but there was the danger of any more use of
magic being observed-by someone. The less everybody knew
about his capabilities that way, the better.

Brian also washed his battered face; and it looked better with the
traces of blood removed. He and Jim were allowed to go on with
their hands free. Jim’s fingers had explored the bump on the right
side of his head- or where the bump had been; for evidently upon
taking care of the concussion he had also taken care of the
damage from the blow that caused it.

He and Brian were even allowed to walk side by side, where the
route they followed was wide enough. Most of their escort was
walking also. Only the man who had come back and ordered that
their bonds be taken off was on horseback, and he rode at a walk
at the head of the troop.

Jim did not speak; and Brian did not speak. Their eyes had met in
a glance that perfectly agreed on the situation. Their escort was
close enough about them to hear anything they said; and
undoubtedly this was not unintentional. For once, Jim found himself
less than grateful for the fact that everybody on this world seemed,
at least, to speak the same language.

If there had been the same welter of different languages here that
there had been in Jim’s twentieth-century world, he and Brian could
have talked English and possibly not been understood by those
who were guarding them. For that matter, they could even have
spoken in the broad Somersetshire dialect of the part of England
where they lived, perfectly understandable to an English ear but
possibly not so to an unaccustomed middle-eastern ear.

In any case, there would certainly be sometime later on when they
would have a chance to compare notes and discuss the situation.

Two hours after that they came to their destination; a castle, or
rather a stone fortification. It was considerably larger than Sir
Mortimor’s on Cyprus, but placed in almost as strong a natural
defensive position on the steep side of a mountain, facing
downslope.

It had no moat, but a trench had been cut-very probably by human
labor, since it was obviously not a natural part of the terrain-before
the great door in the front of the structure. A wooden bridge led
over it, a drawbridge with chains running back into the castle; and
as they crossed the trench, Jim looked down.

A second later he wished he had not. The trench was deeper than
the height of a man; and its bottom had sharp spikes or spears set
in it, pointing up, so anyone falling (or being thrown) into it would
instantly be pierced by half a dozen metal points. In fact, there
were dead bodies there-ranging from near skeletons to some not
more than a few days or perhaps some weeks dead; and the
stench was choking.

But they passed on and through the doors, which opened before
them; and came into something that was a cross between a
roofed-over, but very small, courtyard and an open-air stable. Here
their leader dismounted and gave his horse to an attendant.

He gave an order; and a couple of the escort prodded Jim and
Brian forward at knife-point, so that all five went off in a small group
by themselves.

They passed through a farther entrance, along a passage and
down a flight of steps into a shorter passage, lined with cells on
either side of a narrow corridor. They had been created by iron
bars sunk into the stone at top and bottom; and the cells were
divided to make cubicles about ten feet square.

The cells were almost twentieth-century modern in appearance;
and by medieval standards they were remarkably clean. What this
meant, Jim had no idea; but somehow the very cleanliness of it
stirred an ominous feeling in him. He and Brian were herded into
one of them and were locked in by a bar placed in sockets from
the outside, with a chain hook below, so that the bar could not be
lifted unless the end of the chain were detached; and the other end
of the chain was fastened to the stone floor, out of reach of anyone
behind the bars.

All this time the leader of the expedition, as Jim judged him to be,
had said nothing. But now he did.

“You will wait here,” he said. “In time our Holy Grandmaster will
have you brought before him. Do not hope to escape. There is no
way out.”

He and the two who had herded Jim before them down to the cells
turned and left. Jim and Brian were at last alone, left in a silence so
profound that it almost seemed to thunder in Jim’s ears. They
looked at each other in the yellowish, flickering light from a cresset
at the far end of the cells, on the wall through which the stairs
descended to enter this place.

Brian still looked badly battered. But he was ignoring the fact, and
his blue eyes were bright with interest. Already he was carefully
examining the bars and as much as he could see of the room
around them, including the ceiling and floor. After a moment he
looked back to Jim and spoke to him in a low murmur, speaking
almost into his ear.

“I see no way by which they could overhear what we say to each
other here,” he said. “But I will wager such exists. Still, if we keep
our voices down, and speak only when close to each other,
perhaps we can keep any from understanding what we speak of,
even if the sound itself can not be completely unheard.”

Jim nodded.

“Do you have any understanding of why they have brought us
here?” asked Brian. “Or, James, do you have any plans about what
we might do about it?”

Jim put his head close to Brian’s and answered with equal softness
in his friend’s ear.

“I don’t know a thing about why they carried us away-just us-from
that caravan,” he said. “The crazy thing is, it looks almost as if the
raid was put on only to get the two of us. Of course, there’s no way
of knowing what else they might have taken from the caravan while
they were there.”

“I agree with you,” answered Brian. “It is all passing strange.
Where are we, do you suppose?”

“From the mention of a Grandmaster,” said Jim, “I’d guess we’re in
the headquarters of the Assassins. Why, I don’t know. Can you
think of any particular reason why anyone in this land wouldn’t want
us to find Geronde’s father, or why the Assassins wouldn’t, either?”

Brian shook his head.

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Brian,” Jim said. “If necessary, I can
use magic and get us out of this-that is, unless there’s something
in this castle, or in this country, to stop it from working. But I don’t
think there is. So I can almost promise you I’ll get us away safely,
no matter what happens. The reason I haven’t used it before this is
because I’m beginning to think that for some reason someone
might be wanting to know just how much I can do with magic; so
besides using as little magic as possible-I told you why I was doing
that-I’m trying to use the least amount when I have to use it, and in
its simplest form. That’s why I haven’t healed our wrists where they
had us tied up. They’d notice that right away.”

“Oh, those marks?” said Brian. “They are nothing, James. Nothing-
that is, unless they interfere with you doing-whatever you wish.”

“They don’t,” said Jim. “Anyway, we’re undoubtedly best acting like
any two ordinary people who’ve been snatched up and brought
here; and all we can do is wait for an explanation. Actually I think
one will-“

He was interrupted suddenly by an unexpected but welcome voice.

“M’lord!” cried the familiar tones of Hob; and they both looked over
to see the little hobgoblin slipping between two of the bars. Just
outside the bars was a brown dog wagging its tail ingratiatingly.
“Look who I brought, m’lord!”

“I tried to warn everyone in the caravan by barking,” said the Djinni-
dog. “There’re no dogs in the caravan. But either they did not
rouse, or they were fearful of looking to see what made a barking
where no barking should be. But I did rouse your hobgoblin, here. I
did my best to save you, master!”

“Did you?” said Jim, still suspicious, for Kelb was clearly trying to
imitate the innocent, direct and almost childlike way of expressing
himself that came naturally to Hob.

“Oh, that was one of the things I was going to tell you, that night,
m’lord,” said Hob quickly. “At every cooking fire I visited all the
men were telling each other that they were going to sleep specially
heavily. Then, after one of them talked about it, the others would all
look at each other strangely, without saying anything more for a
moment. But when I got back, you and m’lord Brian were both
asleep-“

“What is this?” Brian was staring at Kelb. “A talking dog?”

“It’s a Djinni that wants my protection,” said Jim. “I haven’t made
my mind up yet-“ he added, enunciating clearly and looking directly
and very hard at Kelb. “But there’s one interesting thing. He’s not
trying to keep his voice down at all, so everything he’s said is being
heard someplace in this castle. Hob, you should remember that
yourself. Everything you say that loudly is possibly going to be
heard and understood someplace. We’re sure they’ve got ways of
listening to us.”

“But they aren’t listening now, m’lord,” said Hob. “They’ve all been
having some kind of meeting.”

“Meeting?”

“Yes, master,” said Kelb swiftly. “They are being told of another
raid such as the one on the caravan. Their Grandmaster is telling
them.”

“Hmm,” said Jim.

He turned to Hob.

“But how did you two get here from the caravan. Hob?”

“Oh, I carried him here along with me on the smoke,” said Hob
anxiously. “Did I do wrong, too, m’lord? I didn’t know what I could
do to help; but I thought if I got here, maybe you’d have an idea
you could tell me and then I could do it; and I would be helpful.”

“They will not need you,” said Kelb to him. He turned back to Jim
and Brian. “Oh, masters, fear not. If for some reason you cannot
yourself free yourselves from this place, I will free you and set you
once more on your path for Palmyra and the one you seek there.”

“What do you know about us seeking someone in Palmyra?”
demanded Jim.

But at that moment there were voices to be heard at the top of the
stairs that led down to this cell block. Hob scrambled along the
bars to a dark corner where his gray body was all but lost in
shadow; and Kelb literally vanished.
CHAPTER NINETEEN

The voices came closer. They descended the stairs and four of
their captors came in, together with the one who had been in
charge of those who had kidnapped Jim and Brian.

Without a word, they unlocked the cell door, motioned Jim and
Brian out and pushed them ahead up the stairs. They went through
several long corridors into a large, square room with a domed roof
in which windows with glass in them had been built, so that daylight
filled the room with afternoon light. At the far end of the room a
man sat upon cushions, and continued to sit motionless as Jim and
Brian were brought before him. Then he lifted one hand; and the
leader, as well as the four with him, left.

Brian and Jim were left standing before the seated man.

He was a man of indeterminate age, but Jim guessed him in his
late forties or even fifties. He was possibly slightly overweight, but
that could be simply because of his position, seated cross-legged
on the green cushions beneath him. He was wearing a dark green
robe of almost the same shade as the cushion he sat on. He had a
hat on his head that was rather like a beret that had been puffed
out, and was white in color. His eyes were dark, his eyebrows
graying and his face clean-shaven. It was a benign face, a calm
face, an almost gentle, fatherly face, except for a rather round,
aggressive chin and a firmly closed, straight mouth above it that
lent a touch of sternness to his expression, at odds with the calm,
unwrinkled appearance of the rest of his features.

“So,” he said, “you find yourself brought before me.”

“And who the hell are you?” snapped Brian.

The man moved his eyes slowly to focus on Brian.

When he spoke again the tone of his voice was exactly the same.

“Know,” he said, “I am Hasan ad-Dimri, who left my father’s home
early to travel from town to town, with others like myself. After
some years, people would give me gifts, and bowed before me to
hear words of wisdom from my lips. But in the night, one night, a
blessed angel came and spoke in my ear, saying thus-‘Oh, thou
who are by rights ruler of all the world, the time of the return of
Isma ‘il is at hand. But the way must be prepared for him.
Therefore go thou and take control of the Hashasheen of the White
Palace, in the mountains; revive their lost glory, and set them to the
work of cleaning out the foul weeds from among the faithful and
unfaithful alike; so that when lsma’il does come, he shall come to
an earth cleansed and kept as is a well-kept garden.’ “

His gaze came back to Jim.

“You are both nasranies,” he said,”and claim to be in search of
another nasraney. As such, you are a stench in the nostrils of true
believers. But you, who call yourself James, are worse than the
one with you or the one you seek, because you are also a
nasraney magician. I am in the shadow and protection of Allah’s
hand, and your magics will not work against me. I fear you not. But
there are, even among the faithful, those who may be weak or
erring in their worship of Allah; and upon those, your foul spells
may have some effect, turning them from the true faith and
dooming them to everlasting death. Therefore, it is my duty to see
that you do no such thing. My children, the Hashasheen that you
call ‘Assassins,’ will guide and guard your friend on his way to his
destination. But you, at least, must be put to death here, by men
who are of true faith and will be untouched by any infidel magic you
may bring against them-“

He stopped speaking abruptly, on a note that sounded as if he had
more to say. His gaze went between and beyond Jim and Brian.

They turned to see what he was looking at; and there, standing just
a little behind them, upright in his red robe, was abu al-Qusayr.

“Salaam,” said abu al-Qusayr to Hasan ad-Dimri.

“Salaam aleikum.”

Jim, his brain still reeling from the thought that he suddenly might
be inches from an inescapable death, realized that for once his
translator was not translating; but that thought was washed out by a
powerful feeling of relief. Help had come without his needing to
use magic.

It was true that the two words he had just heard were some of the
very few he recognized in Arabic-ordinary words of greeting. But
now abu al-Qusayr was continuing to speak in the perfectly
understandable words of the language everyone spoke here.

“Allah has made it so,” said abu al-Qusayr, “that those who are true
to the faith may only be vulnerable to those who are also of the true
faith-whatever that faith may be. Therefore I, who am a Muslim and
whose faith is pure, have been sent as a representative from the
Kingdom of Magickians to speak for this nasraney whose life you
would end.”

“I fear no magicians-“ began Hasan ad-Dimri; but suddenly he was
speaking Arabic again, and abu al-Qusayr was answering him in the
same language. Jim’s mind, sharpened by the threat of Hasan,
fumbled for the reason his translator was once more not
translating. Their talk concerned him and Brian, because he heard
the English names mentioned in the flood of Arabic. But for some
reason, he was not to understand what they said to each other.
Why should his unknown translator on this world suddenly become
a censor? It never had before.

Then it came to him-ten to one, it was abu al-Qusayr who did not
want him to know what was being said; and who had caused the
change.

Suddenly, he felt Brian’s elbow dig into his side.

“What are they talking about?” Brian whispered in his ear. “I do not
comprehend these noises.”

“I don’t know, either,” said Jim.

His mind was still whirling over Hasan’s death threat. Of course,
before letting himself be killed he would most certainly use his
magic to transport himself and Brian safely home to England.

But Brian might not want to go. It could be that with Jim dead, the
Assassins would even help Brian as Hasan had promised, to find
Geronde’s father, if he let them “guide and guard him” to his
destination. On the other hand, Hasan could be playing with them
both, and Brian could also be put to death as well-

“-Clearly, there is no more to discuss,” said abu al-Qusayr,
suddenly understandable again. He turned from Hasan to Jim and
Brian. “I am sorry I could not be of help.”

Jim was conscious of a shimmer all around them; and through the
quiveriness of that part of the air that shimmered, he saw Hasan
still sitting with the same expression on his face, and apparently
looking through and past them, as if they were not there. Obviously,
abu al-Qusayr had his magic at work again; and their present
speech was private from the Grandmaster of the Assassins.

“You weren’t able to help us at all?” Jim asked, staring at him.

“I’m afraid not,” said abu al-Qusayr. “There is nothing more to say
but goodbye. I will explain to Carolinus, of course, that I could do
nothing.”

“Wait a minute,” said Jim. “What about us?”

Abu al-Qusayr shrugged.

“It is the will of Allah,” he said.

“What is the will of Allah?” demanded Jim.

“That whatever will happen here between you and Hasan must
happen,” said abu al-Qusayr.

“You mean he’s going ahead with the idea of killing me and doing
God knows what to Brian under the guise of sending him off with
an escort?”

“I’m afraid so,” said abu al-Qusayr. “He believes himself
completely invincible. He was a Sufi, as I told you, and Allah uses
them in strange ways. Or it may be that Allah has deprived him of
the power to understand who and what you are. What is certain is
that there is an aura of power around this place. A low-ranked
magickian like yourself, Jim, has probably not sensed it-but I do,
very clearly. It may even be that he has acquired a Djinni for a
friend, or one for a slave; and-knowing little of real magick-believes
that nothing can stand against him.”

“Well, why was it just a matter of convincing him?” asked Jim. “You
have real power.”

“I have, and you have, only defensive power, Jim-remember?” said
abu al-Qusayr. “In effect, he left it up to me to force him to change
his mind; and of course I cannot use force for that reason.”

He became strangely glum suddenly.

“It may just be, too,” he said, “that he has become too much an
Isma’ili, with all their stubbornness.”

He cleared his throat and spat on the floor beyond the quiveriness.
Hasan stared straight ahead, unperceiving.

“What are Isma’ilis?” said Brian.

“Those who follow Isma’il instead of Musa, as the Seventh Imam,”
answered abu al-Qusayr. ‘ ‘But now I must take my leave. What is
written is written. Farewell.”

He disappeared. With him went the quiveriness of the air around
them, and-happily-the results of his spitting on the Grandmaster’s
floor.

“Enough!” said Hasan, as suddenly as someone waked out of a
sound sleep. “Take them away!”

Almost immediately, there were men back around Jim and Brian.
Jim and Brian were hustled back to their cell.

“James,” said Brian, when they were alone again. “You must
explain all this to me. I am an ordinary knight, who says his prayers
daily, but leaves all such mysteries to those who are supposed to
understand them. This Holy Land seems to be a place of a
multitude of strange names and even stranger happenings. That
man upstairs who called himself Hasten-something-“

“Hasan,” corrected Jim automatically.

“Hasan, then,” said Brian. “Can he really think that I would go
blithely off with an escort to wherever I wished with never a
backward glance, if you were to be put to death? Has he no
knowledge at all of what a knight is?”

“Actually,” said Jim, “he probably doesn’t. But don’t concern
yourself about it, Brian. I can easily use my own magic to escape
from here; and take you along as well. We could be back in our
own castles in a moment.”

“But I thought you were saving your magic.” Brian frowned at him.

“Not in the case of emergencies like this,” said Jim stoutly. “But I
wasn’t too sure that you would want to go back to England; and if
you stay, I should stay with you.”

“Well...” Brian looked uncomfortable. “Perhaps... the fact of the
matter is, James... well, I took a vow.”

“A vow?” asked Jim.

“In the height of my happiness over having decided to put the
King’s present to good use,” said Brian, “I took Geronde with me,
down to the small chapel Malvern Castle possesses-as you know-
and there, before the altar and the cross, I vowed to never cease
from searching for her father until either I found him, or came to
certain knowledge he was dead. Could not your magic simply take
us both to Palmyra, James, since you are willing to spend it, after
all, to leave this place?”

“I’m afraid not, Brian,” said Jim. “I can only take us to places I can
visualize. We could go back to abu al-Qusayr’s, or Sir Mortimor’s;
but I don’t know any other route to Palmyra but the one we were
just taking. We ought to be able to travel overland to Palmyra, too,
down from the north; but I wouldn’t know how to find my way. But, if
we were anywhere on the Lebanon coast here, word would get
back to the Assassins and they’d be on our trail again. If we’d been
able to get to Palmyra using magic, I’d have been tempted to go
that way in the first place, instead of with the caravan. But abu al-
Qusayr understood, back in Tripoli, when he suggested the
caravan. We have to travel like ordinary people; and somehow we
have to get where we want and find out what we want to find out,
like ordinary people.”

“But we are not ordinary,” said Brian, “I am a knight; and you are
not only a knight, but a magician.”

“True,” said Jim, “but neither of those things seem to be helping us
right now.”

“M’lord...” It was the voice of Hob, once again perched on a bar
right above their heads, once more timidly entering the
conversation.

“Hob!” said Jim. “I’d forgotten about you back here for just a
moment. You don’t know any way we could get away, riding your
smoke, do you?”

“We’d have to have some smoke first,” said Hob, “and I’ve lost the
smoke waft on which I brought the dog-Djinni here. Anyway I can’t
carry two big people on the smoke with me. I could take one-but
for smoke I need a fire. There must be fires someplace in this
castle, but I don’t know where, and I don’t know how to get to them.
Do you think if I went and looked, that the people here would leave
me alone-or would they chase me?”

“I think they’d chase you all right,” said Jim. “In fact, they’d probably
do their best to kill you. You stay where you are.”

“But I’ve got to get you out of this, m’lord,” said Hob. “You and
m’lord Brian both. M’lady would never forgive me if I didn’t.”

“It’s good of you to feel that way, Hob,” said Jim, “but I don’t know
what you can do.”

“Well, then, I thought we might talk to that Djinni once more,” said
Hob.

“Djinni?”

A whine sounded on his ears and drew his attention to the corridor
between the cages. Outside the iron bars of their cell was the
brown dog, again, wagging his tail.

“Kelb!” said Jim. “You’re a fair-weather friend! If you wanted to be
helpful, why haven’t you been helpful before this?”

“I have been helpful, my master,” said Kelb. “Know that when that
which surrounds us was built, it was before there were any
Assassins in it. It was built by a robber knight, a nasraney like
yourselves, who preyed upon the caravan route. He had come
here as other Franks from the north came, two hundred years ago,
speaking of a Holy War against those who lived here. This is none
other than the Kasr al-Abiyadh, which is otherwise now called the
White Palace.”

“White?” asked Brian.

“I don’t know why it was so named,” said Kelb. “But so it was; and
so it is called in this day, even by the Hashasheen, themselves. In
any case, I have searched for the secret way out and just now
found it. And with your great magic, O my master, you can
undoubtedly not only loose yourself and your nasraney companion
from this cage whenever you want, but with my help find that secret
way and escape.”

An alarm bell went off in Jim’s mind. Any fortified place that Jim
had come to know of in these Middle Ages had such a secret way
out. There was one out of Malencontri, for example-and knowledge
of such ways out was usually the tightly guarded secret of the
owners of the castle themselves. Sometimes the secret was lost
when the castle changed hands by war; but very often it was
rediscovered again, and once more kept secret by the finder and
those valuable to him or her. But Jim had just come from nearly a
week of polite prying by ibn-Tariq to find out about him as a
magician. The thought had crossed his mind, while he had been
dodging these questions of ibn-Tariq, that the other might have
some ulterior motive for wanting to know how much magic Jim
could wield.

He had not worried too much about it. however; but now he was
suddenly wary. His wariness was reinforced by a glimpse of Hob
out of the comer of his eye. The hobgoblin had left Jim’s back and
climbed the bars of Jim’s cage first-almost like a monkey-and had
gradually, but unobtrusively, gone over to the bars of the next cage
and out on its door which was swung open. The result was that now
he sat at the top of that door behind Kelb’s vision and, sitting on
top of that door, Hob was now shaking his head vigorously and
making faces at Jim.

The hobgoblin’s vigorous unspoken message crystallized Jim’s
suspicion.

“Very good, Kelb,” he said. “That’s a point in your favor. I will take it
into consideration. Meanwhile, you may go. I must sit and think a
while.”

“Yes, O my master,” said Kelb. And he disappeared.

As soon as he was gone, Jim beckoned Hob in until he was once
more sitting on Jim’s shoulder; and then Jim moved closer to
Brian, who was looking puzzled.

There is a time for small magics, Jim thought to himself. He
visualized Brian and Hob as being able to hear him when he
thought at them; and he would be able to hear them when they
thought back.

Now, Brian, Hob, he said, I will talk to you without using my voice
and you must simply think the words you want to tell me and I will
hear them.

Exactly like that, thought Jim. He looked at Brian again and saw that
Brian was understanding. There was a tight smile on his face. Now
Hob, and Brian, you both know I’m trying to conserve my magic; so
we’re going to do this with as little use of magic as we can. To
begin with. Hob, could you get some smoke from that cresset in
the corner? Remember, just think, don’t say the words.

I don’t know if I can think them without talking, said Hob-and looked
at first astounded and then tremendously pleased. I can do it! I can
do it! The cresset hardly puts out a good waft, but I can gather
enough I think- like I gathered the smoke for the boats. Yes,
m’lord, I can climb up to that cresset. The bars go up within a few
feet of it and then I can simply take a jump to the bracket that holds
the basket where the fire is.

You won’t burn yourself? asked Jim.

Oh no, said Hob. Fire and smoke are friends of mine.

Fine, said Jim. Hob, I want you to climb up the cresset, so that you
can reach the smoke, and then ride some smoke through as much
of the palace as you can, without people seeing you around the
building, and find that secret way Kelb was talking about.

Hah! said Hob proudly. M’lord, I already know where it is. When the
Djinni brought me here, the first chance I got to leave him alone, I
rode the smoke around the building and it was no trouble at all to
find out all about it and particularly the underground tunnel that
leads to the outside. I’m sure that’s what he was talking about-it’s
just like the one at Malencontri.

Thanks, Hob, thought Jim. But if I were you, I wouldn’t mention the
tunnel at Malencontri in front of anyone but Sir Brian here.

Oh. Yes, m’lord, said Hob. Do you want me to take you on the
smoke and go out that way?

He checked himself suddenly.

I forgot, he said sadly, you’re too big, m’lord, you and Sir Brian, to
go through the vents.

The vents? said Brian.

The vents just above the cresset, to let the smoke out.

Yes, said Jim. Do we have to go through areas of this place where
there are a lot of Assassins?

Yes, m’lord, thought Hob. The way passes through a part of the
building that contains a place they call Paradise, to which new
Assassin people are taken. They are all sort of drunk and funny
there.

I see, said Jim.

James? said Brian.

Jim looked at him.

Do you think you can find a way there without magic? I vow it is
beyond my abilities.

I guess I’ll have to, said Jim. I’ll give it a try, anyway.

He pondered for a little while, staring unseeingly at the bars and
stone walls in front of their cell.

“Kelb!” he said out loud.

Kelb appeared, wagging his tail.

“Tell me, Kelb,” Jim said, “you can make yourself invisible any time
you want to, can’t you?”

“Invisible, O my master?” echoed Kelb. “I do not understand.”

“Are you capable of making yourself so people can’t see you, even
though you’re still there?”

“Oh, yes,” said Kelb. “In fact, I do that a lot when I’m being chased.
I’ll go around a corner and get out of their sight; and those who
chase me will come around the corner and see only a room or a
corridor where there is no dog to be found. They will wonder a
moment; but then go someplace else that I might have gone. Then
I turn back into being seen and go about my way-it’s easier, you
see, being seen. I can make myself so they can’t see me, but I
have to keep working at it to stay so.”

“And when you turn invisible, everything about you turns invisible
too?” asked Jim.

“Oh yes, master,” said Kelb.

“Good,” said Jim. “Then, I’ve got a job for you. You’ll carry Brian
and me out that secret escape tunnel you talked about. Now, I’ll tell
you what to do, Kelb. Just turn sideways and lean against the bars
at the front of this cage of ours, would you?”

“If I do this, master,” said Kelb, with a new, cunning note in his
voice, “you will then take me under your protection against Sakhr
al-Jinni? If so, I will be your most loyal follower.”

“You can’t be a loyaler follower than I am,” said Hob quickly. He
jumped on to Jim’s shoulder and clung to Jim’s neck.

“Yes, I can,” said Kelb.

“No, you can’t!” said Hob. “You absolutely can not!”

“Never mind that now,” said Jim. “We won’t worry about it. Hob, you
are my old and faithful Hob of Malencontri. As for you, Kelb, you’ll
have to show yourself faithful over the same number of years that
Hob has been faithful to me-“

“-Since m’lord and m’lady first moved into Malencontri,” put in Hob
hastily. “I know I didn’t talk to you a lot at first... and so forth, m’lord.
But a hobgoblin is always faithful to those in whose house he lives.
And you and m’lady were people I loved from the first moment. I
am the most loyal-the most loyal-“

“Yes, Hob,” said Jim. “No need to get excited. Feel secure. And
I’m glad you reminded me you were there. I was thinking only of
Brian and myself for a moment. Lean up against the bars, Kelb;
and, yes, I will take you on and promise you my protection-which I
shall continue to do until you do something that causes me to cast
you off. So you’d better be on your best behavior at all times.”

“None shall be on better behavior than me,” said Kelb.

“You can’t possibly-“ Hob began energetically; but Jim cut him off.

“Hob,” he said, “never mind, now. I told you you were my old and
trusted retainer, and as yet Kelb has got to win his place. Now,
Kelb, we three are going to be small insects riding on your back;
and you’re to carry us to a secret passage out of this palace. Do
you, or do you not, know how to find it?”

“I do,” whined Kelb. “It’s just beyond Paradise-“

“Good enough,” said Jim. “Lean against the bars.”

Kelb still hesitated.

“What does my master intend to do?” he asked, cautiously.

“Nothing important,” said Jim. “I’ll simply turn myself, Brian and
Hob into fleas on you, hidden in your hair. You’ll sneak through the
corridors to the way out, and when you go invisible we’ll be that way
too.”

“I know not if you will indeed become unseen when I do, master,”
said Kelb.

“If the dog can go invisible, why can’t he make us invisible?” said
Brian. “That way we wouldn’t have to be fleas.”

“I can’t, master,” said Kelb.

“Why not?”

“He’s a Natural, not a magician,” Jim reminded Brian. “Let’s not
have any more talk, now. Kelb-against the bars!”

“Ought to be able to,” muttered Brian.

“Whatever,” said Jim impatiently. “As fleas we’ll be too small to be
noticed anyway. Now, Kelb!”

Kelb turned sideways and pressed himself against the bars.

Jim had never turned himself into an insect before. He had heard
Carolinus threaten to turn humans, animals or Naturals into insects;
and he had actually seen Carolinus turn a thirty-foot sea devil into a
very large beetle. But Jim had never done it, or even turned himself
into an animal before. Still, visualization had lately been making
everything seem possible, and he could think of no drawbacks to
the idea. They would simply ride Kelb all the way out of this Kasr al-
Abiyadh, or White Palace. He half closed his eyes and
concentrated on visualizing Brian, himself and Hob as fleas on
Kelb’s hide, and locked the picture firmly in his mind and
concentrated on it.

“Here we go,” he said.

And so they went.
CHAPTER TWENTY

As it turned out, luck was with them. Kelb encountered no one on
his way up the stairs from the cell block, or after that for some
distance.

It was just as well that things had fallen out that way, Jim thought
later. Because his first reaction after transforming himself into a
flea was to discover at least one of the unfortunate side effects of
the transformation. He had forgotten entirely what the viewpoint of
a flea would be, out of sight in the hair on a dog’s back.

Basically, the view was of hair. Hairs like tree trunks, all around
them and leaning over them. There was, of course, the skin of Kelb
underneath him. He felt a momentary instinctive urge to try to get at
some of the blood beneath that skin, but overruled it. However,
meanwhile, as in a dense growth of something like bamboo, he
was still completely fenced in by hair-hair not only enclosing him
but reaching up to shut out any sight of what might be above its
tips.

This would not do. What he needed was a viewpoint outside his
flea body. He visualized the prospect as seen through Kelb’s eyes.

However, what he found himself seeing, though recognizable, was-
as in the vision of all dogs-in black and white; and so different that it
took a moment for him to make out even the stone walls and stone
roof overhead. This would not do.

What he wanted was human vision; but human vision that would be
completely disembodied.

Well, there was no reason why that should not be achievable by a
very small amount of magic. What came immediately to mind was
a pair of invisible human eyes floating in the air just above Kelb’s
head. A concept that fitted into words easily enough, but was a little
hard to picture in the mind. To begin with, how did you picture eyes
if they were invisible?

He had wrestled with that for a moment until the obvious answer
came to him.

Of course, the invisible eyes didn’t have to be like a pair of human
eyeballs, only invisible. It could be as if his flea-eyes were magic
glasses connected to an invisible television camera hookup, which
could be swiveled around, up or down, to let him hear and see
things in perfectly normal human fashion, in any direction from
Kelb’s head.

He had visualized such a camera arrangement, then made it
invisible, then turned it on; and suddenly he had achieved a good
view of the corridor down which Kelb was trotting. It was a corridor
perfectly bare of any kind of decoration, no carpet on the stone
floor-that accounted for the sound he now heard of Kelb’s claws
clicking as he moved. The only thing that broke the corridor walls
on either side were occasional entrances, either to rooms or other
corridors; but Kelb was proceeding with apparent confidence,
giving every indication of knowing where he was going.

“Where are we?” Jim started to ask the Djinni-dog. But even
before the words were formed, he realized he had nothing to form
them with. Not only was he so tiny that his voice would probably not
be heard by Kelb; but he had no vocal apparatus as a flea.

It was true, he remembered, that the watch-beetle that Carolinus
had summoned up on Jim’s first acquaintance with the magician
had spoken in a high tinny voice, but that might simply have been
made possible by Carolinus’s magic. Jim also remembered that
Rrrnlf the giant sea devil, reduced to beetle size, had apparently
had no voice at all. Though Carolinus had appeared to hear him
saying things then, and talked with him in a conversation of which
only Carolinus’s side was audible.

What he wanted now, Jim decided, was to be able to speak inside
Kelb’s mind.

He tried to visualize what a Djinni’s mind might look like. A sort of
place of shadows? He had discovered sometime since that his
visualizations did not have to be correct to work. It was the concept
behind the visualization that made the structure on which his
creative ability could act.

He concentrated on his place of shadows; and in his own mind he
spoke to the dog.

Where are we?

Kelb came to an abrupt stop.

“Master?” he said, in a voice that quavered with what-if it was not
fear-was a very good imitation of it.

That’s all right. It’s me, thought Jim. Where are we?

“I am concerned, master,” said Kelb. “We’re now in the quarters of
the ordinary Assassins; and I would have thought we’d run into
some of them before now. I do not understand this, unless a
number of them are now out on some raid or other.”

Jim realized that Kelb was speaking his words out loud.

You don’t have to actually say what you tell me, Jim said. Just think
it. I’ll hear it. Think the words.

Indeed, you are a great magician, said Kelb, thinking the words. Do
you hear me now?

I hear you loud and clear, said Jim. You were just saying a number
of the Assassins might have been sent off on a raid-against the
caravan again ?

Oh, no, said Kelb. But there has been talk for some time of the fact
that the Golden Horde Mongols were planning a foray down here
into what is actually Il-Khanate Mongol territory; and during the last
two hundred years Mongols have taken many Assassin castles.
Hasan ad-Dimri could have sent out many of his men in a strong
group to see if any such Mongol force is coming this way; so he
can take measures for defense. That’s the only thing I can think of-

He broke off suddenly, as two men barely in their twenties stepped
out of one of the entrances ahead and turned to stare directly at
him.

Kelb went invisible, and began to try to sneak up along the wall at
his left, which was farthest from where they were standing. He
moved with surprising softness, his nails no longer clicking on the
floor. Jim suddenly thought of Brian and Hob. He turned his mental
camera view back on himself and his fellow fleas, and discovered
they were being carried along in mid-air, quite visible themselves-
but only as specks.

It suddenly occurred to him that the amount of magical energy
required to make three fleas invisible would be hardly any amount
at all. Accordingly, he did so. He spoke mentally to Brian and Hob-
meanwhile making sure that when they tried to speak back it would
be a mind-to-mind contact-though where a mind could hide in the
body of a flea, he had no idea. He did not know much about a
flea’s anatomy; but he was fairly sure that like most insects it did
not have a brain.

Brian? he asked. Hob?

M’lord- Hob began on a note of alarm; but Brian interrupted him.

James? he said. Where are you? I don’t know whether I was
seeing you or just feeling you close here; but I can’t do that now.

I’m right here, said Jim. I made us all invisible and inaudible, so
that those two Assassins up ahead won’t hear or see us. Kelb’s
already made himself invisible.

I noticed, thought Brian, a little sourly. James, this is not my favorite
way of traveling.

It’s the best I can do at the moment, Brian, said Jim.

Oh, I’m not blaming you, James, said Brian. It’s just that fleas are
foul creatures. I don’t like being one-craving your pardon, James,
he added hurriedly, since you yourself are also a flea at the
moment.

No offense taken whatsoever, Brian, said Jim. I quite understand
how being a flea could bother a knight. I’m not too bothered
myself, possibly because of being a magician, and being more
used to this than you.

Of course, said Brian, naturally. Pray forgive my bad manners.

They aren’t bad manners, Brian- Jim broke off. They were now
almost level with the two men, who were talking to each other in low
voices. To Jim’s surprise their faces were a pasty white.
“I saw a dog,” one was saying. “I’m sure of it”

“I saw no dog,” said the other Assassin. He was a little bit taller and
possibly a year or so older than his companion-at least somewhat
more mature-looking. He closed his eyes. “I saw nothing, I heard
nothing.”

“But I was sure-“ began the Assassin who had been first to speak,
uncertainly.

“Allah curse thee for the donkey wits thou wast born with!” snapped
the other. “O, fool! Were there ever any dogs in the White
Palace?”

“No...” said the other.

“Could a dog get in here without passing the guards at the gate?”
“No, of course not-“

“If a dog was to be allowed in, would we not have heard about it-
unless such as you or I was not supposed to know it was here?”

The jaw of the smaller Assassin dropped.

“So,” went on the taller Assassin, “I say it again. There is no dog,
no voice! Do you see a dog now? Do you hear a voice now?”

“No.”

“Then there was none; and I, at least, was never here.”

The smaller Assassin’s face had now whitened further, possibly to
the shade of a well-laundered ghost.

“Neither was I,” he said, and ducked back into the entrance out of
which they had come, colliding with the taller Assassin, who was
already on his way out of sight.

What now? asked Brian, as they passed the entrance into which
the two men had vanished, and got a glimpse of a short hallway
with a green door at the end, tightly closed.

I’m not sure, thought Jim. Kelb?

Yes, my master? said Kelb, becoming suddenly visible again.

How close are we to this secret way out now? Jim asked.

We have only to pass through Paradise, said Kelb. It is the place
to which they bring the new recruits. There will be some there,
undoubtedly, but it will not matter if they see us, or hear us,
because we will simply be something else in what they believe is
Paradise; and they may not even see us as we are.

Paradise? said Jim thoughtfully. Why do you call an indoctrination
center for recruits ‘Paradise’?

Forgive me, master, said Kelb, my understanding does not extend
to knowing what ‘indoctrination’ means. But it is the place where
they take those newly committed to being Hashasheens, after
filling them with hashish first, and then telling them they are going to
paradise; and to them, under the drug, it is as if they went.

We’ll go through it invisible anyway, said Jim.

Master, it is not necessary-

You will stay invisible, said Jim.

Yes, master.

Shortly after that they turned down one of the other entrances into a
corridor that led for some little distance, but ended in a wide high
door painted a yellow-gold color that filled the full height and width
of the corridor. Kelb’s voice came out of nothingness.

“Forgive me, master,” he said timidly, “but I can pass through this
door without opening it. Is it so with you, master?”

“Thanks for telling me,” said Jim. He hastily visualized himself and
the two other fleas passing through the door as if it was no more
than a projected illusion; quickly adding the magic stipulation that
he, Brian and Hob should do this while still in connection with the
skin of Kelb.

They passed through.

Within was a very large room indeed.

Its domed ceiling and much of its upper walls were painted a bright
sunlit blue. Beneath this was what seemed to be a rather crude
mock-up imitation of an oasis-the kind of imitation that
inexperienced amateur theater stage carpenters might have
produced. The trees that surrounded them were all fake palm
trees, reaching up to an umbrella of false leaves at the top. From
somewhere relatively cool air was blowing through the place, there
was a pool of water in the center of the room, and in the middle of
the pool a fountain spurted some three feet in the air and splashed
back into the water.

Around the edges of this pool, sitting with their backs propped up
against imitation palm tree trunks, were a number of young men,
most of them seemingly lost in thought, or with their eyes shut-
whether asleep or not he did not know. There were also a number
of women around, most of them middle-aged and rather
businesslike in expression, who seemed mostly concerned with
gathering in groups, talking and eating. Nearly all the male figures
lying around had trays of food near them, but very few were paying
any attention to them. They looked dazed.

The women, however, were busy with their conversation and food.
Occasionally one of them would break off to go over to one of the
recumbent figures and stroke some fingers under his chin,
possibly murmur to him or pay various sorts of little attentions, then
carefully evade the slow grasp which might respond to these
attentions-but by no means always did- and then return to the
group; or go on to give the same sort of momentary touching and
talking to another of the recumbent figures. The women were
dressed in what seemed to be layers of filmy, semitransparent silk
garments that covered them from neck to wrists and ankles, and
were of various hues.

The clothes, in fact, were lovely. The women, Jim decided, on the
whole were not; nor did they seem to be making any effort to be
so.

What are those round things they are eating? Brian demanded,
staring at the gathered group of women.

Sheep’s eyes, answered Kelb.

Jim gagged, mentally, but nonetheless uncomfortably.

Say you so? said Brian, in an interested voice. I wonder what they
taste like. What about those long rope like things that they chew
on?

Sheep’s entrails, said Kelb, stuffed of course with rice and sugar
and cinnamon and other good things.

Hah! Like a Scot’s haggis, eh? said Brian. There were certainly
Scotsmen with the first crusade. They must have gotten in among
these infidels-“ He broke off.

They are not particularly dainty about how they reach into the
communal pot of food, however, he went on. It is true they wipe
their hands, but only so often; and I have seen more than one hand
go in to the wrist. Also they feed each other, and those beneath the
trees.

This last was true, Jim noticed. One of the things done by these
women, who must be playing the part of the Houris, the women
with which the Blessed were solaced in Paradise, would be to
occasionally make a small ball of food from some of the foods on
the tray beside a recumbent figure and put it into his mouth. But not
always. Very often she just gave the dazed man a pat, or a stroke-
and went on to the next one.

They skirted the pool and went on through the fake palm trees, with
the figures against them becoming fewer and fewer until they saw
a wall ahead of them. Low down, the wall was unpainted; and as far
as Jim could see, there was no door in it. But Kelb carried them
right to the wall, regardless.

Arriving at the point where the sand of the floor met the wall, he
sniffed doglike along the line where wall met sand until he reached
a spot where he began to dig industriously with his front paws.
Sand spurted backward until he finally exposed what appeared to
be part of a tiled floor, blue and white squares of glazed tiles
alternating in a checkerboard pattern.

He pressed one of the blue tiles with a paw, and in front of him the
apparently seamless wall slipped downward, revealing a
rectangular opening.

“We now enter, my master,” said Kelb, aloud.

He went in. In the dimness of the narrow, walled passage, he
hesitated.

“Are you still with me, master?” he asked.

Jim remembered the fact that the Djinni could probably no more
feel them than see them.

“We’re here, Kelb,” he said, also allowing his words this time to
come out as spoken sound.

“I am much relieved, my master,” said Kelb. He went back to the
opening in the wall, and using his paws pulled sand back over the
tile that he had exposed earlier. Then he returned to approximately
where he had stood before, and slowly but silently, the stone of the
entrance slid up to fill the aperture through which they had entered.

As it did, an utter blackness descended on them. Kelb’s voice
came out of it.

“Master, there is no more need for you and those with you to ride
as fleas upon me. If you will return to your ordinary bodies, you will
find to your right, on the wall, a rack of torches, and at the end of
the rack, a flint and steel wherewith to light them. There is a powder
on the thick end of the torch that will make them light easily if you
get a spark to them.”

Jim made the necessary magic adjustment. Still in darkness, but
now feeling the slight weight of Hob at the back of his neck, and
also feeling rather than seeing Brian’s presence beside him, he
reached out. He rammed his fingers rather painfully against a hard
wall surface. Then he ran his hand over it, up and down, moving
along as if he was using a brush to paint it. Finally he touched what
felt like a curved wooden stand.

In the stand, he felt a row of upright bundles of something that felt
more like tightly rolled paper than anything else.

He lifted one from its hole, groped again, and found, dangling on a
cord, the flint and steel that Kelb had mentioned. Holding the torch
in his left armpit, he struck the flint and steel together with both
hands until a spark jumped in the right direction to touch the upper,
thicker end of the torch. A flame burst into view, spreading and
brightening until it illuminated the end of a long tunnel in the rock.

It also revealed Brian, still looking somewhat battered, but cheerful,
and Kelb in his dog form looking expectantly up at him.

“Hob, are you all right?” asked Jim.

“Yes, m’lord,” came the small voice just above his left shoulder;
and he remembered suddenly that, like Brian, he had been
sleeping in his travel clothes for warmth, when the Assassins had
captured them. But he had not felt Hob climbing back into the
knapsack.

“Should I come out?” Hob asked.

“There’s not much to see,” said Jim. “We’re just in a dark tunnel.
Perhaps you’d better just stay where you are.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

They went forward, Kelb trotting confidently a little ahead, but still
within the circle of torch-light. The tunnel was longer than Jim had
expected, considering that it clearly had been hewn out of solid
rock. In the end, he judged they must have walked close to a
quarter of a mile before Kelb stopped and waited for them to join
him. They were facing a similar wall that seemed to bar off the
tunnel at this point.

“I have pressed what needs to be pressed to cause this end of the
tunnel to open,” said Kelb in an apologetic voice, “but, my masters,
it is evidently stuck. Would you mind very much jumping up and
down on the floor? I think that will jar it loose and it will go up.”

Not surprising, thought Jim. Mechanical contrivances here in the
fourteenth century could hardly be expected to work better than
those in the twentieth century.

“In that case,” he said, “we’d better jump together, you and I, Brian.
I’ll say one, two, three and then we jump-that way we should come
down together.”

“Hah!” said Brian. “Infidel magic! Of course it doesn’t work right!”

Jim was not exactly sure what he meant; but there was no point in
going into the matter now. He counted off and they jumped. They
came down hard on the stone floor; but evidently that was just what
was needed, for slowly the stone slab before them began to move
upward-but jerkily, as if it needed oiling.

“It is not used much, you see, my masters,” said Kelb, “and
anyone who is brought here, except the Grandmaster, must of
course die after he has seen this tunnel. Therefore it is necessary
that he be slain and his body be taken out to be left at some little
distance on the mountainside, that he shall not be connected with
the entrance, here, once it is closed again. But for us, we need but
step outside now.”

He had timed his words excellently. As he finished, the stone
stopped jerking upward, and there was room to duck under it out
into the star-lit night of the mountainside. There were a few bushes
around them, and the rocks all but closed them in. Kelb did
something behind them, and they heard the door scraping
downward and finally ceasing to make any noise.

“It is closed now,” Kelb said in a satisfied voice.

“That’s good,” said a voice out of the darkness. “And the place of
its opening is now known. That will be useful. Abu al-Qusayr spoke
truth to me, though I am not of his faith. So, now I find you all again,
Franks.”

It was the voice of Baiju, the Mongol from the caravan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Jim looked in the direction of the voice, but he could still see
nothing but what seemed like three or perhaps four patches of pale
white, which might be or might not be there in actuality, but which
seemed to waver and change outline slightly.

“Night-devils!” cried Kelb. “Master, protect me!”

“You?” said Jim. “A Djinni? And you’re afraid of night-devils?”

Jim could feel the dog’s body pressing against the back of his
legs.

“Afraid?” said Kelb quaveringly. “Who, me? I am the most-the
most powerful of Djinni. But some of these night-devils can be very
cruel, master.”

“Send the Djinni away,” said the voice of Baiju. “I will talk to you
alone.”

“Go,” said Jim to Kelb.

“But, master-“

“And don’t just make yourself disappear,” added Jim. “I’ll know if
you do; and then you’ll wish it was night-devils got you instead of
me!”

It was a completely empty threat, of course. Aside from the fact
that Jim knew nothing of what night-devils were, or could do, he
knew very well he could never bring himself to treat even a Djinni
with deliberate cruelty. Nonetheless, the pressure of Kelb against
the back of his legs suddenly ceased.

“I don’t understand this,” said Jim, speaking in the direction of
Baiju’s voice. “How do you happen to be here? And why?”

“Some time back, in Tripoli,” said Baiju, “but after he had seen you
and the Brian-Sir with you, I happened to visit abu al-Qusayr to find
out when those of the Golden Horde that are coming this way
would come; and how they might be stopped. He looked into water
and told me only two things. One, stopping ibn-Tariq was the key to
stopping them; and, two, you were the only one who could stop
ibn-Tariq. I should try to find you at this time at this place in the
night, and help you to get to Palmyra before the caravan.”

“And so you came, and showed up here, just on the basis of that?”
asked Jim. Baiju had not struck him as a particularly trusting or
credulous individual.

“That was all he said he could tell me,” said Baiju. “You are a
magician yourself. I paid the price he asked for in gold-gold, not
silver- and he gave me his answer. You would know better than I if
a magician would cheat me after setting a price and getting it.”

Baiju had a point, thought Jim. Magicdom’s rules were very
emphatic about that. Abu al-Qusayr could not play anything but fair
with someone who had struck a bargain with him-once the bargain
was accepted. If this was generally known, even among the
Mongols, then it was just possible that Baiju would, indeed, have
trusted the elderly magician. It also meant that even abu al-Qusayr
had not known why stopping ibn-Tariq could stop the other
Mongols.

“Let me see you,” Jim said to Baiju.

“Yes,” said Brian’s voice at his shoulder, “and any who are with
you, Mongol!”

Baiju gave a brief snort of laughter.

“Then make a light, magician,” he said. “I will make none. You are
not that far from Kasr al-Abiyadh that any light will not be seen by
one of those on watch from its higher towers.”

“If that is so,” said Brian, “mayhap it is better to forgo the light.
What think you, James?”

“I think you’re right,” said Jim, “and particularly if you think so,
Brian.”

“It is ordinary sense,” said Baiju, with a contemptuous edge to his
voice. “Come, then. I have white camels from Basra, for each of
us. Not only are they faster, and do they go farther, than the heavy
beasts of the caravan, but we will push harder. We will push very
hard. In five days I will bring you into Palmyra.”

Jim felt a return of the pressure at the back of his legs; and Kelb’s
voice spoke.

“O, mighty master, forgive your willful and unruly slave for coming
back without permission. But what of me?”

“He is a Djinni,” said Baiju. “Let him find his own way to Palmyra.”

“Master-“ began Kelb again.

“No,” interrupted Jim decisively. “You are a Djinni, as Baiju says.
We’ll meet you there. Go then-however you can go. I will call for
you again, possibly when I get into Palmyra.”

“Master-“

“Go!”

The pressure against his legs ceased.

“He’s gone,” said Jim. “Now what?”

“Come toward my voice,” said Baiju.

Jim felt Brian’s hand on his shoulder and stepped cautiously
forward, over what was obviously fairly rough terrain. He stumbled
once on what was either a large pebble or a small boulder, and
almost lost his balance but regained it again. A moment later he
smelled Baiju’s breath. It smelled of alcohol. The little Mongol had
evidently been drinking. But he sounded sober enough.

At the same time Jim began to make out the white wavering
shapes in the darkness, which turned out to be the camels Baiju
had mentioned. Baiju helped both of them to mount; and a moment
later, with the Mongol on his camel leading, they were making their
way up the steep slope amid the rocks.

Jim could not remember how long a time the caravan had been
supposed to take in making the journey to Palmyra; but it was now
six or seven days since it had left Tripoli. Still, five days more from
here to the city seemed like making very good speed indeed. He
was encouraged.

Later, he wished he hadn’t been.

It was true they were near the top of the mountains; and it was only
a few hours from the time they had met Baiju before they rode
through the dark pass at the peak, with the absolute blackness of
rock walls on both sides and a narrow slit of night sky sprinkled with
stars far above them. It was also true that the following day after a
few hours sleep just before dawn they reached the bottom of the
far side of the mountains looking toward the desert valley area, in
the midst of which Palmyra was placed; and as they went in the
days that followed, the air grew warmer, and somewhat less dry-
although it was far from being what might be considered balmy.

All in all, Jim ended up with the conclusion that he would just as
soon not make another forced march with Baiju. The little Mongol
drove them from before daybreak until after dark; and if they had
let him have his own way they would have had no more than three
hours of off-camel sleep a night. The camels themselves stood up
to it admirably. Brian said nothing; but his face began to look a little
more gray with each day passed, and he was definitely showing
exhaustion by the time they got to Palmyra.

So it was not a pleasure trip. Their camels might indeed, as Baiju
said, be jewels among their kind, and bred for racing; and it was
undeniable that their gait, if anything, was smoother than that of the
camels Jim and Brian had ridden in the caravan.

But Jim and Brian, both of them, were worn out by the time they all
finally reached Palmyra.

At last, slumped in their saddles and swaying with fatigue, they
entered the city in late afternoon. It was a good-sized place of
tents and more or less lightly constructed wooden buildings, which
had risen on the foundations laid out for an early Greek or Roman
city.

At that time, clearly, the city had been constructed on a regular
pattern; and the main street running east and west in the center of
the city had ruins still standing of a double portico called the Great
Colonnade. It was close to this Great Colonnade that Baiju at last
brought them to a caravansary where they could lodge.

Jim and Brian were shown to a room. It was not until then that Jim
realized neither of them had their usual baggage. Their heavy
armor and weapons, their extra clothing and-worst of all-his
personal, deverminized mattress were missing.

To hell with it, he thought exhaustedly, and chose a clean patch of
floor. He visualized a magic line around it that would send all
vermin and suchlike running from it in fear, and lay down, pulling his
cloak over him. He had just enough consciousness left to magically
make the splintered wooden floor underneath him as soft as a bed-
and he fell ocean-deep in slumber.

They were wakened by Baiju. The Mongol showed no signs of
weariness from the trip, just as he had shown no signs of
weariness during it. They woke to find him standing over them.

“Will you sleep forever?” he demanded.

“Not any more, in any case, with your braying!” said Brian. “James,
I must have breakfast-and a sword. We must both get swords. But
food now! Where do you get some food in this hell-bound place?”

“Rise and come with me,” said Baiju. Without waiting for them he
turned and started out of the room.

“Wait a minute,” said Jim. Unlike Brian, who woke up with a nasty
temper until fed, but came fully awake at once, Jim needed a little
time to reach full alertness. “If you walk out that door without us,
you’d better count on not having anything to do with me from now
on. I need a little time.”

Baiju spun about on his heel.

“I brought you here,” he said dangerously, “and now you will not
repay me as you should?”

“I didn’t make any bargain with you,” said Jim. “Abu al-Qusayr told
you I might be useful to you; and the only reason you helped us get
here was because of that. If you’ve got any disagreements, go talk
to him.”

He switched his attention away from Baiju completely.

“Hob?” he said.

“Yes, m’lord,” said a small voice from behind him. Out of the
corner of his eye he saw Baiju go pale and rigid, and his eyes
opened very wide.

“That’s all right,” said Jim, answering both Hob and Baiju’s
superstitious alarm at once. “I just wanted to make sure you were
there and all right. It must have been pretty boring for you this trip. I
know you don’t sleep.”

“That doesn’t matter,” said Hob. “Any hobgoblin is used to going a
long time with nothing happening. We just sit and think about happy
things that happened to us in the past, without sleeping.”

“I will wait for you downstairs in the room where everyone eats and
talks,” Baiju said, less pale now, but walking hastily out.

Jim had all but forgotten him already. He was coming all the way
awake; and it struck him that he felt hot, sticky and uncomfortable.
He would have given almost anything for a shower, twentieth-
century style, but of course that was impossible.

A bath was an alternative; but the bathhouses that might be
available were more trouble than they were worth. Jim only wanted
to get clean. He did not want to be offered female or male
company, food, drink, drugs or anything else. Particularly he did not
want people pretending to help him bathe, and then asking a price
for it. It was not so much the price that bothered him as the
annoyance of having to get rid of such gadflies.

He could magic himself and his clothes clean-but he had been
nibbling away at his magic reserves, in spite of his good intentions
to use them as little as possible.

“I’m ready,” he said to Brian. “How about you?”

“You should wear your mail shirt,” said Brian reproachfully.

Jim looked at the pile of metal links on the floor by his mattress
with sourness. That was right. He had taken that off before
collapsing in sleep. Now, wearing his shirt and undershirt alone, he
was quite comfortable in the passably warm atmosphere here, and
it would undoubtedly get warmer during the day. To wear the mail
shirt, with its sewn on, interior quilted padding, would be to make
himself uncomfortably hot. Still, Brian was right. They were in a
strange city, among strangers; and the rule of the fourteenth
century, whether you were in England, the Middle East or any place
else, seemed to be “Go protected, and be ready for anything.”

Regretfully he put on the mail shirt. He was almost immediately
prickly with heat; but hopefully, his body would adjust to it during
the day. Brian was on his feet, standing in the clothes he had been
wearing all through the trip and moving from foot to foot impatiently.

“I am ready,” Brian announced. “If you are too, let us go.”

“No offense, Brian,” said Jim. “But you stink.”

“And so do you, James,” said Brian, “though no worse than before.
But it is better to stink and live than not stink and be dead. The
chance will come for us to get our weapons and some other
clothes or clean the ones we have. Meanwhile I need food; and I
cannot believe but what you do as well.”

He led the way out the door and Jim took a few long strides to
catch up with him.

When they got to the coffeehouse, restaurant, or whatever it was
that was part of their lodging place, it was enclosed by a circular
wall of ancient marble in which were niches. Each niche had a low
table and pillows on which to sit cross-legged around it. They
looked about for Baiju, but he was not there.

“Well,” said Jim, after they had sat down and ordered whatever
was available for breakfast-Jim included a large container of cool
sherbet with his. Having done this and watched their server leave,
he looked around, saw no one was sitting close enough to
overhear easily, and spoke to Brian in a low voice.

“Had you any plan for how we might go about finding Geronde’s
father here?” he asked Brian.

Brian finished gulping down what was in his mouth and answered.

“To be honest with you, James,” he said, “I had planned to do as I
have done all the way here so far, to search out an English knight,
or at least a French or other knight of good repute, and ask his help
and guidance. But this place seems singularly free of any but the
local infidels. Yet we might ask.”

He looked around the eating place they were in, caught the eye of
the man who had served them and waved him over. While waiting,
he dipped into the single dish that had been put down between Jim
and himself, picked up another mouthful of it with the tips of his
fingers as he would have done in England, and stuck it in his
mouth. The server arrived at their table, as Brian was hastily trying
to get this chewed and swallowed. Brian got it down just in time.

“Fellow,” he said to the server, “by the way, what kind of meat is it
in this you have brought us?”

“It is a tender young she-camel, masters,” said the server. “One
who broke a leg in the stables of Murad of the Heavy Purse, and
which we were fortunately able to buy for slaughter. Is it not
flavorful and good to eat?”

“Well, it is, at least, not goat,” said Brian. “Tell me, do you know of
any English knights here in this city?”

“English knights?” said the server, looking puzzled.

“Yes, yes,” said Brian. “You know-English knights! Knights from
England.”

“Master,” said the server, wonderingly. “Of Frankish knights I have
heard; but I do not understand what you mean by these that are
called English.”

“I was speaking of England,” said Brian, speaking the word slowly,
and pronouncing the word slowly and more loudly. “England.”

“My friend is speaking of a lord from his own country,” said Jim.
“And that country is England-an island not far from the land of
those you call the Franks.”

“Is it so indeed?” said the server. “There are no Franks in Palmyra
either, may Allah be thanked.”

“Are you sure?” asked Jim. “Couldn’t there be one around in this
city who you haven’t heard of?”

The server shook his head.

“If there was such a man, masters,” he said, “surely I would know
it, since those who pass through here in caravans, and others
speak of many things, and never fail to mention those who are
strangers to our land.”

The server went off; but his place was almost immediately taken by
Baiju, who sat down next to Jim on a cushion in the niche where
they were seated, and drew his legs up in cross-legged position.
He reached out and helped himself from their bowl of food.

It was only after he had taken a mouthful and eaten it that he looked
at Jim and Brian.

“Now what do you plan?” he said to them.

“The fact is,” Jim said, “we’re looking for someone who might be
here in Palmyra. He-“

“But swords, first. We must buy ourselves weapons, Mongol. As
for telling him about Sir Geoffrey, you need not bother, James,”
said Brian. “I have already told Baiju about our search.”

“When did you do that?” asked Jim.

“Oh, one of the times in the caravan, when you were talking with
that wordy fellow ibn-Tariq-or should I call him a gentleman?” said
Brian.

He looked at Baiju, who was industriously eating.

“Was he a gentleman?”

Baiju shrugged and took another handful of food.

“In any case I told Baiju what Sir Geoffrey would look like,” said
Brian, “in case he should see him. You have not seen him, I take
it?”

He was still looking at Baiju, who shook his head and went on
eating.

“We are at something of an impasse,” Brian told him. “Leave the
food alone for a moment, if you please, Mongol, and give us your
attention. There is reason to believe that he is in this town; but we
have no idea of how to go about searching for him.”

“Look!” said Baiju, pausing only briefly as far as feeding himself
went, and staring at Jim and Brian. “Look-and ask to see if anyone
else has seen him.”

“We just did,” said Jim. “We asked the server here who brought us
this food. He said that if there was someone like that in Palmyra, he
would know it because those who pass through here on caravans
and by other means usually stop and eat here; and the word gets
out of any strangers in the land.”

Baiju gave a momentary short sound that was somewhere between
a cough and a laugh.

He looked around the room, and focused on the server who was
busy with some people in another niche a quarter of the circle
around.

“Come!” shouted Baiju.

In the other niches, the men in flowing robes eating there stopped,
looked at him, looked at each other and spoke to each other in low
tones which were unintelligible to Jim and Brian sitting in the booth,
but which were pretty clearly-judging by the hand gestures and the
facial expressions-either shocked or contemptuous statements
about Baiju’s manners. The server deliberately kept on doing what
he was doing for a few moments, as if he had not heard, then
turned and almost ran across the room to Baiju, all smiles.

“My master called?” he asked.

“Tell me,” said Baiju abruptly, “are there any Frankish slaves in
Palmyra?”

“Assuredly, there are, master,” said the server. “But how many, or
to whom they belong, I could not tell you. Who keeps track of
slaves?”

“You told me there were no Franks in Palmyra,” said Jim.

“So I did, master,” said the server. “But slaves-“

He shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands.

“We are looking for a Frankish slave, then, taller than you by a hand
placed sideways,” snapped Brian, “with graying hair that has gone
halfway back on the head, and a small mustache which is perhaps
pure white. It could be that he is beardless and that the hair is
white. But he is not old and feeble, but still upright and strong, with
blue eyes and a scar across a corner of his chin and jaw. He will
have other scars as well, but this is the most notable one. Have you
seen such a slave?”

“I have not, O master,” said the server. “I could ask those who pay
attention to such things if they know of any such? Perhaps in a day
or so I would hear.”

“He will reward thee,” said the Mongol. “It will not be a great
reward. But it will be a certain one if you have found the slave I
speak. Do you understand?”

“Indeed, understanding comes clear to me, O generous and
beneficent master,” said the server, salaaming. “Is there any other
thing I can do for you?”

“Yes,” said Baiju, “bring us more of what was in this bowl.”

“Yes, master,” said the server. He took the empty bowl and hurried
off.

Baiju leaned back against the padded wall of the niche. He sighed
contentedly, looked at Jim and Brian and belched.

Brian had grown accustomed to this eastern way of expressing
satisfaction with the meal. Jim had learned to control his face at
this, but he still winced inside; even though he knew that here it was
a way of saying, “That tasted good!”

Baiju grinned at them, a fierce and sardonic but undeniably
humorous grin.

“Ibn-Tariq is here,” he said. “I caught sight of him earlier in the day,
before you were down.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Both Jim and Brian stared at him.

“The caravan is in?” said Jim.

“No,” said Baiju. “Yet he is here.”

“How could he be?” said Jim, remembering how they had pushed
their camels for long hours during the day, snatched a little food
and sleep and gone on again day after day, to the limit of their
endurance.

“I do not know,” said Baiju. The server brought a new bowl of food
and Baiju dug into it.

“I do not know,” he said again, after eating a couple of mouthfuls.
“It is barely possible-his camels were good, possibly as good as
ours-and if he started not two days after you had been taken, as we
did, but at once. If he started as the sun came up, or before, with
one camel, alone but taking enough food and water. If he did that
and knew the way well, it is just possible a house-dweller could be
here by this time. In any case, here he is. I saw him buying a
headdress in the souk. He did not see me.”

“Did he look like a man who’d pushed himself to the limit, when you
saw him?” Jim asked.

“Do I?” said Baiju sardonically. “If he could make such a trip, he
could be able to travel even as I do. Do not judge the world by
yourself.”

“Let us go to this same merchant he visited in the souk,” said
Brian, “and examine his wares. Mayhap in conversation we can
discover from him something he may have learned about ibn-Tariq;
such as where he is lodging here in Palmyra, and even perhaps the
reason for his hurrying to this place. Furthermore, it was in the souk
here that Sir Geoffrey, my lady’s father, was seen by the knight
who brought news to her of catching sight of him. So, we ourselves
might be lucky enough to catch sight of him. It may be he is no
slave but a merchant, or someone concerned with one of the
merchants of the souk, but hiding the fact he is an Englishman. He
will be changed, perhaps-it has been over six years now-but he
cannot have changed so much that I will not recognize him.”

“Well enough,” said Baiju. “I will eat some more here, and then we
will go.”

“Fine,” said Jim. “In that case, I’m going to step upstairs and get
that small friend you know of, Brian. I want to bring him along with
us.”

Baiju had stopped chewing on his latest mouthful and was staring
at Jim. Jim ignored him.

“Is that wise, James?” said Brian.

“It is, if he has to act in an emergency.” He looked hard at Brian to
remind him of the fact that Hob was with them to carry word home
on the smoke at high speed, to tell both Geronde and Angie if
anything happened to them. Brian frowned, then slightly nodded.

“As you will,” he said. He looked back at the second bowl, which
still contained a fair amount of food. “I might have a bite or two
more myself, while I’m waiting.”

Jim went upstairs. He had already decided that about the only way
to manage things would be to wear the cloak that had the secret
pouch for Hob on his shoulders and at the back of his neck-the
same cloak he had worn with the caravan, and had in fact been
sleeping in when he was captured. If he was going to be hot
anyway, he might as well have Hob with him. Then if anything
happened to them, the hobgoblin would be along to know of it.

It was fortunate, he told himself now, that Hob had not been in the
cloak at the time he and the Assassin had rolled over and over
down the stony hillside. Hob would have been squashed. But then
Hob must have been in his favorite spot, lying on top of the smoke
of the fire in front of their tent.

The cloak, he decided now, looking at it up in their room, and he
was once more tempted to use his magic to control the
temperature inside the cloak, so that he would be comfortable.

But no, better he just toughed it out. Carolinus had never given any
advice yet that had not turned out to be important. He reminded
himself hopefully that the cloak would hide the chain mail he was
wearing, not only from public view but from the direct rays of the
sun, which might otherwise heat up the metal links to make matters
even more uncomfortable.

“Hob,” he said, before picking up the cloak where he had left it,
“you’re back in your pouch there?”

“Yes, m’lord,” Hob’s voice came back.

“All right,” said Jim. “I’m going to put the cloak on and we’ll be
going out to go through the souk-that’s a sort of market they have
down here. Do you still have that special tinder? And do you
remember the magic word I gave you to say to make it light up and
create smoke, so that you ride the smoke right out of the pouch
and be out of people’s reach before they even know you’re there?”

“Yes m’lord,” said Hob. “And I remember the magic word to light
the tinder very well. It’s-“

“Don’t say it!” said Jim hastily, and a little more loudly than he had
intended. He lowered his voice. “That’s only to be used if you need
to hurry home to the Lady Angela with word Brian and I are in
serious trouble. The minute you say the word, that tinder is going to
kindle; and you’ll be in a pouchful of smoke.”

“I’d like that,” said Hob.

“Yes,” said Jim, “but you realize that once you’ve used it you won’t
have any other way of making smoke in a hurry if trouble crops up.”

“Oh,” said Hob. “Very sorry, m’lord.”

“That’s all right. Just remember the word is for emergencies only,”
said Jim. “I’ll try to call out your name when the time comes you
should go. But if for some reason whatever happens to us doesn’t
give me a chance to, then it’ll be up to you to decide when to make
your smoke and start back for England as fast as you can.”

“I’ll watch everything very carefully,” said Hob. “Is it all right, then, if
I peek out of the pouch, or ride on your shoulder? Somebody said
something to you about my being taken for a monkey, I think they
said, if they saw me here.”

“I suppose it’ll be all right,” said Jim. “But if you can see by
peeking, I’d like that better. After all, I’d just as soon not have
anyone know that there’s anyone riding with me.”

“Yes, m’lord,” said Hob.

Jim put on the cloak and went down. The second bowl was empty;
and both Brian and Baiju seemed in a good humor. Jim paid for
their meal- there was evidently nothing such as putting your meals
on your hotel bill in this place-and they sallied forth.

The souk, Palmyra’s open-air market, occupied what must have
been the location of the chief Sanctuary of Palmyra at one time;
now, in this fourteenth century, the remains of the Roman
architecture were generally buried by an accumulation of dirt and
filth. In the time of Jim’s original world, he remembered reading
once, a French expedition of archaeologists had uncovered four
porticoes and a ritual basin plus a large altar for sacrifices as well
as other pieces of architecture in this area.

Certainly, at the present moment there was nothing architecturally
remarkable about it. Most of the shops were half-tent and half-
shack, and the lanes between them wandered like trails in the
wilderness, barely broad enough for three people to walk abreast.

The one thing the shops all had in common was an opening
fronting on the lane that passed them, in which samples of their
wares were displayed. Baiju led the way, first to a weapons shop,
where they did not seem to have swords but offered long and
heavy knives almost as large. For want of anything else, both Brian
and Jim bought one, plus scabbards, and sashes to go around
their waist and hold the scabbards.

Next Baiju took them to a shop that had both headwear and other
items of clothing ready-made, plus bolts of cloth.

“What is this?” Baiju demanded of the shopkeeper, a blocky, not
unkindly-looking man with a graying mustache and a striped
headdress.

“It is the finest silk from beyond the Great Wall in the far, Far East,”
said the shopkeeper.

Baiju dropped the silk as if he had discovered it was suddenly
unclean.

“It is Egyptian silk,” he said flatly. “I had a friend who bought a
headdress from you this morning, and spoke of silk this color. I
would have been interested if it had indeed been silk from beyond
the Great Wall, or even the silk of Hind.”

“Allah pity me!” said the shopkeeper, wringing his hands. “And I
bought it believing it to be the true Eastern silk. How will I ever
recoup the great amount I paid for it?”

“By finding some other idiot who cannot tell Egyptian silk from the
Eastern cloth,” said the Mongol. “How else? But I see my coming
has been wasted, as another friend of mine from whom I would
buy knows silk-though not as I do. He believed you had better stuff
than this.”

“I have indeed some better silks-silk that would ravish your soul if
you knew the true materials,” said the shopkeeper. “It is in the back
of my shop. But do you truly wish to buy? I would not expose it to
the light before one who was not serious about buying.”

“How can a man know if he wishes to buy until he has seen what is
for sale?” said the Mongol.

“This silk is very carefully wrapped and protected and deep under
other piled goods of great value. It would be some labor to get to
it. A shopkeeper cannot go to such trouble for any not serious.”

“Ho, as for buying,” said Baiju, waving a hand at Jim, “the buyer is
here with me. I have come with him merely because I know silk.
But he is interested in many things, and silk was only one of them.
If it is too much labor for you to find this fine silk of yours,
undoubtedly we can find some elsewhere in the souk; and
meanwhile he can be gaining information and possibly buying other
things which he wishes.”

“Indeed?” said the shopkeeper. “What might these other things
be?”

“They are too numerous to mention. But perhaps you might point
the way for us to the slave market. He has a fancy to buy a Frankish
slave. Being a Frank himself, and being able to indulge his wishes,
he prefers to have Frankish slaves only around him.”

“Alas,” said the merchant. “There is no slave market today. There
will be one in a few days, perhaps. But Frankish slaves are not
normally found in Palmyra.”

“Yet my other friend, the one who bought the headdress from you,”
said Baiju, “spoke of seeing a Frankish slave here in the souk. He
saw him for only a moment before he was lost in the crowd, but
recognized him immediately for what he was.”

“I know of no Frankish slaves about the souk, or in Palmyra at all,”
said the shopkeeper. “It may be that those with much wealth might
have one or two. But the price would probably be very high. Is he
indeed willing to pay such a price?”

“He cannot know that until he sees the slave,” said Baiju.

“Such a slave is merely a curiosity, of course,” said the
shopkeeper, “but I do not think one would ever come cheaply. The
price would be much more even than that for my finest silk.”

“Price is not the problem if the slave is what he wants,” said Baiju.
“The problem is that he is staying but a few days only in Palmyra;
and then he will be traveling on. It is a pity you do not know of any
Frankish slave. He would be grateful to one who could direct him to
finding one, particularly one that was for sale.”

“What is not for sale?” said the shopkeeper. “But, if the owner has
little intention of selling, of course, the price may be-possibly I
could be of help in getting him a better price. I am, of course, a
merchant in cloths only, and slaves are of no interest to me. Still, I
hear things, and I know the ways of those who buy and sell here. It
is just possible that before he leaves I might hear of such a slave.
If so, perhaps I could get word to him. It would be an effort, of
course, on my part and I would welcome his gratitude for my
finding such a slave for him.”

“I am sure that he would not forget gratefulness in such a case,”
said Baiju. “If you should hear something, and if it should lead to
what he wants, and if the purchase was practical, certainly the
matter of his gratitude will be something he and you can discuss
between yourselves when the time comes.”

“Certainly-“ the shopkeeper was beginning, when the attentions of
all of them were suddenly attracted to a hubbub that had broken
out at some distance down the lane between shops. It was enough
of a distance, and there were too many people crowded around,
for them to see exactly what was happening, but voices were being
raised, and even sticks were being waved.

Without warning, a figure broke through the crowd of people and
ran toward them down the lane. All those in his way hastily got out
of it, and the mob he had momentarily left behind tore after him, all
but catching up with him and striking out at him with sticks. Only a
few of the blows got home, but they kept him running; and in a
moment he was up to the shop where Jim and the others stood,
level with them and gone on, and there was a jostling, shouting and
screaming crowd filling the lane in pursuit of him.

But in that instant, Jim had a momentary glimpse of a tall, brawny
man with black eyebrows and black mustache and the sleeve of his
nearer arm torn completely off, showing some unsightly
disfiguration, which could have been a scar, running almost from
wrist to elbow, or a wide, grayish-white rash. His face, glimpsed for
a moment, was white and staring, his mouth half open as if he was
screaming; but if he was, he could not be heard over the noise of
the crowd on his heels.

“Allah protect us,” said the shopkeeper, “it is Albohassan
Karasanij, the Persian-the leather-seller. It has been suspected for
some weeks past now that he might bear the curse of leprosy
secretly among us. He has sworn that he was only subject to boils;
but someone must at last have torn off part of his garment to make
sure.”

He cast a glance up the lane in the opposite direction, then
shrugged his shoulders and brought his gaze back to meet those
of Brian, Baiju and Jim.

“Those with the shops on either side of him will have gained all his
goods by this time,” he said with a touch of regretfulness in his
voice. “It is the will of Allah. Now, what else would please you?”

“I think that’s all,” said Jim. He wanted to get away from here.

“I will send word if there is any word to send,” said the shopkeeper.
“Depend upon it. Where may you be found, O my masters?”

“At the caravansary of Yusuf,” said Baiju.

“Good, I will send word there then. I am Metaab, the silk merchant.
All men know me.”

Jim, Brian and Baiju moved off. It was a relief to Jim to be away
from the shop with its association with what had just happened and
what he had just seen.

“Where to, now?” Baiju said.

Jim found he did not want to go back to the caravansary.

“Actually,” he said, “as long as I’m here, I’d like to see Palmyra
while there’s time to do it.”

“You want to see a city?” said Baiju, staring at him. “You are seeing
it now.”

He waved his hand at the shops in front of him.

“No,” said Jim, “I mean the whole city.”

“Come to think of it,” said Brian, “I would like that too. Particularly
let us look around the oasis from which the women are carrying
water on their heads. I am curious as to how they do it. Besides, it
is always wise to look around any new place you are in.”

“Perhaps,” said Baiju, “but a city! They are all the same.”

There would be no point, Jim knew, in mentioning to either Brian or
Baiju the remnants of architecture that betrayed the hand of Rome,
and civilizations before that, here in this place. The caravan route
must be as old as time itself. But whatever they did it would be
better than going back to the caravansary, staring at the wall and
seeing the reputed leper, running.

He still kept seeing-as if in a sudden still shot made by a camera-
the staring eyes, the half-open mouth of the fleeing, hapless
leather merchant. Strangely, the sight had moved neither the
shopkeeper nor Baiju at all. Nor, for that matter, had it evoked any
emotional reaction from Brian. In fact, he was now talking to Baiju
about the European way of handling such situations.

“-Our lepers are given a bell and must wear a garment that covers
them completely head to feet,” he was saying. “The leper rings the
bell as he moves, that all clean people may safely move out of his
path.”

“Simpler just to kill him,” said Baiju. “With arrows, from a distance.”

They had reached the end of the souk-or at least one of its edges.
At any rate, they were coming out from among the shops.

“If you must wander about this dung heap, I had best go with you,”
Baiju went on sourly. “Your customs are clearly not their customs;
and you are just as likely to end up dead instead of back at the
caravansary, through not understanding what you should do or
should not do. Come with me, then.”

He led them about the town and passed the oasis. In spite of what
Brian had said, it was on the women, rather than on the water-filled
pots on their head, that Brian’s eye lingered.

“If it’s the women you want,” Baiju said after watching him for a little
time, “I can find you places where you can see much more of them
than you can here.”

“That would be instructive, would it not, James?” said Brian,
looking across at Jim, for Baiju, being shorter than either of them,
was walking between them, which was the most convenient
position for conversation among all three of them.

Jim did not feel any particular urge to follow Baiju’s suggestion; but
since his only interest was in keeping from the caravansary, he
agreed.

In the end Baiju took them to a place where coffee was served, but
also where they were given the opportunity to buy, since they were
obviously not Muslims, a thin astringent white wine at which even
Brian made a face, though he drank it.

There, one by one, women came out and danced. They were still
clothed, however, though in layers of gauzy cloths that, while
evidently calculated to tantalize, actually were little less revealing
than the complete coverings of the women getting water from the
oasis.

All in all they killed about four hours and by this time Jim had
managed to come to terms with the memory of the leper-although
he had a notion that the memory would continue to haunt him for
the rest of his life. It had not been just the fear of the crowd that
had put that look on the man’s face. It was the horror of what he,
himself, now believed-or was at last acknowledging to himself-what
afflicted him.

Even if he himself had truly believed he did not have leprosy, he
was now facing a future in which he would have to live closely with
actual lepers; and being a man of his place and time in history, he
undoubtedly profoundly believed that it would be only a short time
before he would catch the disease from them.

Jim, Brian and Baiju were finally back at the caravansary. There
they were met by one of the regular workers, or employees-
whatever they were-in the place as they came in.

“One waits for you,” he said, as they came in. “His name is ibn-
Tariq; and he waits in the eating place of this caravansary.”

Jim would much rather have headed toward his room; but Baiju and
Brian had immediately started off toward the caravansary eating
place, and Jim went along with them. They found ibn-Tariq there,
seated cross-legged on the cushions in one of the small niches,
with what looked like some sort of pancake, grilling rather smokily
on a brazier set up by his table.

“Ah, my friends,” he called, seeing them. “Come. Sit with me!”

They continued across the room, and as the smoke from the
brazier met them halfway Jim stifled a cough that he thought might
be considered impolite.

“Are you all right, m’lord?” said a small, concerned voice in his ear;
for the cough had only been partly silenced.

“Fine, Hob,” murmured Jim. “It’s just that smoke.”

“It’s not the best smoke,” said Hob. “But there’s no such thing as
bad smoke.”

Not, thought Jim, to a hobgoblin, maybe; but they were now at ibn-
Tariq’s niche, and greetings were being exchanged. There was no
chance to utter the thought aloud.

“-A storekeeper in the souk, who was to specially make me a
headdress, delivered it to me not an hour ago,” ibn-Tariq was
saying. “He enclosed a message that you three were here, had
visited his shop and mentioned me. He also said you were seeking
a Frankish slave. It happens that I have acquaintances here in
Palmyra, having been here before, and it may well be that I can
help you find him you seek.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Jim gulped at the small cup of incredibly sweet, incredibly strong
coffee that had just been put before him by a server, scalding his
tongue but ignoring that in his need to get some stimulant in him to
sharpen his wits. They were now seated with ibn-Tariq at his table
in a niche.

Seeing the man was shock enough. His seeking them out like this,
on top of their knowing that he must have pushed himself as hard
or harder than they had pushed themselves to be here at this time,
had rung every warning bell in Jim at ibn-Tariq’s first sentence.

There were several things wrong with his offer. In the first place, it
was far too suddenly made, according to the rules of normal
conversation in this part of the world, where the practice was to talk
for anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour about unimportant
things before getting to the point. Also, it was remarkably direct for
somebody like ibn-Tariq, personally, who had shown an almost
machiavellian indirectness in his conversation.

But the man was looking at him now, smiling, with the open
countenance of someone who was no more than delighted by
being able to bring good news to someone he liked. It was true,
Jim and ibn-Tariq had found a good deal of common ground in
their talks, riding together in the first few days of the caravan; but
they had certainly not become friends, in any real sense of that
word.

“Ah,” Brian was saying cheerfully, “the silk merchant.”

“Yes, it is Metaab, the silk merchant you spoke to,” said ibn-Tariq.
“There are several other silk merchants in the souk. But I have
always found Metaab the most honest.”

“He promised to help us, too,” said Jim. It was the first thing he
could think of to say.

“That would be like Metaab,” agreed ibn-Tariq. “However, his
conversations are with those in the souk, in the street and in other
low places. Those I know live on rather a more important level; and
some are in positions to ask questions for me. I got the impression
that this Frankish slave was more than casually important to you,”
said ibn-Tariq. In the easy, casual way in which such matters were
regarded in these parts, he went on to ask, “An old lover of yours,
perhaps?”

Jim, who had taken another, somewhat larger mouthful of the hot
coffee, had trouble swallowing it politely.

“No,” he managed. “Merely a neighbor to whom I owe a duty.”

“Ah,” said ibn-Tariq, “it is too seldom that duty is highly regarded in
this world. I have gone about the lands, talking and asking, and
seldom do I find pure examples of any of the virtues enumerated
in the Koran-“

He was interrupted by a sudden outburst of noise at the entrance
to the eating place; and they all looked around to see five men
wearing helmets, curved swords in scabbards and carrying long
weapons that were halfway between a spear and a halberd. For a
moment Jim simply assumed they were going to one of the niches
on either side of them; but-no, they were coming directly toward
himself and the rest.

They came right up to the niche and stopped before it. They did
not look friendly. They were all dressed more or less the same in
brownish-white robes. Four of them wore boiled leather jackets,
and their helmets were also of leather. The fifth one, who was in
advance of the others and seemed in command, had a steel
helmet and a chain mail shirt.

He had a narrow, long face with cold brown eyes that looked hard
at them.

“You three are under arrest, by order of the Dey!” he said, arriving.
“I see you are wearing knives. You will give them up. Now-hilt first.”

“Hah!” said Brian, and his hand was on the handle of his knife, but
not in such a position as to pull it out and offer it hilt first; and
immediately four of the long weapons were leveled at him from no
more than half a foot away.

“Brian!” said Jim warningly. But ibn-Tariq was already speaking.

“Calm yourself, my friends,” he said. “I’m sure there is a mistake
here. Officer, may I speak to you apart for a moment? I am ibn-
Tariq, and my name is not unknown in this city.”

“Forgive our disturbance of your meal, O ibn-Tariq,” said the
officer graciously, with a circular outward wave of his hand. “I
assure you there is no mistake; but of course, if you would wish for
a word-?”

Ibn-Tariq got up and the two of them walked a little away. The four
men stayed with their spears still leveled, although now at least one
pointed each at Jim, Brian and Baiju.

There was a matter of some minutes of rather tense waiting. Brian
looked fiercely at the four spears. He had taken his hand from his
sword and dropped it to his side. In appearance this seemed a
move to make himself look more harmless, but Jim knew better
and the knowledge made him uncomfortable.

Knights were not supposed to need what Jim’s twentieth century
was to call “hold-out” knives; but Brian had explained to Jim a long
time ago, near the beginning of their friendship, no one who could
afford a second knife ever went without one hidden about him.

In Brian’s case, he had at least one Jim knew of. Up the sleeve of
the arm behind the hand that Brian had just taken from his sword
hilt, his friend carried a short, but heavy knife, hiltless, but with a
leaded center to give it special weight, and a wide double-edged
blade with out-curving edges that would ensure a cutting blow.

A snap of Brian’s wrist could slide the hilt of it into his hand, and it
would come out, tearing its way easily through his sleeve, ready for
a backhand strike at whatever he wished. The blade was heavy
enough to shear through at least one of the wooden staves behind
the metal spear points that were aimed at him.

“I think we can give ibn-Tariq a chance,” said Jim out loud to Brian.

Brian looked at him without disagreement. Baiju was also looking at
him, but with something more like contempt.

It was after only a few moments, by the standards of eastern
conversation, that ibn-Tariq and the officer came back.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to go with this officer,” ibn-Tariq said to them.
“But I’m still convinced that a mistake has been made. I will see
about having it corrected right away. This officer is under the
command of the military governor here in Palmyra, whom I know. I
would strongly suggest that you go quietly, without complaint; and
leave all to me.”

Baiju gave one of his snorts that could have been laughter or not
as the case might be.

Jim hastily pulled out his sword and offered it hilt first to the officer,
who disdainfully stepped aside and motioned for one of the spear-
carriers to take it. The man did, still keeping his spear leveled on
Jim. Seeing Jim had done this, Brian reluctantly gave up his sword
but made no move to hand over any of the other weapons he might
be carrying. It was quite possible, thought Jim, that he had more
blades about him than the one up his sleeve.

Baiju stood up, letting the spear point in front of him come right
against his chest, piercing his skin beneath his clothes. He lifted
his own short, curved sword from its sheath with his left hand and,
reaching forward, rammed the hilt into the stomach of a spear-
carrier opposite him, who hastily snatched at it and took it.

“Now,” said the officer, “we go.”

They were led out into the street, attracting a crowd as they went,
and marched for some distance followed by the same crowd. They
went by various turns through alleyways until they reached one so
narrow that the officer seemed to lose his temper with the
onlookers, and told off two of his soldiers to block it behind them
against any who might follow.

That left him and the other two soldiers now behind Jim and Brian
and Baiju, herding them forward. They continued on, following the
directions of the officer to turn here, or turn there, until they came
to a door in a stone wall, with another soldier standing beside it.

The officer had moved in front of them by this time, since they
were out of the narrow confines of the alley. He was highly visible;
and at his approach the soldier standing beside the door hastily
opened it. Without a word the officer marched Jim and his
companions in and through a small dirty room where three other
soldiers, all heavily armed with swords and wide, curve-bladed
knives long enough almost to be swords, lounged on dirty
cushions. They were herded farther through a very narrow door-so
narrow that only one could pass at a time-down a dark flight of
stairs, down, down and finally into a passageway that had earth
underfoot and stone walls all around.

They went a little farther by the flickering light of a torch on one
stony wall, until the passageway widened out to become a room
divided by metal bars into cages. There were a couple of barely
human, barely alive individuals in the first two cages they passed,
dressed in rags. Then Jim and Brian were pushed into another,
empty cage together and its door slammed on them. Baiju was left
outside.

“Not you, Mongol,” said the officer. “We’ve got someplace else to
take you.”

He and the three guards from the room above, who had evidently
followed him down, surrounded the little Mongol and they moved
off together, leaving Jim and Brian staring at each other in the
empty cage.

A single cresset provided poor lighting to the whole room in which
the cages stood. However, it happened to be fixed to the wall just
behind the empty cage to Jim’s left, almost within arm’s reach; and
this allowed them to see each other, and their immediate
surroundings fairly well.

“What will they do with that small man, do you suppose?” Brian
asked Jim.

Jim shook his head.

“I don’t understand any of this,” said Jim.

“I should not ask, perhaps,” said Brian, “but is there some way in
which you could use your magic-“

He left the end of the sentence hanging.

“Of course,” said Jim, “but things aren’t that desperate yet. There’s
always magic if everything else fails. But we ought to be braced for
the fact that there’re some situations magic won’t deal with.”

He looked around him.

“I wish I knew more about this place where they put us,” he said.
“Does it look like a city jail to you?”

“Not exactly,” said Brian doubtfully. “City jails tend to be earth
dungeons, like the one you got me and Giles out of, under the
French King’s lodging place in Brest, the last time we were in
France. These are not only dry but clean.”

“Clean?” echoed Jim, looking around himself in disbelief.

“Oh, yes,” Brian went on almost cheerfully, “the sort of place you
would have to lock up someone of rank. I do believe that’s a
chamber pot in the corner there.”

Jim decided not to be drawn into any further discussion of the
luxury of their quarters.

“I think you’re right,” he said to Brian. “I’d like to know what the rest
of this building looks like. But I don’t want to use my magic to do it.
I’m beginning to get a strong suspicion that there may be other
magic going on around here-maybe keeping an eye on us.”

He stared thoughtfully at the guttering light of the cresset, and the
soot-blackened ceiling just above its flame.

“On the other hand, now, there’s some smoke right there. And
there has to be some way for that smoke to get out of here-some
kind of ventilation opening. Maybe Hob could ride the smoke out
such an opening, possibly using the smoke of other torches, or
cooking fires, or whatever, and then come back and so tell us
about the place.”

He half turned his head.

“Hob?” he said. “Do you think you could do that?”

There was no answer from behind him.

“Hob?” he repeated; and when there was still no answer, he put up
his hand to feel the pouch behind him where Hob should be. It was
limp and perfectly empty.

“He is gone?” said Brian, staring at Jim’s face and his groping
hand.

“Yes.” Jim let his hand drop. “I know he was there with us when we
went in to talk to ibn-Tariq, because the smoke from that cooking
device almost made me cough; and he spoke to me.”

“He surely wouldn’t have left us without permission or orders?”
said Brian. “What? Leave his Lord without permission? What sort
of hobgoblin is he?”

“I think they’re all like him,” said Jim thoughtfully. A cold fear had
crept into him. “You don’t suppose he thought this was a sort of
emergency where he was supposed to go home to England and
tell Angie and Geronde about it?”

“Back to England? Tell Angela and Geronde?” Brian stared at him.
“What’s this?”

“Part of what I arranged with Hob before he and I left England. I
told you about this at Sir Mortimor’s castle-remember? There might
be a situation where I wouldn’t be able to order him to go and carry
back to Angie and Geronde a message of what had happened to
us. In that case he was to use his own judgment when to leave. He
must have thought our being arrested was that kind of situation,
and ridden the smoke of the brazier off as we left. We might not
have seen him go because he was trying not to be seen by anyone
else there. Besides, as we left, we were looking toward the
entrance, and everyone else was watching us go. Also, there was
no one else in the niches next to us. I’ll bet that’s just what he did!”

“But if he did,” said Brian, “and if it could be done...”

“Oh, it can be done, all right-or rather, a hobgoblin can do it,” said
Jim. “And I got the impression that the farther it was, the faster he
could travel. He seemed to think he could get from wherever we
might be to back home in a few hours, no more.”

They looked at each other.

“And he’ll be telling the Lady Angela that we’ve been taken by
soldiers and locked up, our weapons taken away?” Brian
demanded.

Jim nodded glumly.

“But it will only serve to disturb her-and Geronde, when she is also
told!” said Brian.

“That’s what I’m thinking. I mean,” said Jim, “that’s what I’m
worrying about. Angie’ll have been told we’re in a dangerous spot;
and there she’ll be back in England, a couple of thousand miles
away and not able to do anything about it.”

“They’ll want to come to our aid, of course,” said Brian. “I can
assure you Geronde will.”

“So will Angie, of course,” said Jim. “Luckily, they won’t be able to.
How could they possibly get here?”

“How will we possibly get there?” said Angie, striding up and down
the solar of Malencontri. Geronde was perched on the edge of the
bed, and Hob was sitting on a waft of smoke that had politely
extended itself into the room from the fire that burned in the
fireplace, though it was a fresh spring day outside. The walls of the
castle would still be cold for another month or more yet.

“I could probably scrape together the money to travel,” said
Geronde. “But after that it would still take us months.”

“That’s the thing,” said Angie, still pacing. “As far as that goes, I
can lay my hands on enough money right here in the castle, along
with a gem or two we could turn into money in any city of any size if
we needed more along the way. But you’re right, it’d take us
months; and who knows what would have happened to them by the
time we got there? We not only need to get there, we need to get
there quickly.”

She stopped pacing suddenly and whirled about to stare at Hob.

“M’ lady?” said Hob, his eyes growing large.

“Hob-Hob-One de Malencontri-“ said Angie, “Jim told me how you
took him for a ride on the smoke. You can take Geronde and me to
them, just the way you took Jim.”

“Oh, m’lady!” said Hob. “We’re only really supposed to take
children. It was just because you’re m’lord and m’lady that it was
probably all right to take either one of you. But I really can’t take
anyone else, like m’lady Geronde. And anyway the smoke won’t
carry two big grown-up humans along with me. One is as much
extra weight as it can carry. I might take two little children-if they
were really little.”

“Bah!” said Geronde.

“No, he can’t help it,” Angie told Geronde. “He’ll do whatever he
can, I know. Won’t you, Hob?”

“Oh yes, m’lady.”

“All right!” said Angie energetically. “If we can’t do it one way, we’ll
do it another. I’ve got an idea how we could manage it.”

“What idea is this, Angela?” asked Geronde.

“I’ll tell you up on the roof of the tower, when there’s no one around
to hear,” said Angie. “Come on, Geronde. You too, Hob.”

She led the way out of the solar and up the short flight of stone
steps to the top of the tower, which was actually the roof of the
solar. The sentry on duty there gaped at them-not so much at
Angie and Geronde as at Hob, sitting on the waft of smoke. But
then, he was a seasoned member of this household of a magician;
so it was beneath him to show any real alarm or emotion.

“You can go downstairs, Harold,” said Angie. “I’ll call you when I
need you; or if you haven’t heard a call in an hour, then come back
up by yourself. If we’re gone, pay no attention.”

“Pay no attention, m’lady?” The seasoned member of the
household was beginning to weaken in his self-control.

“You heard me,” said Angie. “Down the stairs with you, now!”

Harold obeyed. When he was gone, Angie turned to Geronde with
a smile.

“Well?” demanded Geronde.

“Geronde,” said Angie, “remember not too long ago when Jim and
I in dragon form landed on your tower, and you came up and tried
to shoo us off thinking we were dragons that were looking for
Malencontri and landed on your tower by mistake?”

“I remember, Angela,” said Geronde.

“Well,” said Angie triumphantly, “we’ll turn ourselves into dragons
and fly there!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Geronde stared at Angie. If it had been anyone but her, it would not
have been too much to say that she gaped open-mouthed. But
Geronde was too much like Brian, too fierce a person to look
slack-jawed and foolish.

“You can do magic also, Angela?” she asked.

“I’ve never tried,” said Angie, with her own brand of fierceness.
“But the day we landed on your tower-top, Jim had turned me into a
dragon. If I’ve been a dragon once, I ought to be able to be a
dragon again. And if I can make myself into a dragon, I ought to be
able to make you into a dragon.”

“But how will you do it?” asked Geronde.

“How exactly, I don’t know,” said Angie. “That’s beside the point.
I’ve watched Jim often enough. If you live with a man as long as I
have, Geronde, you get so you know him very well-very well
indeed. Stand back and I’ll try it.”

Geronde backed off a few steps.

Angie stood where she was. She took a deep breath. Her hands
were at her sides, and she clenched her fists and closed her eyes.
She stood tensed.

Moments ticked by.

Geronde parted her lips to say something, and then changed her
mind. She waited.

Angie exhaled exhaustedly and opened her eyes. She stood a
moment limply, breathing deeply with her whole body relaxed.

“I tell you,” she said to Geronde, “there’s a way to do it! Jim sort of
believes in his magic in his own mind; and he believes enough so
that it happens-something like that. If I believe I can do it, then I
can. If he can do it, I can do it”

“Of course you can, Angela,” said Geronde.

Angie took another deep breath, closed her eyes and clenched her
fists, and again Geronde waited.

“I am a dragon, I am a dragon, I am a dragon...” muttered Angie
between her teeth. Another little period of time passed while
Geronde waited. Then Angie gasped, opened her eyes again and
relaxed.

“I tell you I can do it!” she said angrily to Geronde.

“Of course you can, Angela,” said Geronde.

“The irritating thing is”-Angie began to pace up and down on the
tower-top-“that I really know how he does it. I’m close enough to
him to feel him doing it. Now, if I can just get that feeling. Bear with
me, Geronde. I’m going to try again.”

She tried-with no success.

“Angela,” said Geronde gently, “don’t you think, perhaps-“

But Angie’s eyes were closed again and she was not listening.

Also, suddenly she was a dragon.

Geronde took several involuntary, extra steps backward.

“Angela...” she said. “Angela, are you in there?”

The dragon turned its head on a gracefully curving neck and
looked at her. It was a very big dragon, in spite of its overall
gracefulness.

“It’s me, Geronde,” said the dragon. “See? I told you I could do it.
Now all I have to do is turn you into one, too.”

“Oh, yes!” said Geronde enthusiastically. She added in a tone of
curiosity rather than fear, “Does it hurt much?”

“Not at all,” said Angie. “Now, just stand still and I’ll concentrate on
believing you’re a dragon. I don’t know just what I did, but I’m sure I
can do it again; only for you it may take a little longer to manage.
We mustn’t be impatient.”

The dragon closed its eyes, bunched its clawed feet into fists and
took a deep breath.

“Geronde is a dragon, Geronde is a dragon, Geronde is a dragon,
Geronde is a dragon...” it intoned.

The dragon that was Angie tried very hard for quite a while; but
nothing happened to Geronde. Geronde stood patiently waiting.
Hob was gazing at them with awe and delight from his waft of
smoke, though both women had long since forgotten he was there.

After several pauses Angie drew an unusual series of deep
breaths and looked at Geronde.

“You know,” she said, “it might help if you too, close your eyes and
say to yourself, ‘I am a dragon, I am a dragon...’ while I’m trying to
make you one.”
“Of course, Angela,” said Geronde. “Should I also-“

There was a bang and a puff of smoke; and Carolinus was
standing in front of them, looking nine feet tall. His beard bristled
with rage.

“THAT WON’T WORK!” he said. Both the dragon and Geronde
opened their eyes and exhaled. They stared at him.

“Angie,” he said, “this is the end-well, almost the end! One of you
is bad enough. That husband of yours, leaping around the world,
burning up magickal energy right and left as if it could be had for
nothing, doing everything wrong and coming up with the right
answer by some sort of miracle every time, using some of that
other-worldly whatever he brought in his head with him when he
came. Two would be too much. I’m an old man. Angela Eckert, this
will not do!”

“I’ve got to find Jim!” said the dragon.

“Well, you’re not going to do it that way!” snapped Carolinus-and
suddenly the dragon was gone and Angela was there again.

“How dare you!” cried Angie.

“I only took back what you had no right to have in the first place!”
said Carolinus. “Angela Eckert, you are not going as a dragon, to
search for Jim, let alone turning someone else into a dragon and
taking her with you. In fact, you’re not turning yourself into a dragon
at all. If Jim chooses to turn you into a dragon, I can’t stop him.
That’s within his prerogative. But you can’t turn yourself into a
dragon. You can’t turn yourself into anything. There. It’s done. You
weren’t only breaking every rule in the Encyclopedic Necromantick,
you were doing it, as unlicensed as a sorcerer, without the
supervision of a senior magickian and no sort of permission from
anywhere. The whole balance of Powers trembled there for a
minute, I’ll have you know!”

“Let it tremble,” said Angie. She seemed to grow a few feet herself
and glared back at Carolinus. “I’m going to get Jim out of whatever
he’s in, and you can’t stop me. If your stopping me from turning
into a dragon turns out to make things so that I won’t be able to
save him in time, you’d better look out, Carolinus. I mean that!”

“God bless my soul!” said Carolinus, for Angie had been utterly
convincing in what she had said.

“Just remember that,” she said, now, in the same voice.

“Angie,” said Carolinus, “this is nonsense. Don’t you know that you
can’t possibly manage to harm a Master Magickian like myself?”

“I’ll find a way!” said Angie ominously.

“Bless my soul,” said Carolinus for a second time, in a wondering
tone. “I had no idea, Angie, that you-“

“Well, you know now,” said Angie.

“My dear,” said Carolinus patiently, “believe me. I feel for you, I
feel for Jim. I would help if I could. I can’t. If you can save him on
your own, without magick, I will be there cheering when you do it.
But what you were trying just now can not be, will not be, and has
been utterly closed to you. I’m sorry, Angie. That’s the last word.”

With that, he disappeared.

Slowly the rage leaked out of Angie. She looked at Geronde; and
Geronde looked back at her in silence.

“Don’t worry, Angela,” said Geronde, after a moment. “We’ll save
James and Brian. We will. We’ll find some way.”

“What way?” said Angie emptily.

Hob cleared his throat. It was such a small noise that if there had
not been a perfect silence on the top of the tower as Angie and
Geronde gazed at each other, the two women would not have
heard it. They looked at him.

“Er-hem,” said Hob, clearing his throat again; and shrinking a little
as the direct gaze of two pairs of eyes drilled upon him. “I had an
idea...”

Angie relaxed.

“That’s all right, Hob,” she said, wearily but gently. “But tell us a little
later, would you? We’ve got things on our minds right now.”

“No, no!” said Hob excitedly. “But this is a way you could get to
where m’lord and m’lord Brian is, in a hurry, after all, using the
smoke- maybe.”

They stared at him.

“But you said-“ began Geronde.

“Oh, I know what I said,” said Hob simply. “I said I couldn’t carry
two of you on the smoke at the same time. But I’ve thought of a
way around it, if I can just get some help. I mean, if I can get an
agreement.”

“Agreement?” asked Angie. “What sort of agreement?”

“Oh, not from you, m’lady, or m’lady Geronde,” said Hob. “But Lady
Geronde, your Malvern Castle has its own hobgoblin, of course. I
don’t know him well. I’ve met him a couple of times when we were
both out on the smoke at the same time and our paths crossed.
But if I could carry Lady Angela, then your hobgoblin could carry
you-if he would.”

“If he would?” echoed Geronde. Her face hardened. “You mean
he can and he’d refuse?”

“Oh, please, m’lady,” said Hob. “Please don’t think of trying to
make him do it. He’s not like me, you know. He’s very timid and not
used to going far from home. Quite different from me. Let me talk
to him. I’ll go talk to him right now; and why don’t the two of you
come over to Malvern Castle on horses, or however you want to do
it? With luck I’ll meet you there with him at the top of Malvern’s
highest tower-just like this one- and maybe we can simply all take
off from there.”

“Hob,” said Angie, “do you seriously think you can talk him into it?”

“I wouldn’t want to promise anything, m’lady,” said Hob, “but I’ll do
my best; and I really have high hopes. As I say, he’s timid, but
maybe I can rouse the fierceness that lies way down deep in all us
hobgoblins.”

“I certainly hope so,” said Geronde, with an ominous note in her
voice.

“I’ll try my best, m’lady,” said Hob anxiously. “I really will, believe
me!”

“We believe you, Hob,” said Angie. “You just have to understand.
The Lady Geronde wants to get Sir Brian safely back, as much as
you and I want to get your Lord back safely.”

“I know,” said Hob. “I think it’ll be all right. I’ll meet you there.”

His waft of smoke accelerated away into the sky toward the east,
picking up speed as it went. In a few seconds it was out of sight.

“Will they never feed us? Will we stay here until Judgment Day?”
said Brian. “Do you suppose?”

He had been pacing back and forth in their cage. Jim had found
something that might be considered a bed, also in the cage,
except that it was small enough for a child. He had sat on it,
gingerly at first, but it had borne his weight. He was sitting there
now.

“I know what you’re thinking, Brian,” he said. “I promise I’ll use my
magic if I have to. But I want to put it off until I know it’s really
necessary. I wouldn’t be so close with it if it wasn’t for something
that really impressed me, Brian.”

“Hah,” said Brian doubtfully.

“But I was,” said Jim. “When Carolinus told me about using as little
as possible of it, there was something about the way he did it. He
was more serious than I think I’ve ever seen him. I’ve seen him
wave his arms and be emphatic; but this was different. He was
trying to get something across to me; and the trouble with all this
magic business is that, as he always insisted, he can’t just tell me
things. I’ve got to find them out for myself; and he can only point
me in the direction where they’re to be found. I think I’m beginning
to see why I have to find them for myself. It’s because, if someone
else tells you, you never really believe it the way you need to until
you run into it as a necessity in a real-life situation-“

“Hush!” said Brian, interrupting him, low-voiced. “Someone’s
coming. The less they learn from us the better, whoever they are.”

They both fell silent; and into the room of cages came the same
officer they had seen before, this time with four guards much more
neatly and finely dressed Also, their clothing was of blue and white
and they all wore helmets and mail shirts made of steel.

“Come!” said the officer, unlocking the door. The tone of his voice
was now perfectly neutral. There was nothing to indicate whether
he was being pleasant, or speaking with the same voice of
authority he had used before. “These men will take you to a place
where you are expected.”

Jim and Brian walked out of the cage, the four men formed up
around them, and they reascended the stairs, with the officer
somewhere behind them. This time they followed the corridor to an
opening that led them into a wider, cleaner corridor which ran for
some distance and changed into one with carpets on the floor, and
walls that were faced with marble.

Eventually they came to a wide entrance on the right-hand side,
and the officer indicated with a wave of his hand that Jim and Brian
should pass through it. The guards themselves stood back. From
the moment Brian and Jim had first seen them, they had not said a
word.

Brian and Jim went in, passing through a short but opulent corridor
and into an equally opulent room, only differing from the corridors
they had recently been passing through by the fact that cloths hung
like curtains from some sections of its walls, suggesting that there
might be further semihidden entrances behind them.

Baiju and ibn-Tariq sat there on cushions, with a tray of food
between them, almost touching the knees of their crossed legs,
and coffee cups on small, highly polished black wood stands
beside each man.

“Food,” said Brian ravenously, under his breath.

“Ah, my friends!” cried ibn-Tariq, seeing them. “We have been
waiting for you. Come in, refresh yourselves and I will explain why
you were put to such distress.”

He clapped his hands. In the wall just behind him two areas of the
stonework slipped backward, then off to one side, and four men
came out dressed in robes of the same rich, deep blue and
gleaming white as the guards that had brought Jim and Brian here.
Even before the two of them reached Baiju and ibn-Tariq, cushions
had been set down for them; and next to these, little black wooden
stands were set, and coffee was being poured into the coffee
cups on top of the stands.

“You’re all right?” Jim asked Baiju.

“I was never otherwise,” said Baiju.

“Luckily,” said ibn-Tariq, “I was able to straighten out things before
our friend here was taken to a somewhat less-“

He paused, watching Brian, who was popping small pastrylike
foods into his mouth like a child eating bits of candy. He clapped
his hands; and when the four men who had come out of the wall
stopped and looked at him, he jabbed a fingertip twice toward the
tray. They went off into the wall.

“-Less pleasant quarters than yours,” ibn-Tariq went on. “Actually, it
was never intended that any of you should end up just as you two
did. But, what can be done-“

He broke off, for the four serving men had come back, bearing four
trays. These were arranged around so that while one was within
reach of each person there, three of them were more or less
clustered around Brian.

“-I ask you?” continued ibn-Tariq. “In any matter of government,
complexities occur, and mistakes will happen.”

Jim had devoted himself to the coffee, to begin with; and that black
liquid dynamite was, as usual, brightening him up inside.

“Is this the place of the military commander of the city?” he asked.

“No,” said ibn-Tariq, “it is not. It is the house of Murad of the Heavy
Purse, with whom I am acquainted.”

“Then I take it,” said Jim, helping himself to one of the small items
of food on his tray and watching his cup being refilled with coffee
by a man who had apparently appeared out of nowhere, “that
Murad of the Heavy Purse is the military commander of the city?”

“No,” said ibn-Tariq, “he is not. But he is a man of many
possessions, and of importance in the city; and the military
commander let him use some of the soldiers. Unfortunately, as I
say, the instruction given to those low fellows was garbled when it
reached them; and they took you for offenders of some form or
another.”

That first foodlet he had eaten had awakened Jim’s hunger. He felt
as ready as Brian was showing himself to be to wade into the food;
and was trying to do this discreetly while talking at the same time. It
was not easy, but he persisted.

“All right, then,” he said, around mouthfuls, “can you tell me why we
were brought here?”

Ibn-Tariq spread his hands.

“I must express my own personal deep regrets that it happened,”
he said. “Murad of the Heavy Purse wished only to do me a favor,
by bringing our friend Baiju here; so we two could speak without
arousing undue interest in the streets. It is not unusual to see such
a one as a Mongol being arrested by soldiers of a city. But, as it
happened, before the soldiers were sent out-and this may have
contributed to the confusion of their orders-I discovered that one
of the matters Baiju and I need to discuss fully turns out to involve
you two to a certain extent, although to what extent I am not quite
sure.”

He looked inquiringly at Baiju, pausing as if to give the other an
opportunity to speak. Baiju looked back at him, poker-faced, and
said nothing.

“As all men know, the Mongols conquered the castles of the
Assassins in Persia, whereas we of Egypt-for that is my native
land-conquered all those here. However, in recent times, these
Assassins have revived in the shape of Grandmaster Hasan ad-
Dimri and his White Palace, to which I believe you two were taken
after you were captured and stolen from the caravan. Recently the
sultanate of Egypt was approached by people speaking for Hasan
ad-Dimri, and offering friendship to our Bahri Mameluke caliphate-
may something be done for you, my friend?”

His last words were addressed to Brian.

“Wine-or water!” said Brian thickly. “I choke on cinnamon!”

“Of course,” said ibn-Tariq. He clapped his hands, and within
seconds Brian was diluting the cinnamon-loaded foodlet he had
tried to swallow with the help of a tall vessel like a vase full of
water.

“-As I was saying,” ibn-Tariq continued to Jim, “Hasan ad-Dimri has
been making approaches to our Egyptian caliphate. It was not long
before it was found there was a reason for this offer of friendship.
Hasan had gotten word of the Golden Horde’s push southward
toward Persia, with possibly its ultimate aim being Egypt; but it had
been announced that they came to take out Hasan and his foul nest
of Assassins. As a friend of a friend among the Mamelukes, I
undertook to speak with one or possibly more of the Mongols who
might be coming and inquire if this matter could not be settled
otherwise. We of Egypt would prefer to destroy Hasan ad-Dimri
ourselves; and intend to. Therefore there is no need for the
Mongols to come this way. Indeed, the arguments in favor of this
are overwhelming; we are closer, in a better position to do so, and
our Mameluke soldiers are better suited to the task than nomad
horse-riding ones-I say that without any intention of offense to
friend Baiju.”

He paused and smiled at Baiju, who looked back at him with the
same unchanged expression.

“But then word came to me, just before we were going to have
Baiju conducted to where he and I could talk, that he had recently
acquired some information through you two that would give the
Mongols perfect confidence they could take the White Palace with
great ease. I have no idea what this information is; but it caused
me to ask the soldiers to inquire whether you would join Baiju and
myself in our conversation. As you know, that order to take you
from the caravansary was badly misunderstood.”

“Hah!” said Brian quite distinctly. He had finally succeeded in
satisfying his hunger and was just now availing himself of a basin of
water and a towel being held for him by one of the servitors. In the
process, he checked suddenly; and Jim realized that he had
caught the eye of Baiju, and it was looking at him with a particularly
deadly intent. Jim had a sudden strong guess that the little Mongol
was regretting that he had not killed Jim and Brian before they
could be trapped into such a situation as they were now, where
undoubtedly torture could-and undoubtedly would, if necessary-be
tried to extract the secret of their escape from the White Palace.
The Mongol must have allowed them to live this long because he
intended to use their experience of the secret way out of the White
Palace. Now he was regretting he had done so.

Jim turned back to ibn-Tariq, only to see that ibn-Tariq was
occupied at the moment, by a servant who was whispering
something into one of his ears. As he looked, the servant stopped
whispering and went back into the wall of the room; and ibn-Tariq
turned to him with another of his ready smiles.

“I have just had word,” he said. “Murad of the Heavy Purse is now
able to meet with you. Will you do me the honor of coming with me,
then?”

There was a noise-not a large noise, but a shuffling of feet and a
slight clinking of metal, and Jim, looking around with Brian and
Baiju, saw at least a dozen of the soldiers dressed in the colors of
the house, armed with spears this time, as well as their swords,
coming in through the entrance through which Jim and Brian
themselves had entered just a moment before.

“Perhaps we could go now,” said ibn-Tariq mildly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

They were conducted politely enough, but also effectively, with half
the armed men behind, half in front and themselves in between; as
a group effectively filling even the wide corridor through which they
were ultimately taken.

They did not turn down any side passage. This last corridor led
directly to the spacious entrance of a very large room, empty of
furniture or anything else except at the far end, where, beneath a
canopy under the domed ceiling high overhead, a very wide, big
man sat on cushions with trays, cups and beakers around him.

He was, thought Jim, as they got closer in the great room, not
merely big but almost unbelievably huge. Not only that, but his face
was almost buried under an amazingly full, fluffy, white beard that
seemed to start right under his eyebrows and bury his features-
chin, neck and all-in a beard that would almost make a mattress for
a bed. The only thing really visible was the red interior of his mouth,
as he picked up some morsel and it disappeared into that aperture.

He wore a turban on his head and a massive, overflowing gown of
silk in purple and red that made him seem even bigger. It must,
thought Jim, take at least four of his servants to help him even get
to his feet.

It was just at this juncture that he was a little startled to hear Brian’s
voice, low-pitched and hoarse in his ear.

“Is that this fellow with the heavy purse?” muttered Brian. “There’s
something false about all this, James. As if I’d seen him
somewhere before.”

“Where?” Jim would have asked, but they were already too close
to the massive owner of this establishment for any further low-
voiced conversation.
“Welcome!” said the enormous man in a heavy voice. “Pray be
seated”

Servants rushed forward with cushions, trays, stands. To Jim and
Brian they gave tankards; and to Brian’s obvious delight, they filled
them with a red liquid that was all too clearly a wine.

“O, Murad of the Heavy Purse,” said ibn-Tariq, “these are those I
have spoken to you of: Baiju the Mongol, Sir James and Sir Brian-
the noble Franks.”

“They are welcome, very welcome!” said Murad. “Am I right, my
guests, that you, being unknowing of Allah, believe yourselves free
to drink alcohol?”

Jim suddenly noticed that Baiju also had a flagon. Not only that, but
he was already drinking out of it in a way that would have it emptied
in a few more seconds. Ibn-Tariq had not said anything; so Jim
supposed it was up to him or Brian to answer.

“You are right, Murad of the Heavy Purse,” he said. “We thank you
for this wine, it being a familiar drink to us.”

“I wish my guests to be pleased and furnished with whatever
brings them pleasure,” said Murad. “I appreciate my food and
drink-and I wish all others to appreciate theirs too. As Allah has
commanded, I feed all those who are truly hungry who come to my
door; and to the best of my guests I offer their choice of my food.”

“All know that, O Murad of the Heavy Purse,” said ibn-Tariq, while
Jim was still hunting for a polite form in which to make an answer.

“It is well,” said Murad. “O Franks, I understand you are looking for
a Frankish slave; and my great friend ibn-Tariq is aiding you in this
search. I myself will do what I can to help. What sort of man would
he be?”

“When I last saw him, some years ago,” said Brian, “he was an
erect man somewhat taller than I, but not as tall as Sir James, here;
with black hair just beginning to go gray, a small mustache, a high,
arched nose and a jaw that came to a point in front. A scarred and
somewhat small jaw, for the rest of his features, which were big-
boned and strong.”

“A search shall be made,” said Murad. “I have connections and
affairs with many people; and the search shall be an extensive one.
We will hope that it finds what you need.”

“Are not the ways of Allah marvelous, Murad, my friend?” said ibn-
Tariq. “That the emirs of the caliphate of all Egypt should need
information which possibly these Franks can supply; and they
should be led directly to you, who are in a best position to answer
the Franks’ own need to find this long-lost other Frank?

“It is so,” said Murad. And a small brown dog came out from
somewhere behind him and sat down, beside the cushion on which
he rested, looking directly at Jim. “The wonders of Allah are
beyond all men’s comprehension.”

“But perhaps some of the wonder may be guessed at,” said ibn-
Tariq.

“Egypt is by rights the source and headwater of a mighty empire
and so destined to be. The caliphate with its many emirs does not
always move as swiftly as it might. Perhaps the time has come for
another like Sala-ad-Din was-may Allah keep him forever in His
arms-a Kurd as thou art a Kurd, O Murad. Some master of wisdom
and possessor of infinite courage, who will lead us into this new
empire.”

“Blessed indeed, be the name of Sala-ad-Din,” answered Murad.
“It would indeed be well to think that someone like him might arise
again, and even that he might be a Kurd. But we must not look
beyond the present moment.”

While this flowery speech was going on between the two men, Jim
was looking at the brown dog and the brown dog was looking back
at him. It was a ridiculous situation.

He could not say to the dog, “What are you doing here?” in spite of
the fact that he was sure that the dog he was looking at was none
other than Kelb, still in his canine shape.

Likewise, he could not say, “Kelb, I told you not to show up again
unless you were called by me.” And in fact something suggested
that if the two of them were alone together, even then it might not
be wise. There was an air of insufferable arrogance about the
dog’s yellow eyes, which were meeting his unblinkingly at the
moment.

There had to be, of course, an outside chance that the dog was not
Kelb. Small brown dogs were small brown dogs, particularly when
they had obviously been pushed around by circumstance; and
were scruffy and unkempt, with short hair.

But if it was Kelb, then what possible connection could he have
with Murad? Jim looked into that question and saw possible
different answers stretched out apparently without limit.

He gave up on it, for the moment. There was no point in exercising
his imagination on it now. He returned his attention to Murad and
ibn-Tariq. The compliments were still flowing back and forth
between them.

“If Sala-ad-Din were to be once more among us,” Murad was
saying, “he could do no better than appoint you as his Vizier, ibn-
Tariq-“ Murad was saying. But Jim missed the last of that particular
verbal flourish, because Brian had just caught his elbow between
thumb and middle finger and was digging those two fingers into his
flesh to attract his attention.

Brian had an iron grip, and it would have been hard to ignore this
example of it in any case; but Jim only glanced sideways out of his
eyes, enough to see that Brian, although he had hitched himself a
little closer to Jim, was also pretending to look straight forward and
listen to the dialogue between ibn-Tariq and Murad. However, he
was also now close enough so that he could murmur out of the
comer of his mouth to Jim.

“James!” he said. “That server, just going back into the wall. Look
quickly.”

Without turning his head, Jim slanted his gaze swiftly over in time
to catch a glimpse of a relatively tall but bent man with gray hair,
thin almost to the point of emaciation, going into the wall. Before he
could see more, the wall closed behind him.

“Sir Geoffrey! Geronde’s father!” muttered Brian. “James, I’m sure
it was him!”

Jim thought swiftly.

“We’ll have to wait, Brian,” he murmured back. “Wait until he
comes out again.”

“But he hasn’t come out before this!” said Brian urgently. “He may
not come again!”

This was all too possible, Jim realized. Murad seemed to have as
many servants as a queen bee had workers feeding and caring for
her. His mind raced.

“Give me a chance to break into the conversation,” he said to
Brian, and resolutely returned his attention to ibn-Tariq and Murad.

Their talk had wandered off to matters dealing with Sunnis and
Shi’ites-which, as Jim vaguely remembered from the days of his
twentieth-century education, were the two major sects of Islam. In
fact, if he remembered rightly, the Sunni were the orthodox, and
perhaps by far the largest sect; but the Shi’ites were numerous
enough to be formidable. At the moment, Sunnis were being
spoken of with approval and Shi’ites not so. Jim got the strong
impression that both Murad and ibn-Tariq belonged in the Sunni
camp.

“-A change is coming, O Murad,” ibn-Tariq was saying, “I tell thee.
We must be ready; and there is no time like that which is now.”

He paused and Jim jumped in quickly, before Murad could speak
again.

“If you will forgive me, O Murad of the Heavy Purse and ibn-Tariq,”
he said, “a remarkable thing has just happened. My friend Sir Brian
and I have just seen a man that greatly resembles the one we
seek. He was dressed as one of your servants, O Murad of the
Heavy Purse, and has but a few moments ago left us through that
entrance there.”

He pointed to the wall that had now closed up again to Murad’s
right.

“A servant of mine? Are you sure, Frank?”

“I cannot be sure,” said Jim. “Neither can Sir Brian. Would it be
possible to have the man back so that we can look at him?”

“Indeed, this is a time of wonders,” murmured ibn-Tariq, stroking
his neat mustache.

“What manner of man was he?” demanded Murad.

“He was elderly-more elderly than any of the others who have
served us since we have been here,” said Brian. “He is gray-
haired, somewhat stooped and thinner than I remember him; but
he is very like Sir Geoffrey, the man we seek, if he is not indeed Sir
Geoffrey himself.”

“In my own household!” said Murad. He clapped his hands three
times.

The door through which Jim and Brian had seen the man they were
interested in disappear opened again; but this time what came out
was a tall old man with a wispy white beard and a tall staff, with
some sort of gold ornamental top on it. He salaamed, bowing very
low to Murad.

“Is there something in which Murad of the Heavy Purse needs to
be served?” said the old man.

“Yes,” said Murad. “There has been, within a short time here, a
servant who came into the room, more elderly than any of the other
servants, stooped and gray-haired, which two of my guests think
they recognize and would like to see again. Find that man and send
him back out here again.”

“The command of Murad of the Heavy Purse will be obeyed,” said
the bearded man. He backed into the aperture in the wall, which
closed upon his exit.

“Did you know him very well?” asked ibn-Tariq, turning to look at
both Jim and Brian.

“I knew him very well,” said Brian, “though it was some years back
and I was younger then.”

“Well, we will soon see,” said Murad.

In fact, it was only a few moments before the aperture opened
again and the man Jim had just caught a glimpse of came back into
the room, followed by the bearded man with the staff, who herded
him around to face Murad. Even though his face was half averted,
Jim could see a sort of worn hopelessness in it. He did not raise
his gaze to meet Murad’s eyes.

“How art thou called?” demanded Murad.

“I am called ‘the Nasraney,’ “ said the man in a rusty, worn-out
voice.

“Thou art a slave, then,” said Murad. “So much the better. Look
toward those who sit before me, so that they may see your face
clearly,” said Murad.

Wearily, the man turned, but his eyes were still on the floor.

“Lift up thy head!” said the bearded man sharply.

The man lifted his head.

Brian stared almost fiercely at him, although Jim, ibn-Tariq and
Baiju were also looking.

“I had never thought to see a man so changed,” said Brian at last,
in something very close to a deep growl, “but I think it is him. Sir
Geoffrey?”

The man lifted his head a little more, staring at Brian.

“Answer him,” commanded Murad.

“I-“ The man seemed to stumble in his speech. “I was once... Sir
Geoffrey de Chaney.”

Brian leaped to his feet, took three steps forward and threw his
arms around the man.

“Sir Geoffrey!” he said, kissing him on both cheeks. “Do you not
recognize me? Brian-Brian Neville-Smythe? Recall how I often
used to be at Malvern, almost, in fact, growing up with your
daughter Geronde?”

“Geronde...”

The man seemed stunned. He had not returned Brian’s embrace.
Jim was feeling a strange uneasiness. There was nothing wrong
with what was happening-in fact, it was probably the most fortunate
thing in the world; but it came very, very close to being a whopping
coincidence-that they should meet ibn-Tariq, who knew Murad of
the Heavy Purse, who just happened to have as one of his
household slaves the one man they were seeking for in all of the
Near East.

“Sir Geoffrey, speak to me!” Brian was saying.

“Perhaps,” said Jim, “this is all a little too much for a man who has
not seen one of his own kind for some years. Perhaps if Brian and
I could have some time alone with him...”

“Whatever wits he had are gone,” said Baiju harshly.

“More likely it is simply the suddenness of meeting someone he
used to know from a long time back,” said ibn-Tariq. He turned to
Murad. “Perhaps this suggestion of Sir James is not unwise. O
Murad, of thy mercifulness and great generosity, wouldst thou allow
this slave to be alone with your two infidel guests, here?”

“Let it be so,” said Murad, with a dismissive wave of his hand. He
looked at the man with the beard and the staff and made a motion
with his finger. The man with the staff stepped forward to Brian.

“Follow me,” he said. The slave turned automatically, Brian went
with him, and Jim jumped hastily to his own feet and joined them.

They were led back to the entrance of the large room, and there a
portion of the wall opened up again, and they were ushered
through into a narrow corridor, but one still richly furnished, that led
them a short distance to a small room furnished the same way.
Here the bearded man stopped and took a step back from them.

“You will stay here until Murad of the Heavy Purse summons you,”
he announced, turned on his heel and walked out.

As the sound of his feet died away on the stone surface of the
corridor they had just come along, the slave gradually raised his
eyes to Brian.

“Is it really you, little Brian?” he said, in a broken voice. “Brian, you
are you, aren’t you? You are real?”
“Yes, Sir Geoffrey,” said Brian. “Come-“

He took the older man by the arm and led him to one of the walls of
the room where some pillows were piled up.

“Sit down, Sir Geoffrey,” he said. He almost had to push the man
into a seated position on a cushion, where the older man
automatically crossed his legs in eastern fashion. Jim and Brian sat
down with him.

“Brian,” said the man, in a wondering voice, “do you recall going
looking for hobgoblins in one of our chimneys, and getting stuck?
Geronde came screaming to me, sure that something terrible had
happened to you. I had to climb into the chimney myself to get you
out.”

“I remember it well,” said Brian, chuckling. “And well I remember
the beating you gave me for doing such a foolish thing.”

“It was but a child’s adventure,” said Sir Geoffrey. “I was too
impatient in those days...”

He put up his one hand and lightly stroked one side of Brian’s face.

“And now you are a man and a knight, with scars!”

“And do you remember,” said Brian eagerly, “the Christmas that no
one was expecting you home and you came just the day before. It
was when I was fourteen years old; and Geronde and I thought we
would be alone all through the twelve days of Christmas-and then
you showed up?”

Sir Geoffrey nodded.

“And then the Easter that...” Brian went off into a flood of
reminiscences. Jim stood aside, forgotten. Sir Geoffrey was
nodding to everything Brian suggested, but Jim could not be sure
whether he really remembered all that Brian mentioned, or was just
agreeing to keep the flow coming. His face looked happy.

There was nothing for Jim to do while the two renewed their
acquaintance. It was probably just as well, thought Jim. Finding Sir
Geoffrey was not the end of all their problems. In a sense it was
just the beginning of them.

Murad had spoken of Geoffrey as a slave. That meant that he was
property that Murad owned. Would Murad let him go? Probably.
But, what kind of enormous price might he not ask, now that he
must have gathered that getting Sir Geoffrey back and taking him
home to England must mean a great deal to Sir Brian, and
supposedly to Jim as well?

Jim moved restlessly about the room, his mind searching for a
point from which to attack the several problems that had presented
themselves to him all at the same time. Brian still had most of the
capful of gold coins he had received as the winner of the
tournament. The coins were now sewn into the padded vest he
wore underneath his chain mail shirt; and since, as commonly
done, the vest had been sewn directly to the chain mail, the weight
of the gold coins, hopefully, would be masked by the weight of the
steel shirt.

By English standards, it was a princely sum. But what would it look
like to someone like Murad, who evidently was the equivalent of a
billionaire-judging by this place, these servants and the submissive
attitude ibn-Tariq had been showing to him? Even assuming the
gold pieces, perhaps with Jim’s money added, were enough to buy
the freedom of Sir Geoffrey, the three of them would still be far
from European friends, or any other help in this city.

How, to begin with, would they pay the expenses of their trip
home? How, indeed, would they even be able to get out of
Palmyra and back to Tripoli, where Brian could possibly find some
English or connections that would lend them enough to get home
on? From what he had seen of this land, credit was not something
that came easily to strangers-come to think it, credit never came
easily to strangers anywhere, he reminded himself.

Then there was the matter of ibn-Tariq and Baiju. The fact that they
both had been on the caravan was now somewhat explained by the
fact that there seemed to be some kind of political business
between them with this matter of the Mongols of the Golden Horde
coming down from the north into Lebanon and the attitude toward
this of either the Mamelukes, or the Egyptian caliphate-or perhaps
the last two were one, and ibn-Tariq represented them both.

It could be that both ibn-Tariq and Baiju might have prices of their
own to demand for the freedom of Sir Geoffrey. Baiju had not
simply supplied them with camels and brought them from the
Assassins’ fortress to this city with such speed because he was a
generous soul.

Nor, in spite of his repetition of the word “friends,” was ibn-Tariq
simply a fountain of generosity. Moreover, ibn-Tariq was entirely
too well connected, and in exactly the right place at the right time
too often, for Jim’s present peace of mind. Could it be possible
that ibn-Tariq had somehow already known they were searching for
Sir Geoffrey?

But if so, how? And, if so, had he planned to lead them to
Geronde’s father, so that he could set some price on his
assistance in getting Sir Geoffrey into their hands?

It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that ibn-Tariq, who
seemed the most polished of politicians and possibly one of the
most clever individuals that Jim had met here in the fourteenth
century, had gotten word from Cyprus of an English knight
searching for Geoffrey. But why should that interest the Egyptian?

But if he had such an interest, having learned this much, ibn-Tariq
could then have joined the caravan and tried to pump Jim for
further information. Failing in this, he might then have somehow
arranged with Hasan ad-Dimri to have Brian and Jim kidnapped and
brought into the White Palace.

But could he have foreseen their escape from there?

Baiju, according to what the Mongol had said, had learned from
abu al-Qusayr where to wait for Jim and Brian and on what day and
at what time. That suggested something very strongly. Which was
that abu al-Qusayr had known ahead of time they would be taken to
the White Palace, but then escape by the tunnel. If he had
somehow known this-he was a senior legal magician, after all-
though he pointedly mentioned scrying would not show the future-
he might have told Baiju to provide some help for Jim. That was
the sort of thing Carolinus might do...

Jim’s head began to spin. I’ll stop thinking about it, he told himself,
and come back to it later.

In his wanderings around the room, Jim had half-unconsciously
drifted into examining the walls that surrounded them. With the
exception of the entrance, the walls showed no openings. There
were not even windows to be seen, and the only light came from
several torches burning around the room, although these shed a
remarkable amount of light for their size and the activity of their
flames. Jim found himself running his hands along the walls as he
passed, absently feeling for any difference.

He had seen both the wall in the first room where he had met Baiju
and ibn-Tariq in this house, and the wall behind Murad of the Heavy
Purse, open and reveal a space through which a servant could
enter the room. It was not beyond possibility that this room had
something like that. And if it did...

His mind was only absently considering this possibility when he felt
under his fingers a slight vertical edge, the almost invisible upper
side of a joint between two of the carefully fitted stones of the wall.
He stopped and ran his fingers up and down it-finding it
continuous, stone to stone, from floor level to just above his head.

Now that he knew what he was looking for, he could see that the
joint also ran crosswise from its highest point, over to another line
that descended again to the floor. The outline of a possible secret
door was made less obvious by the fact that this wall, like all the
others he had seen in the rooms where he and Brian had talked
with ibn-Tariq and Murad, was faced with square slabs of polished
marble; and the lines where they joined, both vertically and
horizontally, helped hide the joint his fingers had discovered.

But finding the doorway was one thing. To open it could be a more
difficult matter. He tried pressing and pushing at the slab which
faced the door, and running his hand up and down just inside the
joint on either side.

He was not sure exactly when he touched the place that opened it,
but suddenly the stone facing before him moved back some six
inches and then without a sound supped sideways. Unthinkingly he
stepped into darkness, and then hastily on out to the daylight two
steps farther on.

He had expected to find only some sort of secret passage, hidden
in the thickness of the wall between this room and whatever was
next to it. Instead, he now came out into another room, this one
with one side plainly open to fresh air, or whatever else was
beyond being hidden by several layers of filmy curtain.

Excited, he went across and tried to part the curtain just enough so
he could see through it. By gathering almost a full armful of sheer
cloth, he managed it finally; and what he saw beyond was a sort of
interior courtyard with a fountain in the center, and trees growing
around it.

The trees were not very tall, but were heavily laden with what
seemed to be oranges and lemons, some half-ripe, and some
clearly ready for picking. Over-topping these trees and beyond
them, Jim could see what apparently was an exterior wall,
protecting this garden spot-and he thought as he peered through
the tree trunks that he could see a green door at ground level in the
wall that might lead to freedom.

His happiness over this discovery suddenly tripped and dropped
into a cold sensation more like despair.

Even if they did escape, how could they take a valuable slave from
Murad of the Heavy Purse and hope to hide with him? Particularly
in this city where Murad evidently had so much power, and
undoubtedly many people to search and locate them. In fact, they
could almost surely not leave even this part of Palmyra without
being seen; and once they were seen, Murad would hear of it.

He was struggling to pull himself back up from this sudden fall of
spirits, when suddenly two wafts of smoke came through the
curtains between him and the garden as if the curtains were not
there; and also coming through the cloth as if they were not there,
riding on the smoke, were Hob and Angie on one, Geronde on the
other, riding with another hobgoblin.

The smoke deposited Angie and Geronde on their feet on the floor
directly in front of Jim. The two hobgoblins stayed, perched where
they were.

“Jim!” cried Angie, wrapping her arms around him.

He kissed her gratefully and heartily; then, remembering, came up
for air long enough to say over her shoulder, “Geronde, we found
your father. He’s in the next room.”

“You found him?” Geronde stared, and Angie suddenly let go of
Jim and stepped back.

“You did, Jim?” said Angie. “That’s marvelous. Let’s go to him right
now!”

“There’re some complications-“ Jim was beginning, but even as he
said this, he saw Brian and Sir Geoffrey enter the room through the
still-open wall door, looking inquiringly in the direction of the voices.
Brian raced to Geronde.

“Look, Geronde!” Brian was saying, a moment later, as he came
up for air. “We have Sir-“

But Geronde had stiffened, and a cold look had come over her
face as she stared at the elderly man. She broke in now, icily,
before Brian could finish talking.

“That’s not my father!” she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Geronde!” said Brian. “He is much changed and aged, I know, but
he remembered the time I got stuck in the chimney looking for
hobgoblins at Malvern Castle-he mentioned it first to me, before I
ever mentioned anything about the castle yet he-“

“What of it?” said Geronde fiercely, glaring at the man. “He may
remember what he likes! But he is not my father-favor me with your
understanding, Brian! I should know my own father, should I not?
And this man is not Sir Geoffrey de Chaney!”

Brian looked helplessly at Jim and Angie, who were standing,
stunned, looking from Geronde to the man.

“Sweeting-“ the man said, advancing with his arms outstretched.
Geronde recoiled.

“My father never called me ‘sweeting’ in his life!” she snapped.
“Stand back!” From somewhere about her clothing she had
suddenly produced a small but undeniably useful dagger. The man
halted as if he was on a tether suddenly jerked taut.

“Brian, what made you pick up this impostor?” said Geronde,
fiercely turning on Brian, the dagger still in her hand.

“Geronde-“ Brian ran out of words and looked helplessly at Jim,
Angie and the man who had just been labeled an impostor.

“If this man is an impostor, Geronde,” said Jim, “the situation is
more complex than you can imagine. We’re all going to have to do
some quick thinking. Put that knife away, will you please, Geronde?
Whatever the situation is, I don’t think much of the blame attaches
to this man if he’s not Sir Geoffrey.”

Geronde reluctantly slid the dagger back out of sight through a slit
in the cloth behind the belt that gathered her full gown at the waist.
Jim turned back to the man.

“Well?” he asked. “Are you Sir Geoffrey, or aren’t you?”

“I am Sir Geoffrey!” said the man, and Geronde snorted. “This
child of mine is merely...” His voice dropped off and failed. He
looked at the floor at his feet. “What is the use?” he said in a dead
voice. “I have been expecting death every day for the last twelve
years. It will come now, one way or another. It makes no
difference.”

“Who taught you things that only Sir Geoffrey could know?”
demanded Jim.

“It was Murad of the Heavy Purse, himself,” the man said. He
raised his head suddenly and his face had become stern. “I was a
knight once. Sir Renel de Oust. I was a knight and a man once. But
twelve years of being a slave have made me nothing, nothing at
all.”

“For heaven’s sake, Geronde!” said Angela to Geronde, who was
still sneering at Sir Renel. “Have some pity for the man. This must
have been his first and only chance to escape-“

She turned to Jim.

“How did this whatever-he-was-of-the-Purse know to tell this one
about it?” she asked. “Perhaps he has the real Sir Geoffrey hidden
somewhere around here.”

“That I can answer for you,” said Sir Renel, still in the same dead
voice. “I have been here the last three years as a slave. I can tell
you, on the faith of the man I was once, he has no other here who,
like me, was once a gentleman and a knight.”

Jim’s mind, which had been poking halfheartedly-in fact, more or
less hopelessly-at their problems since the moment of their arrest
in the caravansary eating place, suddenly snapped into high gear
and began to work with welcome clarity. It was something that had
taken place in him during a number of crises, both large and small,
in his life. The closest thing he could compare it to was the way a
sudden awareness of oncoming danger brought mind and body
together in an instant alert.

He remembered it happening to him one time during a critical term-
end physics exam as an undergraduate. He had sat through nearly
half the time allotted for taking the exam, being defeated one at a
time by each question in the test. He had felt exactly as if he was
facing a solid barrier in which there never had been and never
would be an opening. Then suddenly had come this moment of
wakening; and the wall dissolved. Suddenly, all that he knew, all
that he had absorbed over some months of the class, was back
with him and, going back to the beginning he found the test
questions to be child’s play-obvious. The same thing happened
now.

“Hob,” he said.

“Yes, m’lord,” answered Hob.

Jim looked at him. The two hobgoblins on their miraculously
hovering wafts of smoke hanging in place in midair in the room
were almost identical. About the only difference was the fact that
Hob had a cheerful look and sat proudly upright on his smoke,
whereas the hobgoblin from Malvern was not only thinner, but sat
hunched up in a small gray ball, as if hoping no one would notice
him.

“Would you introduce us to your friend?” Jim asked.

“This is Hob from Malvern Castle, m’lord.”

Hob from Malvern Castle hunched himself even smaller.

“I see,” said Jim. “Could you, and possibly Hob Malvern with you,
then, go out into that garden? There’s a fountain there. See if you
can’t find something to bring some of the water in to me. You know
how big a soup plate is?”

“Oh, of course, m’lord. You want some of the water brought you in
a soup plate. I don’t think there are any soup plates in the garden,
though,” said Hob.

“Not in a soup plate,” said Jim, “in something the size of a soup
plate.”

“Oh, then that’s easy,” said Hob.

He wheeled around on his smoke, Hob of Malvern following him,
and they both vanished through the curtains in the direction of the
garden.

“What do you want water for, Jim?” asked Angie. “Or are you and
Brian thirsty?”

“No, we’re fine-“ Jim began. But before he could even finish the
sentence, Hob and his counterpart from Malvern were back in the
room; and Hob had brought him the water he had asked for,
cradled in the bowl-shape of-some smoke.

Jim stared at it for a second, then recovered.

“Put it on the floor, Hob,” he said. There was no place else for it.
Hob put it down on the carpet under their feet, and Jim got down
on his hands and knees to stare into it.

“It’s for scrying,” he said to the room at large. “Back in England we
use crystal balls, or mirrors. Here they do it with water. Brian and I
watched a magician in Tripoli scrying that way. If he can do it, I can
do it.”

Scrying was a use of magic, and he was still trying to conserve his.
But there was no other way to what he wanted to discover.

He concentrated on the water, willing himself to visualize the room
he and Brian had just left a short while ago; and where Baiju, ibn-
Tariq and Murad of the Heavy Purse, with Kelb beside him, should
still be.

The image of the room formed in the shimmering surface of the
water. But the room was empty. None of those people was there.
Neither was Kelb.

“I don’t see anything,” said Angie, peering interestedly over his
shoulder.

“You wouldn’t,” said Jim absently. “You have to have magic.”

“Oh, of course!” said Angie. “How could I be so stupid? And of
course I can’t possibly have any magic!”

She strode off and peered through the curtains, as if her gaze
would penetrate their thickness to show her the garden beyond.

“What?” asked Jim, still absent in his mind. He had a vague notion
that Angie had just said something important, but he could not
remember just what it was. He returned to his scrying, trying to
summon up a picture of ibn-Tariq and Baiju, wherever they might
be.

The picture formed. The two were in a room not much different
from this one, except that it had a little more in the way of furniture.
Ibn-Tariq was talking, Baiju was listening; and sitting watching both
of them was Kelb.

“Good,” muttered Jim to himself; and he immediately began to
search in the water for an image of Murad, and his present
surroundings, whatever they might be.

He had suddenly remembered that Kelb-and he was fairly sure the
brown dog was Kelb-had kept his gaze solely on him and Brian.
The memory backed up his sudden suspicion just now that the
whole business with Murad, and Sir Renel playing the part of Sir
Geoffrey, had been a show of some sort for his and Brian’s
benefit. Sir Renel had clearly been fed to them as surely as a card
trickster “feeds” a particular card to someone who thinks he is
picking a card from a deck at random.

In any case, now the necessary thing to discover was where Murad
himself was. Jim concentrated on the bowl of water. Gradually
shapes began to form.

Slowly, they solidified. He saw Murad, lying on his back in a bed
that would have been nothing but a huge mattress on the floor of a
room, if it had not been so opulent and thick that it raised the
possessor of the Heavy Purse a good two feet off the floor.

“Hob-and Hob Malvern-“ Jim said. “Come here and look in the
water. I want to show you something.” Whatever Angie had said a
few moments ago finally registered somewhere in the back of his
mind, along with a clear feeling that she was displeased over
something. “Oh, Angie, if you’d like to see what things look like in
the water, do you want to come and look now? I’m making one of
the pictures visible to anyone.”

“No, thank you,” said Angie from the curtains, without turning. She
was still furiously angry-at Carolinus, at Jim, at Brian... she was
even more than a little annoyed at Geronde. Geronde knew why
she was angry. The least Geronde could have done, as a friend,
was to come and show a little sympathy.

Then it occurred to Angie that if Geronde had done that, just now,
her own response would have been to snap at Geronde; and
Geronde, never shy in such matters, would of course, immediately
have snapped back... the whole thing was ridiculous. Angie
suddenly found herself smiling, the anger gone abruptly.

Jim just doesn’t understand, she told herself, of course. He never
will.

She turned and went back to Jim and leaned over his shoulder with
her head close to the heads of the two hobgoblins.

“What is it?” she said. “Oh, who’s the big man with the beard?”

“Someone called Murad of the Heavy Purse,” said Jim. “He owns
this place we’re in. Hob, could you and Hob Malvern go to that
opening in the wall behind me there? That’s where I came in here. I
didn’t really look as I went through, but I think there’s enough
thickness to the wall, so that there’s a chance of a passageway.
These walls have passages like that all the way through them.
Could you and Hob Malvern search through them on your smoke
and try to find the way to the room that has the man you see in the
water here?”

Both hobgoblins stared at the image of Murad.

“I don’t see why not,” said Hob. “It’s just like looking through
chimneys, only straight through instead of up and down.”

“Can you find him quickly, do you think?” asked Jim. “He’s alone
right now and I’d like to get to him while he is alone, as quickly as
possible. If you can, find a route to him for me that won’t have me
running into other servants who just happen also to be in the same
passageway.”

“You don’t have to have them search,” said the voice of Sir Renel.
“I know where he is. It is one of his private rooms. He’s just resting-
as he often does-for about an hour at a time. I can lead you there;
and if we run into other servants, I think I can keep them from being
curious.”

Jim looked up.

“Brian,” he said, “what do you think? If we can be alone with Murad
for a little while, we can learn a lot more from him about this
situation than we know now. What do you think about trying to get to
him and find out something?”

“I would say it is a most excellent idea,” said Brian. “But I will go
first, even though de Oust points the way.” There was a flip of his
hand, and the knife from up his sleeve was in his fist. He looked at
the two women.

Geronde produced the useful little knife again, so swiftly that it was
like a conjuring trick. Angie was slower, and had a smaller knife, but
she too had been carrying one concealed in what she was wearing.
Jim reached down under his eastern-style robes to some very
western, and twentieth-century-style, socks that Angie had made
for him; and came up with a knife very much like the skean dhu
favored in Scotland. It was short, with a blade broad next to the hilt
but tapering quickly to a needle point; and it fitted comfortably into
his hand.

“We are hardly properly armed as a group,” said Brian dryly.
“Nonetheless, provided you, Angela, and you, James, are not
squeamish and hesitate about using what you have, I think we may
do fairly well against unarmed servants in a dark passage, if
necessary.”

“It won’t be,” said Jim. “At least, I don’t think so. Sir Renel, show us
the way.”

“Heaven bless you, Sir James, for speaking to me as knight to
knight,” said Sir Renel. “For that alone I will go bare-handed into
whatever may befall us, that I may do one worthwhile thing before I
die. But you must let me lead, Sir Brian, for that will be quickest. I
know the way and you do not. If you still have doubts of me, you
have your knife at my back.”

“I would not be truthful if I said I did not doubt,” said Brian. “Should
my mind become less doubtful at any time along the way or in the
near future, perhaps I can give you something to fight with.”

“That would be the way to die! God send the chance comes to me!
Now, follow, all of you.”

He led them back to the opening between the two rooms, and as
they stepped into it, Jim realized that the wall had been thicker than
he thought, but it was apparently solid on both sides of the
opening. However, Sir Renel turned to the solid portion at his right,
touched it lightly, and it swung back to show a dark passageway.
They could go no more than two abreast, and possibly it would be
best to go single file.

“Hob. Malvern Hob?” Jim called over his shoulder. “Are you with
us? You hobs can see pretty well in the dark, can’t you?”

“Yes, m’lord,” answered Hob’s voice from behind Jim. “Very well.”

“Brian,” Jim said, “I suggest we let Hob and Hob Malvern go ahead
of us on the smoke, staying about fifteen feet in front, to give us
warning if someone is coming toward us. They can travel silently
on the smoke; and aren’t likely to be seen in the darkness here.
Even if we hit a passage with torches, they’ll be hard to see.”

“Let it be so, then,” said Brian.

Jim felt a breath of air past his ear that signaled the passing of the
two hobgoblins on their wafts of smoke. They moved into the dark,
chain fashion, each touching the one ahead to find their way.
Moving so, they forged ahead, moving more rapidly than Jim would
have expected, since Sir Renel strode through the darkness with
the confidence of someone long accustomed to it.

After a distance, light grew ahead of them; and they emerged into
a wider passage that had torches at intervals along it. They passed
down this as well, without encountering anyone; but then Sir Renel
led them off to go into a maze of other turns and passages, all lit,
and all as empty as the ones they had met so far-until, entering a
new one. Hob came flying back to Jim.

“A man!” he whispered in Jim’s ear.

“Brian-“ Jim began; but before he could finish what he was going to
say, in a voice just loud enough to reach Brian’s ear, the man was
upon them and had almost bumped into Sir Renel.
“Nasraney!” he said. “What do you do with all these-“

“Do not ask!” said Sir Renel in a strong, hard voice. “And do not
remember!”

Startled, the other servant stared at him for a moment, then hastily
sidled past them all with his eyes turned away from them, to the
wall.

“We must hurry.” Sir Renel’s voice came back from the front of
their column. “He may be silent a little while; because normally I am
a servant of servants and do not speak up to anyone. He will think
that I must be under orders, to talk so boldly. But sooner or later he
will tell someone, and the news will get back to all in the palace-to
Murad himself.”

Sir Renel did indeed pick up the pace. Jim found himself walking
fast behind Brian. Luckily, there was light-enough at least to keep
him from bumping into Brian from behind, and those behind from
bumping into him. In the gleam as they passed under the
occasional torch he was able to catch a glimpse of Sir Renel out in
front. Now, suddenly under one torch, Renel held up a hand and
stopped. Again, his voice came back.

“We turn to the right here,” he said. “There will be more light; but
there will also be people close to the walls on either side. So make
no noise. We are very close to the room in which you saw Murad.”

He made the turn. They followed him; and a moment later he made
a final turn, stopping before what seemed to be solid wall. But it
opened to his touch, and he led them into the room where Murad
lay asleep on the overstuffed bed.

Once they were all in the room, the aperture in the wall through
which they had entered closed automatically behind them. Sir
Renel turned and looked at Brian, who himself turned and looked at
Jim, who was examining their surroundings.

Now that they were in the room he saw that an open archway in the
wall beyond the bed led to another room, in which he glimpsed
curtains, and the lemony-orange smell of the garden came to him.

“We’ll have to wake him up,” said Jim, looking back at Murad.

He walked to the edge of the bed, reached out and took hold of the
nearest wide shoulder. To his surprise, his fingers sank into it, as if
there was nothing there. He moved his grip up closer toward the
neck, and felt something solid under the clothing that was more like
a shoulder. It was only then, getting a look at it behind the beard,
that he noticed the neck was relatively thin, compared to the rest of
the big body. He took a strong grip on the solid portion of the
shoulder and shook the figure.

Murad’s eyes flew open.

“What-who...” He sat up in bed with surprising nimbleness for
someone of his size and his gaze took them all in, but fastened on
the face and figure of Geronde.

“Geronde!” he cried. It was as if none of the rest of them were
there and she was the only person to be seen. His eyes moved
enough to take in Sir Renel. “How could you bring her to me?” he
cried.

“Because I remembered what I once was,” answered Sir Renel.

“Damn you!” said the false Murad, the real Sir Geoffrey, or
whoever he was. “I might still have had a chance if you’d played the
man!”

He literally bounced off the bed and stood up, towering over Sir
Renel.

“Say what you want. Do what you will,” said Sir Renel, meeting his
eyes unflinchingly. “Yes, all that I once was had left me years
since. But I recovered it, leading them here to you. Do what you
will.”

He turned away indifferently. The real Sir Geoffrey glared after him
for a moment and then turned his eyes toward Geronde.

“Daughter-“ he said awkwardly.

Geronde drew back. Her face had grown cold and forbidding
again.

“If I am daughter of yours-and one thing is certain, you have my
father’s voice and manner-it is only by a fault of nature!” she said
grimly. “You, who would blame this gentleman for leading us to
you, have you looked at yourself? A vile, gross figure. So, you
found the riches you sought at last, turned Musselman, and no
doubt live happily here with a hareem and all the other infidel
vices!”

“But Geronde, listen to me-“ began Sir Geoffrey.

“I do not need your words, sir!” said Geronde, withdrawing as he
took a step toward her. “I need only your vile body back in England,
dressed like an English gentleman, and at least pretending to be
so and a Christian, long enough to give me permission to marry Sir
Brian Neville-Smythe, here beside me now. Do that and you can
return to your Musselman ways, and the women of your hareem for
all I care!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
But you don’t understand!” repeated Murad-Geoffrey. “Wait!”

His fingers dived into what were apparently openings in his robes
and worked there. As they watched, he seemed to fall apart down
the front. Then his hands withdrew from the sleeves of his robe,
the two halves of his body on either side of the opening parted,
and a slim, gray-haired, clean-shaven man, very like Sir Renel
indeed, stepped out of all that had been Murad-even the fluffy,
white beard-leaving it standing there upright on the floor of the
room, as if the robes were made of something stiff and solid,
rather than cloth.

“It is true that all Palmyra believes me a Muslim,” said Sir Geoffrey
earnestly to Geronde, “but the hareem-you don’t understand.
There is so much here that I can’t explain to you. But I am your
father, Geronde. I’ve always been your father. I have always loved
you-“

“Hah!” said Geronde.

“But-“ began Sir Geoffrey.

“You never loved me!” said Geronde, suddenly and wildly. “You
didn’t even know I was there, until I was old enough to take on the
duties of chatelaine at Malvern-at the age of eleven. Eleven years,
Sir Knight, my father! You left me to do a job that would have been
heavy for a grown woman with experience. But I did it; and you
came home when you wished and went when you wished, hardly
ever noticing that the castle was in order and strongly protected,
that the lands were productive, that our tenants were loyal. I had
done all that. You never even noticed!”

“I was hoping to do something for you,” said Sir Geoffrey. “I had
hoped all my life to do something for you and your mother-only she
died too soon. But you were still young and strong and I had
hopes; and I kept trying. We needed money-“

“You needed money!” said Geronde. “You needed money to try a
hundred things that would cost. Money to get you to where you
wanted to go, money to engage you in some endeavor that would
bring back a fortune. Well, you have won that fortune-long since,
evidently. But did you come home to me with any of it? No! So how
can you stand there and say that any of it was for me?”

“You do not understand!” said Sir Geoffrey desperately. He looked
at Jim and Brian. Jim felt a stir of sympathy in him for the man,
although he found it hard to believe the good intention he
professed. At the same time he noticed that Brian’s face was as
cold as Geronde’s; and Angle’s face was almost as condemning.
“I’m not really a Muslim. I still am a Christian.”

“Then prove it!” snapped Geronde. “Find a priest in this God-
forsaken city! Confess to him; and tell him truthfully you are my
father and give permission for our marriage; and stand there while
he marries us. Then we will happily leave you forever to your sins.”

“There is no priest in Palmyra,” said Sir Geoffrey.

“Then we will wait until one comes through with a caravan, on his
way to some mission or other Holy duty, somewhere else!” said
Geronde. “Then you will confess, give us permission to marry, and
we will be rid of you! You can go back to being whatever you are
here.”

“Even if a priest came through,” said Sir Geoffrey, “I could not do
that, either. I cannot tell you why. Just believe me. I could not do it
any more than I could go home with you-and Geronde, believe me,
I yearn to see Malvern again.”

Geronde laughed jaggedly.

“Oh, aye. But you can not do anything that will see to the purpose
for which we came!” she said. “I am sorry, my father, but I do not
accept that you are unable to do what we need!”

She pointed to her right cheek.

“You see this scar?” she demanded. “I got that scar because you
were not there to protect me. Because you were not there to lead
the defense of the castle. Malvern was as good as taken, and I
was in the hands of a man who said he would disfigure me slowly,
day by day, until I agreed to marry him. After which, with the help of
those he had bribed at the King’s court, he would have had you
declared dead in the Holy Land, myself awarded him as wife, and
he would own Malvern. I did not give in to him. I saved Malvern-
against your homecoming-sometime, maybe. I did that for you,
Father. But you will do nothing I need!”

Sir Geoffrey closed his eyes. The lines of his face had gone deep,
so that all at once he looked twenty years older.

“I can not,” he said. “And I can not tell you why I can not. Think of
me what you will. But what I do is far better for you than giving in to
what you want. You must believe that.”

“I will never believe it,” said Geronde; and she turned her back on
him.

Angie went to her and was about to put her arm around Geronde’s
shoulders when Geronde spoke to her.

“Do not touch me now, Angela,” said Geronde, without turning her
head. “I would do you a hurt. But stay with me.”

They stood side by side in silence, their backs to the others.

Sir Geoffrey took a deep breath, backed up, and started to step
back inside the framework of whatever held up his Murad disguise
in position on the floor by his bed.

“Just a minute, Sir Geoffrey,” said Jim. “Do you know me?”

“No,” said Sir Geoffrey, in a disinterested voice.

“I am Sir James Eckert, a neighbor of yours, now in Malencontri.”

Sir Geoffrey stopped in his attempt to fumble his way back into his
disguise, and turned to look at Jim.

“Malencontri?” he said.

“Yes,” said Jim. “I took it from that same ill-knight who marked your
daughter’s face. I’m a close friend of Sir Brian and Geronde, both;
as is Lady Angela, my wife, who is standing with Geronde now. I
suggest you wait a moment before considering there is no
possibility of your escaping whatever you feel has you entrapped
here. I am known in England as the Dragon Knight, because I can
also take on the form of a dragon. In fact, I’m a magician, an
apprentice of S. Carolinus, who you ought to know as well as I do.”

“A magician?” Sir Geoffrey stared at him.

“Right,” said Jim. “I don’t use magic lightly; but I’m in a position, by
knowing it, to sometimes see more than those who aren’t
magicians. Perhaps, if you told us more about what holds you here
I might see something I could do-something you’d never imagine
was possible yourself-to free you, after all.”

Sir Geoffrey stared at him a moment longer, then slowly shook his
head, with a sad smile.

“Not even a magician can help me in this,” he said.

“You show small courage for a knight,” said Brian grimly.

“It is not a matter of courage, Brian,” said Sir Geoffrey to him.
“There are some things against which it is hopeless to attempt to
fight. You cannot fight the tempest, nor the cold in winter that may
kill you before morning if you are lost in the woods. No man, no
knight, no magician can change such things.”

“No,” said Jim, “but an open human mind possibly can.”

For the first time he was beginning to get a little warm-tempered
himself.

“An open mind, for example,” he went on, “could show you a way
to build a shelter to survive overnight in those woods. It might also
show you a place to hide from, or ride out the tempest-if you were
on the sea when it blew. You’ve only got one mind, Sir Geoffrey,
and it sees no way out. But that does not mean that another mind,
like mine, or Sir Brian’s, or Geronde’s, or my wife’s-or all of them
put together-might not find a way you have never thought of. Think.
What will it cost you to tell us what holds you?”

“Too much,” said Sir Geoffrey. “The one price I can not pay.”

He looked once more appealingly in Geronde’s direction; and Jim,
following his gaze, saw that both Geronde and Angie were moving
toward the entrance into the other room. A moment later they had
passed through it and were gone.

Sir Geoffrey turned back to face those left, and took a couple of
steps toward them. There was a sudden new light in his eyes. He
lowered his voice and spoke.

“Renel, go you into the other room also. This is for the ears of Sir
Brian and Sir James alone.”

“I am a man again, not a slave,” said Sir Renel. “I am at no one’s
orders, not even yours. I no longer hope for freedom, but only to
die as a man should. I will stay.”

“Then you will run the same risk these two will run,” said Sir
Geoffrey. “I would rather speak for their ears alone. If I ask you to
go-not as what you know me to be, but as a fellow knight, an old
companion-would you do me the favor of going?”

“It is true,” said Sir Renel, turning to Brian and Jim. “Once he and I
were companions in a foolish adventure to raise a last crusade and
wade knee-deep in infidel gold and gems. In those days we looked
much alike, so that people took us for twin brothers, although we
had fallen together merely by chance and were no real kin. But we
went different ways; and the next time he saw me, I was in the
slave market here in Palmyra. He had become Murad of the white
beard and Heavy Purse. How he did that I do not know; but he
rescued me from a worse slavery by buying me himself and
bringing me back here.”

He stopped and looked at Sir Geoffrey.

“For that I still thank you,” he said. “Though I think you had other
reasons for it, even then.”

Sir Renel turned back to Jim and Brian.

“He secretly favored me when none of the other servants were
around, and finally proposed that I should go back to England as
him, and take over lordship of Malvern and the name of Sir
Geoffrey de Chaney. He would help me escape. Indeed, we had
this planned; and then for some reason he could not tell me it
became difficult and had to be put off. While the months went by
and I still hoped, there suddenly came you people upon us. Now
you know everything that I know. How he became Murad I do not
know. What magic he uses to look like Murad, I now know. As you
see, not even the beard is his own. We could change places right
now; and if he went back between the walls, the other servants
would take him for me. With all that between us, why should I
leave?”

“I don’t think you should,” said Jim. He looked at Sir Geoffrey.
“What do you say, Sir Geoffrey?”

Sir Geoffrey raised his hands in a helpless gesture.

“Perhaps it will make no difference,” he said. “Stay, then, Renel.”

“I will stay; and insomuch as I can still fight I will fight for you and
what you need as things may turn out. I pledge you that”

“And I pledge you equal succor,” said Sir Geoffrey. “Renel, you
are a friend I do not deserve.”

“Neither of us deserves much,” said Renel with a tight smile.
“Enough of that. Let us listen to what you have to say.”

“Very well, then,” said Sir Geoffrey, lowering his voice even more,
so that Jim and Brian and Renel all had to move close to him to
hear. Out of the corner of his eye Jim saw the two hobgoblins on
their smoke also edging closer. He looked at them.

“No,” said Jim.

“Beg pardon, m’lord,” said Hob as both wafts of smoke backed up
hastily. “Should we leave the room?”

“No,” said Jim. “Just stay far enough away so that you don’t hear
and we have privacy.”

The two little Naturals backed off even farther, nearly the width of
the room. Jim turned back to Sir Geoffrey and the others.

“I am under a curse,” said Sir Geoffrey, quietly and simply. “The
curse will fall upon me if I cease to do the bidding of him who is my
master-and that is Hasan ad-Dimri, Grandmaster of the Assassins.
It happens-I do not know how, it is undoubtedly magic-that as I
move around through the passages in the walls of this house of
mine, I can find myself coming out, not here in Palmyra, but in the
White Palace up in the mountains where Hasan rules. I will know
then that he has called me for some reason. I know my way around
there, also, as I know my way around my own house here. I will go
where I know I would find him; and when I find him he will tell me
what he wants, and I will obey.”

“Why?” asked Brian bluntly. “If he has no weapon but the curse, he
can only use it once and-“

“Not so. It was a curse on him,” said Sir Geoffrey, “that I agreed to
take from him, in exchange for all this-“

He waved his hand in a wide, level sweep about him.

“How-?” began Brian.

“Let me go on,” he said. “Also, when he wishes, Hasan comes
here. The servants see him but do not know who he is. He takes
what he wants and does what he wants here. The hareem is his,
not mine. I have not been near a woman, slave or free, ever since I
came to dwell here. It is part of the curse Hasan gave over to me.
Also, I can go to rooms where there is tremendous wealth, silver
coins heaped high and gold as well, and other precious things. But
I can no more touch them than I can touch a woman. They are
Hasan’s.”

“How did you come to be under such evil influence?” asked Brian.

“That which makes me look like Murad,” answered Geoffrey, “was
something I had once learned to construct from a man in Italy who
made masks, devil costumes and other such things for religious
festivals. He was very clever. But I learned quickly; and when I left
him, I knew enough to be able to make myself appear as various
different people. It happened that I fell upon evil times-it was after
we had parted, following the battle in the mountains, Renel-“

He had turned to his friend for a moment; but then he turned back
to concentrate on Jim and Brian.

“After that, I went back to England for a while, then was other
places- no need to tell all that-then came this last trip here; when it
happened I found that in spite of my armor and weapons I was in
danger. I had to sleep sometime; and it was only a matter of days
before I would wake to find my throat being cut and all I had taken-
and that would be the end of me.”

He paused, glanced around him and lowered his voice even a little
more.

“It was necessary for me to pass as a Muslim. Not only that, but as
one whom other Muslims would not only accept but see benefit in
dealing with, rather than killing. I still had some silver and gems with
me from a recent battle and our sacking of-a place. I went into the
first place that could sell me what I needed, and took this off into
the desert. There, where I was alone and safe, I made up a Kurd
disguise I had perfected. It turned me into one with the
appearance of the Murad you have seen; and I used what wealth I
had left in the manner of one who is a rich but parsimonious Kurd
merchant. I was traveling down toward Tripoli, where I hoped to
find at least one friend left; so that I could lay aside my disguise
and borrow the extra money I needed to start me homeward to
England. But before I got there, the group with which I was
traveling was waylaid by Hasan’s Assassins; and I was taken with
the others to his White Palace.”

He stopped speaking.

“Then what?” asked Jim.

“Then Hasan offered me all this that you see around you, the
wealth I told you of, the hareem, the power, the position-provided I
would accept his curse,” said Sir Geoffrey. “I was in his power. He
could do anything with me he liked; and I thought it most likely he
would have me killed if I did not agree. Also, at that time I foolishly
thought I could find some way of getting free of the curse. I was
wrong.”

“And what is this curse?” demanded Brian. “What happens when it
strikes you?”

“That,” said Sir Geoffrey, “is the one thing I will not tell you. I will
only tell you this. It is a curse that no sensible man would wish to
dare- let alone pass it on; for it was that if I managed to escape him
after accepting it, the curse would follow me to the ends of the
earth to still fall on me, and then it would also fall on my
descendants unto the seventh generation.”

“Hmm,” said Jim. “Where would a human get the power to lay on a
curse like that-and come to think of it, what about Kelb?” asked
Jim.

“Kelb?”

“A Djinni,” said Jim. “Don’t try to tell me you don’t know about him.
He came out and sat by you when we were all gathered talking in
that large room a little while ago.”

“The brown dog is a Djinni?” Sir Geoffrey stared at him. “I knew
only it was a dog; and that it had been set to watch over me at
certain times. I suspected it was Hasan’s messenger, or spy, or
what you will. But I did not think of it as being a Djinni.”

“That’s interesting, too,” said Jim.

“May I ask why?” asked Sir Geoffrey.

“Because a Djinni is a Natural,” said Jim. “And a Natural doesn’t
have the power to curse, either.”

Sir Geoffrey stared at him.

“Tell me something,” went on Jim. “Do you know the place is in this
house of yours that takes you instantly to the White Palace? And
can you take me there?”

Geoffrey hesitated.

“In fact, I do,” he said at last. “It is one of two places, first one, then
the other, taking turns to put me in the stronghold of Hasan. Do you
mean you would wish to go to the White Palace?”

“Yes,” said Jim.

His words dropped into a pool of silence. All the rest of them were
staring at him.

“James,” said Brian. “Is this wise? We are not even armed. If
somehow we could get swords-“

“I don’t think this is going to be a matter of swords, or weapons of
any sort,” said Jim, “and I was only talking of me and Sir Geoffrey
going.”

“What, put your head into the lion’s den without me at your side,
James?” Brian said emphatically. “Never!”

“Well,” said Jim doubtfully, “then, if you come, Brian-and it’s a
foolishly risky thing for you to do-you’ll have to simply trust what I
do in this instance. I won’t be able to explain things to you as I go
along, and give you reasons.”

“Of course, I need no reasons,” said Brian. He added wistfully,
“But, I would I had a sword.”

“We can pick up a sword for each of you on the way I will show
you,” said Sir Geoffrey.

“Fine,” said Jim. “Give me just a minute.”

He left them, walked over to the entrance and stepped through it
into the other room.

“Angela,” he said, “Brian, Sir Geoffrey and I are just going to leave
you for a little while. We want to look into something down in the
passages.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” said Angie. “If you’re going someplace, I’m
going with you.”

“So am I,” said Geronde.

“That’s going to make us too much of a crowd,” Jim said. His
original idea of going with Sir Geoffrey alone had suddenly
developed into something more like an expedition. “Besides, if you
come, we’ll have to make it our main duty to take care of you; and I
don’t want to take you where we’re going, anyway.”

“The two hobs can carry us away from any danger,” said Angie.
“It’s settled, Jim!”

She pointed a little to the side and past Jim. He turned and saw the
inquisitive faces of a couple of hobgoblins on their smoke right
behind him, having evidently followed him into the present room.
Jim gave up.

“Hobgoblins,” he said, “we’re going to the Assassins’ fortress.”

“You understand?” Angie asked them.

“No,” said Hob of Malvern. It was the first actual word Jim had
heard from him.

“I’ll tell you as we go,” said Hob-Jim and Angie’s Hob. “You’ll like it.
It’s exciting.”

The Malvern Hob gulped and nodded.

Jim gave up. It was something he was used to doing, and he no
longer wasted extra energy fighting with the inevitable.

“Come along, then,” he said, heading back into the next room.

Sir Renel was waiting for him there.

“Surely, Sir James,” he said, “you were not thinking of leaving me,
alone, behind?”

Jim sighed internally.

“I guess not,” he said.

“Damned caravan,” muttered Brian.

“Equally surely,” said Geronde, “you had never been thinking of
leaving me behind here, had you, Brian?”

“No. Of course not,” scowled Brian. “Damned caravan...” he
muttered again under his breath, but in such a low voice that Jim,
who was closest to him, was probably the only one to hear it.

Some fifteen minutes later, besworded-including the women-they
were going down one more of a number of almost lightless, narrow
passageways, between the walls they had traversed; and the voice
of Geoffrey, in the lead, came back to say they were not far from
their goal.

“I wish I had my boar-spear,” Geronde said wistfully in the gloom.
Geronde’s boar-spear was her favorite weapon, light enough for
easy use and very effective.

“No boar-spears here,” said her father.

There was silence after that until they came to one of the things
Jim was beginning to get used to encountering in these between-
the-wall passages, simply a blank wall that ended a corridor.

“You can open it, of course?” he said to Geoffrey.

Geoffrey nodded, pressed at various points on the wall, and it slid
downward out of sight. Ahead of them was complete darkness.

“Follow me,” said Geoffrey, plunging into it and disappearing
almost immediately. Jim and Brian did so, followed by the rest of
their group.

It was a little like stepping into a pool of ink-even to the point where
the air that touched them in this darkness felt almost liquid, heavy
and clammy against them.

“Don’t worry,” came Sir Geoffrey’s voice, “just walk forward.”

They did so, blindly; and suddenly they were in a room that was
less than half the size of Murad’s bedroom, but completely
unfurnished-bare stone floor, ceiling and walls, with the only
illumination being die late afternoon light coming from a single
arrow slit in one of the walls.

Jim turned to see if everybody else had got through all right. They
were there. Angie, Geronde and the two hobs on their smoke.
Brian was with him and just behind them were Sir Renel and up in
front was Sir Geoffrey.

The place had no door. No place of entrance or exit. It was solid
wall all the way around except for the arrow slit.

“How do we get out of here?” asked Brian.

Jim had been turning to Sir Geoffrey to ask him the same question;
but now he saw the knight beckoning him from one of the walls. He
walked over and saw that there was a chink between two of the
squared rocks that made the wall, hidden from casual view by the
fact that one rock protruded enough to hide the slit except from a
certain angle.

“Look through that,” said Sir Geoffrey.

Jim looked.

He saw, from what seemed to be about fifteen feet above its floor,
the large square room with a domed roof he remembered from his
visit to Hasan in the White Palace-a domed roof with windows now
filled with the fading pink sky of new twilight. Inside the room
torches had been lit; and these burned most brightly at the far end
to Jim’s right, where Hasan ad-Dimri was in conversation with ibn-
Tariq. Baiju, with both wrists and both ankles bound together, sat
on the floor almost at Hasan’s feet; and, sitting just beyond him,
looking like a third partner in the conversation with Hasan and ibn-
Tariq, was a small brown dog.

When abu al-Qusayr, the Tripoli magician, had come to speak with
Hasan on behalf of Jim and Brian, he had told Jim after failing to
help that there was someone or something aiding Hasan-that a
power was at work here; though Jim, as a low-ranking magician,
possibly could not sense it. Jim had not been sure about such a
power then; but he could feel it now, in the room below.

It was like a cold pressure, emanating outward from a point in the
room that was like the depression in the center of a whirlpool of
water. He could feel it pushing like a large, open hand against him;
but also, oddly, it seemed to him, he could almost smell it-a
strange, bitter smell. Also, as these things impressed themselves
on him, he became aware that the ordinarily fully lighted room
below now seemed to have acquired, to his sight at least, all sorts
of strange, hard-to-see shadows; lurking not only in corners but in
mid-air, moving to and fro, some darker than others- but all
becoming invisible when he tried to look directly at any one of
them.

Whatever all this meant, there was certainly no question about
where the center of the whirlpool of the power he felt was. It was
centered not upon Hasan, but upon ibn-Tariq.

Down below, the brown dog turned its head to look up in the
direction from which Jim was looking down on him. Jim felt a
distinct shock, as if he and the canine were face to face.

“We are observed.” The dog’s voice floated upward clearly to
Jim’s ear.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“Welcome, O visitors,” said ibn-Tariq softly.

Abruptly they were, all of them, down in the room Jim had been
looking into, standing before the four who were there, but at a little
distance from them.

Jim was acutely, immediately conscious of matters of measure-
shape and shadow. Without any need to calculate, he knew that he,
standing in front of the rest, was exactly three lengths of his own
body from ibn-Tariq, who was the closest of the three. He was
aware that ibn-Tariq, the dog and Hasan ad-Dimri marked the
points of a triangle, enclosing Baiju at its center, that had exactly
three equal sides; and that a globe enclosing all four of them would
have a diameter that was exactly twice Jim’s own height

It was as if the nonexistent globe could be the heavy, if invisible,
head of some massive hammer, the handle of which reached half
the length of the distance from them to him. He found himself
imagining, as he might have imagined a sudden strike out of
darkness, the hammer rising on the base of the handle, pivoting up
to fall down again upon him and those with him, crushing them all.
A hammer controlled by any one, or possibly all three, of those
who sat at the points of the triangle.

This was power of a magnitude he had not encountered before.
Power only to be found otherwise in a senior magician-perhaps not
as great as that he had faced in his original battle at the Loathly
Tower to free Angie-but then Carolinus had been there to deal with
it. Here, he was the only one who used magic. The vortex of this
power was still with ibn-Tariq; but it could be that the other two,
Hasan and the dog Kelb, had not yet shown their hand. He had an
uneasy feeling that there might be more here than had yet
appeared.

But, he realized, it could not be Hasan. Hasan could not be a
magician if he was heading up a group like the Assassins. The
activities of the Assassins were flatly against the rules of
Magicdom. Also, if Hasan had been anyone else with magical
powers, abu al-Qusayr would not merely have reasoned with him,
then backed off. That left only the two who could be direct
opponents of his in this moment. Ibn-Tariq alone was at the vortex.
But he also could not be a magician and act as he was acting now-
aggressively. That left only one thing he could be.

“You’re a sorcerer,” Jim said to ibn-Tariq.

Ibn-Tariq smiled.

“And stronger than any you ever expected to encounter,” he said.
“Is that not so? You thought Julio Eccoti, the counselor to King
Jean of France who made the alliance with the sea serpents you
defeated-you thought he must have the utmost strength of we who
study and use the Whole Book of Spells. But the truth is Julio
learned only a little; and then ran out into the world to become rich
with it. I stayed, and never ceased to study with the masters of my
art. Already, my strength overcomes yours.”

Jim abruptly became aware of something he should have noticed
earlier. In the dome above them, the windows showed a sky in
which late afternoon was moving toward twilight. It was not natural
that evening could have come so soon-but then time was now an
area beyond the actual. The dimming sky now made almost visible
the shadows he had first felt, rather than seen from the room
above, and which now had gathered and thickened in the hall. Also,
they were moving in on him and his small group.

They, too, he realized now, were creatures of angles and
distances. Each had its own particular size and pattern; and the
total of those patterns was closing in on Jim and those with him,
slowly, but always more and more tightly.

There was no time left to waste. Now a full understanding came to
him of why Carolinus had warned him to hoard his magical energy
against some great possible need.

Theoretically, his drawing power there was “unlimited.” In practice,
there had to be a limitation. Otherwise, he could break the bank-call
for all the free magical energy there was, and leave no reserve
supply for any other of the world’s magicians. But now he needed
everything he could get, for he could feel that what he faced was
stronger than he was. Gratefulness washed through him that he
had not wasted any more of what had been available to him.

He reached for that available amount, now-and found himself
climbing a steep, stony mountainside, toward a peak, gray against
a bloody-colored sunset. Far and high the top of the mountain
stood dark against the light; and he knew without needing to be told
that the staff he had come to get was only to be found at that top.

His will almost failed him. It was too far to go in the small period he
dared be absent from the domed room in the White Palace. But
suddenly, there was Carolinus, standing on a great boulder above
him along the path upward he must go, and looking down at him.

“There will be time,” said Carolinus, “but save your strength to
reach the very top; or you may fail with what you face.”

He stood for a moment more, looking at him.

Then Carolinus was gone. A little wind whispered and whistled
among the boulders and smaller rocks to either side of the narrow
path on the rocky mountainside Jim saw before him. There was
nothing growing anywhere. All was rock.

The small wind whistled and sighed among the stones. It stroked
his face and chilled his body inside his clothes as he drew the air
deep into his lungs. Deep, for the air was thin as well as cold.
Leaning forward to balance himself against the steep slope, he
started up the path that wound between the bigger rocks.

Now there was sound in addition to the talking of the wind. He had
not realized how complete otherwise the silence had been. But
now he heard the grating of pebbles and the rasp of immovable
stone below his boot soles; and he felt a moment of gratitude for
that night back in the caravan encampment when the Assassins
had kidnaped him, when he had left his boots on as he went to
sleep, to keep his feet warm in the air that grew mountain-cold at
night there, too. The foot-sound, and the sound of his breathing,
seemed loud in the otherwise perfect soundlessness around him.
No far-off rocks fell, no solitary hawk called, high overhead.

He climbed. If it was not a path he followed, he told himself, it was
another old, dry streambed that had once snaked down this
mountainside; and it was well it was there, because as he looked to
right and left he saw nothing but a wilderness of stones, large and
small, through which he would otherwise have had to climb and
squeeze his way. But the path was becoming even steeper now,
and the going was not easy. The cold began to reach deeper into
him. He pushed it back with the inner heat of his determination to
get to the top.

He walked so for some time, leaning farther forward as the way
grew steeper. The muscles of his thighs began to ache lightly as
he went on upward, and the path or watercourse narrowed, winding
up and up until he could have reached out and touched the taller
stones on either side at once, as he went.

The wilderness of boulder-tumbled mountainside came to an end,
abruptly, as a forest stops almost neatly at the edge of a meadow.

The pathway narrowed and ended. He turned sideways to pass
through the last large rocks, and came out in an open space, at the
edge of a sheet of ice-gray, smooth ice with no sign of snow on it,
stretching like a river itself up the mountainside.

There was a darkness at the far end of it. More rocks, he assumed;
but he was breathing so hard now and his eyes were misting,
perhaps because of the dryness of the air, so that he could not
make out exactly what the dark shape was. In any case he would
have to climb the ice, and it was as smooth and clean as a fresh-
shaved skating rink. It was like the out-reaching limb of a glacier,
except for its glasslike clarity; like a river of ice; and, thinking of it
as a river, for the first time, he looked over at the far side of it.

The brief stop while he looked had allowed him to catch his breath,
and his vision had cleared and sharpened On the other side, he
saw what looked like spaces between the rocks there that went up
also toward his goal and might give him an ice-free place to climb.
But he would have to cross the river to get to it.

His hand had reached for the hold-out knife that Brian had taught
him to carry, and which he had produced when they had all begun
to follow Sir Renel between the walls of Murad’s palace. Leaning
out over the edge of the ice, he began to chip hand- and footholds
in it

Slowly, building his way as he went, he crossed the ice-and he had
been correct. On the far side it had not flowed completely in
among the rocks and there were spaces of flat, dry stone that
required only an intermediate hand- or foothold chipped in the ice
to get him from one to the next stony space. With the help of his
knife, he worked his way up the far side of the ice river until the line
of rocks began to run out and the river itself narrowed.

He had forgotten to look ahead in his absorption with making his
way. Instead, the knife in his hand had reminded him of Brian, of
Geronde and most of all of Angie-and then even of the hobgoblins,
Sir Geoffrey and Sir Renel. There was a living warmth in thinking of
them that counteracted the cold that seemed to be stiffening all his
movements now; and with this in mind he had been feeling as if he
was almost to the staff. So it was a shock when he came to the end
of the ice floe, and the end of the rocks alongside it where he had
been moving, almost running into it before he stopped and saw
what was there.

It was a long slope of scree-pebbles and broken stones-that must
have come down as a landslide over the ice river. It offered a dry
route toward the top; and for the first time he could see how close
the top was. It loomed only a hundred feet above him.

He went faster now, seeing himself so close. It was moments,
only, before he got to the scree and started up. He took his first
two steps with confidence, but his feet supped and he fell, for the
surface under his feet might as well have been made by an
avalanche of glass marbles. It rolled and slid, one pebble and
fragment over another, as his weight came upon it. He could go
upward only by climbing with both hands and feet.

But the scree did not stretch far. He struggled up it, not looking
ahead, until he was stopped by a wall of rock.

He lay, the loose stones hard against him, his lungs pumping,
pumping the thin air in and out to get enough oxygen to slow his
racing heart. This was the darkness he had not been able to make
out from farther down. It was a cuff, like a wall built to keep him
back at the last.

Gradually the pounding of his heart slowed, breath and calmness
came back together upon him. He looked up at the cliff. The red of
the sunset was gone from the sky overhead now. The twilight was
moving in, and darkening. But still, sharply outlined against what
was left of the illuminated western sky, was the top of the mountain
not far away. The cliff did not rise straight upward. It leaned back,
but at a near-vertical angle. There were handholds and bosses of
rock sticking out. It could be climbed.

He breathed for a moment more, and then began to try to make his
way up it.

He had believed he could do it when he started; but by the time he
was halfway up, that confidence was dying in him. The muscles of
his arms were trembling and weak; and his body seemed to weigh
many times what it should.

He hung where he was, doubting that he could go on, sure that he
would fall if he tried to go back.

Then a hatred of his body took him. His body was only an animal,
after all, he told himself. It had to do what his mind told it. Slowly he
began to climb again, not thinking any more about a time when he
would stop climbing but ready to climb forever. And, after some
time beyond measure, his right hand, reaching up, went over the
top edge. He had reached the end of the climb.

With what seemed the last of his strength he pulled himself out on
to a little space of flat rock, tilted upward, but by comparison with
the cliff almost level. He lay there, once more working to get
oxygen back into his body. It was a strange thing-that the stopping
should seem to be so much harder than the going on; and for the
first time he began to notice the cost of his struggles.

His feet hurt and his hands hurt. His knees hurt. He looked at his
knees and they were naked, the clothing over them worn away. His
boots were hardly more than collars around his ankles and the top
of his feet Like his hands, his feet were icy from their contact with
cold ice and the cold rock; but now he felt pain in them as well, and
looking more closely at his hands, he saw the cuts and tears in
them. He did not try to see the soles of his feet.

But he was very close to the top now. He looked to see above him
the spire of rock that it was; and for the first time his courage died
within him. Between him and it was a last, short stretch that was a
jungle of large and small boulders. There was no path. There were
only the tops of rocks, some rounded, some jagged, but all with
spaces between them, into which he could slip as into the jaws of a
trap. Now, so close, but barred like this, tears came to his eyes.

He made himself think again of Angie and the others; but now it
was as if they were at a distance, and he did not rouse at the
thought of them. Something inside him was sure that if he tried to
cross those rocks he would fall between two of them and be
caught forever-or slip and fall on some sharp spine or spire of
frost-broken boulder, and spear himself on it.

He was aware of Carolinus once more beside him. He rolled a little
on to his left side to look up at the red robe, the white beard, the
old face and the faded blue eyes, looking down at him.

“Why?” he asked.

What he had meant to say was Why does it have to be so hard?

“Because,” Carolinus answered, as if Jim had spoken the words
aloud, “the staff is made by your effort in reaching it. If you give up
right now, you will still reach out and gain a staff. But it might not
hold the strength you need. You could have stopped anywhere
before now and gained whatever that much had earned you. But
the stoutness of the staff is measured against your will, the
strength of your spirit, which will be tested against the strength of
what you’ll need to use it against”

It seemed to Jim suddenly that he had known this from the
beginning, only he had never put the knowledge into words. Known
it, not merely from the beginning of his climb, but from the
beginning of the moment that he and Angie had found themselves
back here in this fourteenth-century world where they did not
belong-where they were foreign matter introduced into something
that had no room for them, like grit into the crankcase of a running
engine.

From the beginning he and Angie had known they had to make a
place for themselves in this different world; and it had been their
choice to stay-they could have left. It was too late to change that
choice now. Even without thinking, he found his body move,
beginning to climb the first of the rocks in the jungle between him
and the top of the mountain.

That last cold and impossible distance he did not really see or feel
as he made it, nor after was he able to remember. But after a time
he could not measure-going beyond all things in him, beyond his
strength, beyond his courage, beyond his desire, beyond his love
for those still back in the reception room of Hasan now with the
shadows moving in on them-he came to the end of the rocks; and
half fell into an open space; and the staff was there, standing
straight and upright against the last of the red glow in the western
sky, which disappeared even as he looked.

He reached out and took hold of it-and he was back in the domed
room with the others.

He had returned almost to the moment he had left; people were
still all in their same positions. “-my strength overcomes yours.”
Ibn-Tariq’s words still echoed in his ears.

But during the small moment between, the shadows had moved
closer. He lifted the staff and they drew back... not far, but they
drew back. He glanced for a moment down at himself. His clothes
were untorn, his shoes complete again, his hands unlacerated.
Angie was looking at him penetratingly, but outside of that, none of
the others showed any sign of being conscious he had been away.

“Your rod is no threat,” said ibn-Tariq.

Jim risked a glance at his staff. It was neither as tall as nor as thick
as Carolinus’s had been in those first days when they had come
and with Carolinus’s help they had made the assault on the Loathly
Tower to rescue Angie. Then Carolinus’s rod had held back the
Dark Powers while he, Brian and Dafydd ap Hywel fought its
creatures and won.

This that he grasped would not hold as much power as Carolinus’s
had; but it was straight and weathered. It fitted like a talisman in his
right hand. Its lower end now rested on the floor of the room; and
the floor, through various underpinnings, reached down finally to
touch the earth itself, drawing strength upward from the planet into
the staff and him.

“I say,” came the voice of ibn-Tariq again, “the staff is no threat.
We are Muslim. Your Christian magic cannot attack us, as you
yourself know. Lay it down. You will suffer less from us.”

“Not all of you are Muslim,” said Jim. For the first time he noticed
that Baiju, seated with knees drawn up to his chest, had his wrists
bound tight to his ankles.

“Baiju,” he said, “if it is what you wish-come stand with us.”

As he spoke, he visualized it. A small lightning flickered from the
top of his staff, burning through the cords that bound Baiju-and the
little Mongol appeared behind Jim, standing on his feet. Baiju gave
a grunt, but that was all.

“So much for magic,” said Jim. “I went a long way and a hard way
for what I hold; and you’re right-I’m not allowed to attack with it. But
I’m not here to attack, but to defend those who need defense.
Even you- I will defend you, too, if you’ll come to me. But you’ll
have to leave your own unlicensed sorcery behind.”

Ibn-Tariq’s gaze sharpened like that of a cornered hawk.

“Am I only an apprentice in my art,” he said, “to think I might need
the aid of one like you?”

Jim did not answer.

His mind was fully open and understanding, sharp and clear now
that he had the staff in his hand.

“To begin with,” he said, “you could have wanted only to stop Brian
and me from finding Sir Geoffrey and taking him back to England.
Then you found out about us by chance, probably from abu al-
Qusayr-carefully hiding the sorcerous element in you when you
dealt with him-that our success would mean the end of all you
planned-“

Ibn-Tariq’s eyes glittered.

“I hide from no magician!” he said.

“If that was true, you’d be a fool,” said Jim, “and you’re not that. So,
you found out about me, and that I was one of the junior grades of
magician, who ought to be easy to handle. But when you couldn’t
get me to talk about magic, so you could get some idea of my
powers, as we traveled in the caravan, you arranged to have Brian
and me captured by the Assassins; and tried to trick me into
showing what magic I had by forcing me to escape with it, didn’t
you?”

Ibn-Tariq only smiled.

“But then when we escaped, using no important magic, but learning
of the secret way in and out-knowing which could allow the Golden
Horde Mongols to get in and conquer the White Palace easily-we
became a real danger. But why should we, or even Baiju, who met
us as we left the secret way, tell those of the Golden Horde about
this?”

“He is of the Horde,” said Hasan, behind ibn-Tariq.

“Ya barid!” snapped ibn-Tariq, turning on him. “Fool!”

Both Hasan and the dog cowered away from him. Ibn-Tariq turned
back to face Jim; but Jim had already looked back to meet the
eyes of Baiju.

“Is that true?” Jim asked. Baiju met his gaze unyieldingly.

“No,” he said. “I am of the Il’Khanate, those of the first horde who
hold Persia, as I told you in the caravan. I thought you, with your
magic, would understand.”

“I didn’t then,” said Jim, “but I do now. By letting them think you
were of the Horde, you hoped to learn what the Mamelukes of
Egypt planned for the Horde.”

Baiju did not nod or speak-but he smiled tightly.

“So,” said Jim, “you never were their spy. But your learning the exit
point of the secret way out of here was still a threat to ibn-Tariq,
who wanted the White Palace to survive.”

He turned back to face ibn-Tariq, who spread his hands before
him, calm once more.

“I?” he said. “I have something of a friendship for Hasan ad-Dimri,
but why should I be concerned with the White Palace or the attack
on it by any Mongols? And what could one sorcerer do, in any
case, against an army?”

“One sorcerer alone might not be able to do much,” said Jim. “But
a sorcerer connected with an army of Mamelukes coming to
oppose Mongols is something else again.”

“I have no connections with Mamelukes,” said ibn-Tariq. “Though I
have friends among them, of course.”

“I think you have,” said Jim. “You’re what, where I originally come
from, is called a ‘politician.’ I wondered, when I first saw you here
just now, why you talked to Murad in front of us about a new leader
being needed to make Egypt into an empire. A leader like Saladin,
who was a Kurd-as was Murad. Why say this to Murad, when you
and he knew he wasn’t really Murad, but Sir Geoffrey? Of course, it
was all for my benefit. For our benefit. Sir Brian’s and mine, to
reinforce the image of Murad, so we’d not even suspect he could
be Sir Geoffrey. It was your idea, wasn’t it? To arrange for us to
catch a glimpse of Sir Renel?”

“And when did you come to these wild imaginings?” asked ibn-
Tariq.

“As I say-when I first looked down on you here through a crack in
the wall of that room above us that connects with the palace of
Murad,” said Jim. “If you knew Murad was Sir Geoffrey, why talk to
him like that when the only ones listening were Brian, myself and
Baiju?”

“So,” said ibn-Tariq, “then you think I see myself as a second Sala-
ad-Din, taking the fire and sword of Egypt over half the world, like
Alexander; and then weeping because there are no more worlds to
conquer?”

“No, I don’t,” said Jim bluntly. “I think you’re interested in
something much more manageable and practical. Reviving the
nests of Assassins and increasing their power, by combining it with
sorcery. Your plan must be to recruit younger, less trained
sorcerers to work with the other Assassin nests you’d create; and
you would be the master of those apprentices, the shadow
Grandmaster of the sorcerers behind the power of all the
Grandmasters of the Assassins.”

“You dream,” said ibn-Tariq.

“I don’t think so,” said Jim. “You dreamed-of an empire. But you’d
only just started to build it with the White Palace here. You built
your power over this particular nest of Assassins by offering Hasan
power and wealth when he was a Sufi. If he would become leader
here, you’d help him to gain power. It was something easy for you
to do for him, using sorcery to impress the Assassins already
here.”

“You guess, only.”

“I’m sure enough,” said Jim. “Hasan was a good man in his own
way and you turned him to evil. The White Palace has survived and
grown since then; but the beginning of your private empire isn’t
ready yet to stand up to a Mongol attack. That’s why neither Baiju,
Brian nor I could be let survive; and Hasan still had to be held by
the curse.”

“You weave lies into a cloth of falsity,” said ibn-Tariq coldly. “Hasan
ad-Dimri is under no curse, as you know. It is your Sir Geoffrey
who bears the curse.”

“Yes,” said Jim. “But there were things about curses that, being a
sorcerer, you didn’t know; or else you wouldn’t have had anything
to do with them. Curses are like some vile disease. They eat away
at the person they’ve touched. You saw the signs in Hasan too late
to cure what had already been done to him. You’d undermined his
faith by tempting him away to lead Assassins. That started the
decay in him; and it was gradually eating away all his strengths.
Strengthless, he’d be no good to you. So, you arranged to have his
curse transferred to Sir Geoffrey; and all the wealth and luxury you
promised him became only a step from the White Palace, moved
sorcerously into the home of Murad of the Heavy Purse in
Palmyra.”

“Sir Geoffrey is a Christian,” said ibn-Tariq. “How could I, a Muslim
sorcerer, take a curse from someone else and place it on him?”

“You,” said Jim, “couldn’t. A sorcerer can’t, any more than he can
lay curses on persons in the first place-any more than a Muslim
sorcerer can work magic against a Christian, a Christian against a
Muslim, or either against a Holy person of their own faith. And it
couldn’t be done by Kelb. Or is Kelb really Kelb?”

“No!” A voice boomed out that echoed off the walls and rang down
again from the cup of the domed ceiling-and where Kelb had been
there was a puff of smoke and then nothing, only the voice-

“I am Sakhr al-Jinni! Kelb was always the least of my slaves and
still is. I put on his shape to watch you on Cyprus. Solomon,
David’s son, locked me in a bottle and threw me into the sea. But
now I am free. It is no weak demon or sorcerer you face here, but
Sakhr al-Jinni, Djinni of Djinn!”

The smoke thinned; and standing on the platform was the
hideously ugly turbaned figure with the mismatched eyes and
misplaced mouth that Jim and Hob had seen on Cyprus when Jim
had asked to see Kelb in his Djinni form.

“Thou hast always been overproud and boastful!” said ibn-Tariq to
him with sudden startling savagery, “and it seems thy time in the
bottle taught thee nothing! Of all here, thou art the weakest, not the
strongest. Now, a dog thou chose to be-be therefore that dog and
not otherwise for ninety-nine lifetimes!”

Suddenly, where the Djinni-figure had been, was a small, ugly
brown dog that yelped and vanished.

“Enough talking, James,” said Sir Brian. “We have our swords. Let
us move on this hell-begotten infidel and his-his Djinni! A Muslim or
a Natural can feel the edge of a Christian sword, or else the
Crusades never were!”

“And likewise turnabout!” said Geronde sharply. “Hush, Brian!”

“What you suggest, too, is a lie,” said Jim, still speaking to ibn-
Tariq. “No Djinni-not even Sakhr al-Jinni-can lay a curse on anyone,
Muslim or Christian. Below the one you Muslims call Shaitain, only
the beings of a few kingdoms can. And the only ones of those
available to a sorcerer are those who inhabit the Kingdom of Devils
and Demons.”

“So you think,” said ibn-Tariq.

“So I know,” answered Jim. “Only the Devils and Demons are
creatures of pure hate, set in this world to test the children of
humans. But Devils and Demons are penned in their own kingdom.
They are released into human affairs only to plague humankind, or
upset the balance between History and Chance-which is what
reviving the Assassins and blending them with sorcery would do.
But Djinn can’t call them up. Sorcerers can!”

He looked over at the puff of smoke, to where it was now
shredding into nothingness, then back at ibn-Tariq.

“We magicians, too, could raise Devils and Demons,” he went on,
“but our rules forbid us. Sorcerers have no rules. You, ibn-Tariq,
called up a Demon to lay that curse on Hasan. Now he is free and
you cannot lay him again. Now you must tell me, in the name of all
the Kingdoms, what Demon was it that you called?”

Ibn-Tariq’s face changed. It did not pale, so much as go fixed-like
a stilled picture in three dimensions of his features.

Awareness like a jolt of cold electricity all through him made Jim
look up. The talking had gone on too long. It had distracted just
enough of his attention from the shadows; and they had gained on
him. Now understanding failed him. The shadows were not
controlled by ibn-Tariq, but by the Demon.

They were close now, hardly an arm’s length away from one or
other of the humans clustered behind him. In the aftermath of the
shock of seeing this, a rage that someone like ibn-Tariq could free
a being with these powers rose and burned his mind clear.

He struck out at the shadows, with all the power in the staff, so that
its top burned with small lightnings, scorching them back and back-
not as far as they had been before; but enough so that he could
again take some small part of his attention from them, for just the
moment necessary to delve into his memory of all that was written
in the Encyclopedic Necromantick, inside him and magically a part
of him.

Somewhere was the permission he needed. Still holding the
shadows at bay, he found in his memory the section marked
Devyls & Deamons and read swiftly from the huge type of the
prohibition against any magicians having to do with them, down and
down to the smaller and smaller type, until he found what he was
searching for.

Yes, there was an exception. One special situation in which it was
permitted.

He snapped back to full attention on the shadows. They had crept
forward once more; but again he drove them back, until they were a
safe distance from him and those with him.

Only then, with breathing space, he raised his voice.

“Demon who has been summoned and is loose in this period
between History and Chance, by the power and right of the
Kingdom to which I belong, I call on you to name and show
yourself. Now!”

The air around them was partly sucked away for a moment. As if
some giant, almost as large as the earth itself, had inhaled. Next, a
great whisper, but a whisper only, spoke soundlessly in Jim’s
head-and he knew it would be speaking also in the heads of
everyone else there as well.

“I am here,” it said. “I, Ahriman, Demon of Demons.”

Around them, the walls, the domed roof overhead, melted toward
invisibility; becoming as insubstantial as mist.

Jim, all those with him, ibn-Tariq, Hasan ad-Dimri and the space
where Sakhr al-Jinni had revealed himself, were left standing
together on nothingness, far above the earth.

It was as if they were now so high in the atmosphere that they
could see beyond all ordinary horizons. Their gaze went out and
out until the sky around them and the landscape below merged in
the far distance to a sort of dark mist. Below them was a landscape
that was a pattern, a crazy quilt of not only space, but time.

In one area, far below and beyond ordinary vision, in bright sunlight
a battle was being fought. It was ‘Ayn Jalut, two centuries past, and
the Egyptian Mameluke leader was winning over a force of
Mongols-Bay-bars, who was first to deal a defeat to the Mongols
and went on to drive out the Christian forces from Lebanon.
Closer, and more directly below them, at this moment a sandstorm
was destroying crops and burying the homes of villagers. Things
now, and things in the past, were all taking place at the same time,
somewhere in that vast landscape.

“Answer me,” said Jim aloud. “Ahriman, is ibn-Tariq now your
master?”

The Whisperer who was Ahriman laughed voicelessly in all their
heads.

“Who calls a Demon and is its master?” it whispered. “When a
Demon is summoned, the Demon becomes master. I rule all; and
ibn-Tariq is my creature. Look at him.”

Jim looked across the airy space that now existed between him
and ibn-Tariq, and the man was still unchanged-as if he had
become a wax figure of himself-the look on his face still the same.

“Now look down at what else I have done.”

Jim looked; and perhaps a week’s march away to the north, he saw
a force of Mongols coming toward the mountains in which the
White Palace was hidden.

“Look now south and east.”

Jim looked, and the Mamelukes were there less than three days’
march from the mountains holding the White Palace-much closer
than the Mongols.

“The Mongols believe they have only to reduce one more nest of
Assassins, as they have reduced so many before,” said the
Whisperer in their heads, “but this time they will find a fortress
armed, prepared and ready to resist them; and with an army of
Mamelukes much larger than theirs, already in position, encircling
them, but out of sight until they have come in, before the White
Palace. The Mongols will die to a man; for Baiju will not have been
able to tell them what he knows. And you will have told them
nothing. In the end there will be nothing but a whole world, aflame
with war between Mamelukes and Mongols.”

There was whispering laughter.

“And Murad of the Heavy Purse will take up his work again. Hasan
ad-Dimri will sit as ruler of all, but puppet of ibn-Tariq, who is
puppet of mine. You and these with you will be gone.”

“No,” said Jim. “We will not.”

As Ahriman talked, a part of Jim’s mind was reviewing what they all
would have to do.

He turned to those behind him.

“Now, if you’ll help,” he said, looking at them, “with luck, we can win.
The world can win, and Ahriman can be dealt with.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

He watched their faces as they all looked back at him. There was
something like joy in Brian’s face, there was trust in Angie’s, and in
the hobgoblins’; and an echo of Brian’s fierce joy of battle in the
face of Geronde. Some of that eagerness to be at grips with the
enemy was there also in Sir Geoffrey and Sir Renel-and Baiju
grinned.

“If he wins, we die,” said Jim. “But if we hold together, we can drive
him back to his own place, where his power here will be ended. But
you’re going to have to ask something more of yourselves than
you’ve ever asked before. Each one of you, once you join hands,
must hold until it is over. You must never let go, for the sake of
something in you that you would die for-something more important
than life itself to you.”

He waited a second to see if they all understood, then went on.

“If we, holding to what we would die for and together, all have that,
we form a human chain Ahriman can never break through. All
together, we can drive him back to his own place.”

“There are not enough of you,” said the Whisperer. Jim ignored
him.

“Who can join hands under that condition?” he asked.

Angie smiled and put her hand into Jim’s one free hand. With her
free hand, she took one of Brian’s.

Geronde had already slipped one hand into the other hand of
Brian. Hob-Jim and Angie’s own Hob of Malencontri-reached out
and proudly put his small hand into Geronde’s free one. Hob of
Malvern reached out and took Hob’s other hand.

“I want to be brave, like you,” he said to Hob of Malencontri.

“You will,” Hob told him.

Sir Geoffrey had earlier reached for Geronde’s free hand, but she
had pulled it away from him. Now, ignoring him, she looked past
him at Sir Renel.

“Sir Renel?” she said in a clear, hard voice. “Have you something
to die for?”

“Yes,” said Sir Rend. “My honor, which I lost and found again.”

He stepped forward and took the free hand of Hob of Malvern, then
turned and offered his other to Sir Geoffrey, who took it; and they
both smiled, gripping each other like old friends meeting after a
long time. The human chain was complete, from Jim to Sir
Geoffrey.
“Good,” said Jim. “Now, make a semicircle with me-“

He broke off suddenly. Ibn-Tariq had stepped forward and taken
the only free hand remaining-that of Sir Geoffrey.

“I would be free,” he said, looking across at Jim.

“We can use your strength,” Jim said-and at that, Hasan ad-Dimri
came and took ibn-Tariq’s other hand.

“I would be as I was in the years before this,” he said.

“All hold together then,” said Jim. “For if any lets go, the chain
loses its strength. Now-make a semicircle and we’ll herd him back.”

“You will fail,” said the Whisperer.

Jim ignored the words.

“Ahriman,” he called. “By the staff I hold, and the rules that bind
you in your own kingdom, I call on you to make yourself visible to
us!”

A hiss answered; a continuing, wordless, malevolent hiss in their
heads that was dizzying in its effect. But ahead of them-and it was
impossible to tell whether it was at the horizon or close to them-had
appeared something like a black sun.

Like the sun, it was impossible to look at directly. It glared, and
seemed to shimmer and move, if the eyes tried to hold it in focus;
as if it was one black disk swiftly overlaying and melting into
another one a little out of place from where the original was. Now,
from it, came something like a powerful but pressureless icy wind
that numbed their wills, rather than their bodies.

It was not a wind that could push them backward, or even take
them off their feet. But it was like a great hand laid against each of
them. It tried to drive them back, without any real feeling of touch;
but only with the tremendous, reiterated threat not to approach the
black and burning sun-shape.

“Hold to each other. Keep going!” said Jim.

He took the first steps forward; and the rest moved with him. They
felt the pressure hard against them, not only on their faces, bodies
and limbs, but within them-to the very marrow of their bones.

But they went forward; and each step of theirs was like a five-
league stride across the space-and-time surface far below them.
Even with their first few steps, the black sun grew larger and
closer. The pressure against them increased. It reached into them
and tried to suck the life from them. Their steps slowed.

“Keep moving!” said Jim. “Never stop!”

The strain was on their linked hands, numbing their wills to hold
together. It became harder and harder to do so. But now the
knowledge was clear in each of them, unspoken but in all their
minds-there was no way but forward. To stop, to go back now,
meant that the blackness ahead would follow and destroy them.

Jim, at his end of the chain, a little in advance of all the rest and
with the staff held before him, risked a glance at the faces of the
others. So far, they were holding.

Brian was single-mindedly engaged in the struggle, as always. His
hand held Geronde’s and Angle’s hands firmly but with the
gentleness of strength and confidence. Angie’s face was calm,
and Geronde’s was aught with fierceness. The two Hobs had fixed,
steady expressions on their small, dark faces that gave no clue to
how they were feeling.

Beyond these two. Sir Renel and Sir Geoffrey showed something
of Sir Brian’s joy in the battle, but with it something more-almost a
hunger for the ultimate meeting. As if they had just been freed from
chains they were so used to that they had hardly realized they had
been carrying them about. The face of ibn-Tariq, beyond the two of
them, was knifelike and expressionless, but with no sign of
yielding.

Only at the end, the whole face and body of Hasan ad-Dimri gave
an impression of crumbling inside. His body seemed to have
grown smaller, as if he was falling in on himself; and his face was
pale and fixed, like a man in whom doubt was like a rising tide,
lapping on the pilings of his courage until it threatened to overflow
and drown him.

Of them all, Hasan seemed to be the only one showing signs of
weakening so far. Jim looked back, marveling at the two
hobgoblins. Of all of them, he would have expected the most frailty
in those two small wisps of life, used to running and hiding from all
things. But this was a battle of wills, not of muscle and bone.

Angie, Brian and Geronde, he knew, would go to the end. Sir
Geoffrey and Sir Renel might do the same. Possibly, too, ibn-Tariq
had an equal courage in him. It would not have been easy to make
himself a sorcerer of the power he controlled.

True, he would be pricked on now by the spurs of the thought of
his own mistake in raising Ahriman-his ignorance of the fact that the
Demon would be free and independent once he had obeyed his
raiser’s original command-a piece of simple knowledge he would
have had if his studies had been in magic, rather than sorcery.

In its own way that knowledge would now cast shadows of doubt
on all he would have studied for most of his life.

But also, there was a strength in him. Hasan, only, looked like he
might fail. Yet, he must have also had a strength of his own, when
he was a Sufi, before he let himself be seduced by ibn-Tariq’s
offers of power and wealth.

They were few enough together to try to drive back a being as
powerful as Ahriman. Fighting on their side was only their individual
faiths; and the knowledge that the here and now was their place,
not Ahriman’s. Time was the crucial thing. The longer it took, the
greater the chance that the weaker ones in the chain must break.
Time was all.

“Faster!”

The word had come to Jim’s lips without his intending it. But the
others heard-and they tried. Their leagues-long steps above the
landscape far below could not be hastened, but they were making
longer ones. Ahead, Ahriman had seemed to grow tremendously,
as they got closer to him. Now he blocked out a quarter of the sky
ahead; and seemed not merely to face them, but to tower and
loom over them.

But something like a collective fury had taken them, like the frenzy
of battle. Consciousness, all logical thought, was set aside. Their
awareness was only of Ahriman ahead, of the hands they gripped
at either side, and the consciousness of being part of a team, a
single-minded fighting unit; and their own intent to do what was
before them. They had lost all thought of themselves as
individuals, caught up in the unity of their effort.

They were very close to Ahriman now. Whether they had not been
that far from him to begin with, or whether the enormous distances
they seemed to be covering in their steps above the landscape
below were actual, the fact remained that there was little farther to
go. But now, at the end of the line, Hasan ad-Dimri stumbled and
almost fell.

But did not-for ibn-Tariq had held tightly to his hand and for a
moment literally held him up.

“It is the will of God,” ibn-Tariq said, looking straight into his eyes.

Hasan straightened upright, bearing his own weight again.

“Yes!” he said, and a light had come into his face. “God wills it!”
And he went on strongly.

“He’s going back, m’lord!” cried Hob of Malencontri suddenly, in a
high, thin, triumphant voice.

Jim stared. It was true. The sky had become like dark blue velvet,
with night above; and in that darkness the lights of stars were to be
seen. By ones and twos these points of light were emerging into
view from behind Ahriman as he backed away from Jim and the
others. Hob had been the first to see it; but it was there and it was
so.

“Yes!” Jim called out to the rest. “Listen! Those in the middle hold
back. We at the ends go forward, to deepen the pocket; so we can
enclose him completely when he backs all the way to the borders
of the Kingdom where he belongs. Give him no chance to escape
to either side. He must have no choice but to go backward into the
Kingdom where he belongs!”

Jim himself lengthened his stride; and Hasan struggled forward at
the other end, with ibn-Tariq close beside him now, and all but
physically helping him forward. The two Hobs, Geronde and Brian
sagged backward. In a deep cup formation they moved on
Ahriman. Finally they were so close to him that he seemed no
more than two steps away-and his black brilliance was blinding.

Now they saw that he had no real shape. He had seemed a sphere
from a distance; but now he appeared as many shapes, constantly
melting into each other.

But he was alive, and he was still strong and vicious. They could
feel his rage hammering at them; and Geronde, herself, stumbled-
but for just a second. She caught herself back up without any help
from Brian or anyone else, and pushed forward enough to make a
small bulge in the pocket of the semicircle.

Ahriman’s rage was now something they were close enough to
hear, as well. It came through to them like a high-pitched keening in
their ears; and a feeling that was not-but greatly resembled-the
searing sensation of the heat from the open door of a furnace, with
a fire raging inside it. Ahriman had slowed in his backing now.

“He’s close to the edge,” said Jim, for the awareness of that
frontier came to him through his staff in a way he could not have
explained, but of which he was certain. “Hold fast, move forward,”
he went on. “I’m going to let go of you, Angie, and move to the
center of the semicircle. I’ll try to push him over with the staff.”

He let go, and Angie gave his hand a small squeeze as she
released it-a small squeeze and a quick smile. He grinned back
briefly and moved, with effort because it seemed as if the air had
become almost solid, until he stood in the center of the cup their
bodies made. Then he held the staff out in front of himself.

“Back, Ahriman!” he said. “By the power in this staff-by all the laws
of all the Kingdoms-back, back, back to your proper place!”

The keening, or whatever it was that was so close to keening, rose
and rose until it was like a shrill scream of terrible pain. Then, all at
once, it ceased.

There was silence. They looked at each other.

“You can all let go,” said Jim wearily. “We’ve put him back; and
there he’ll stay, unless he’s called up by someone else. May it
never happen!”

They were too exhausted to voice agreement. Hands fell apart,
and they flexed aching, bloodless fingers. They looked at each
other, amazed to find themselves only the humans they had always
been, mere mortals and victorious.

“I’m free!” said Sir Geoffrey suddenly, in a wondering voice. “It’s
gone-the curse is gone. I can feel it’s not with me any more.”

“All that the demon did,” said Jim, “for ibn-Tariq, and on his own,
will now be wiped out of History. Look below us.”

They looked.

Off in time and distance, Baybars had almost won his battle against
the Mongols. But nearly everything else below them had otherwise
changed. The village that was being buried and destroyed by the
sandstorm was untouched. There was no storm and no sand. The
streets were free and the villagers moved back and forth along
them.

“Look north,” said Jim.

They turned their eyes that way; and there was no force of Mongols
coming south toward the mountains and the White Palace.

“The attack from the Golden Horde was something instigated by
the Demon, after he found himself no longer under the orders of
ibn-Tariq, and out of his own desire to see humans killing and
destroying each other,” Jim said.

He looked at the sorcerer; but ibn-Tariq only smiled with his lips
tight closed.

“The Mamelukes will not be there either-look. All these things, like
the curse, have gone back into what now never will be. Ahriman
has failed. If he had been able to accomplish any of what he
wished, a death, a change in History, then those things would have
been permanent. But because we stopped him before they could
be accomplished, all he tried for is lost and gone.”

Jim looked across at ibn-Tariq.

“From here,” he said to the sorcerer, “I think my people and I-and
you, with Hasan ad-Dimri-go different ways.”

“We do,” said ibn-Tariq.

Almost with his words, he and Hasan were no longer with them.

Jim turned to face the rest. Weary faces brightened.

“Now,” he said, “I think I can risk spending some magic to take us
all back to England without any more delay. Whose destination is it
to be? Will you come to Malencontri, or Castle Smythe-“

“Oh pray, m’lord!” piped Hob of Malvern. “Malvern? Pray?”

He had been looking as he spoke, not at Jim, but at Sir Geoffrey.

“Yes,” said Geronde harshly. “Best it be Malvern. I must stay there
until I am properly wed.”

She looked across at her father.

“But I will occupy a different part of the castle,” she said. “You can
have your own old quarters.”

“Geronde-“ began Sir Geoffrey. But then his voice died in his
throat, and the hand he had raised toward her dropped to his side
again.

Hastily, Jim visualized them all in the great hall at Malvern, on the
dais that held the high table-and they were there.
CHAPTER THIRTY

“Ah!” said Brian, his eyes lighting up at sight of the table. “A
servant here for my lady! Ho!”

No one responded immediately; then a young man who was
actually rather low in the serving-room hierarchy cautiously sidled
into the room. He stared at all of them.

“Food and wine for my father’s guests!” snapped Geronde
automatically. “Quickly, man!”

But the servant stood where he was, staring blankly at Sir Geoffrey.

“Yes, yes!” said Geronde impatiently. “That is your Lord, come
home again. Now, fetch what I told you. Now!”

The servant turned and ran into the serving room and out of sight.

They stood looking around themselves and at each other
awkwardly. The Great Hall at Malvern was almost as big as the
Great Hall at Malencontri. But after the buildings they had all
recently spent some time in, at this moment it appeared dark and
bare, with primitive-looking furniture.

The table on the dais, the high table, had its top unfolded and laid
out upon its trestles. But the two low tables stretching away at right
angles from it on the regular floor level were trestles only, with their
table tops folded and leaned against the wall. Only a few slitlike
windows let the late afternoon light of a raw spring day into the
room. The two Hobs, bereft of their smoke wafts, and therefore
standing on the floor, looked like thin little dark-skinned rabbits.
They gazed wistfully at the cold and empty mouth of the single
wide fireplace in the Great Hall; for of course, with the castle’s
Lady gone, there was no fire in it. The air of the hall was chill.

“Oh!” said Geronde suddenly, like someone waking up from a
deep sleep into automatic courtesy. “Pray be seated, m’lady, sirs!”

They all mounted the dais and sat down in the padded chairs at the
top table, which looked like-and, in many instances were-literally
barrels, partly cut out to make a chair with a back and a seat inside.
The middle chair at the table was politely left open for the host, but
Sir Geoffrey quickly took a seat near one end; and, with a second’s
hesitation, Geronde sat down in the middle chair.

They had barely seated themselves before not one but four
servants were back, spreading a tablecloth, putting mazers in front
of each person and pewter plates, with a large spoon on the side.
Two other servants were starting to lay logs for a fire in the
fireplace.

Brian and Jim had automatically reached for the knives at their belt,
but Sir Geoffrey and Sir Renel, after automatic hand movements
toward nonexistent belts, sat looking embarrassed.

“Eating knives for your lord and Sir Renel,” snapped Geronde.

One of the servants ran off toward the serving room.

“Stay!” said Brian to the servant who had just filled his mazer. He
drained it and held it out for a refill, which was immediately given
him.

“Sir Brian!” said Geronde sternly.

“Damn it to hell, Geronde!” said Brian. “I’m thirsty. After what we’ve
just been through, you’d deny me a fast first cup? You have my
promise to sip nobly and politely from now on.”

“Sirs,” said Geronde to Sir Geoffrey and Sir Renel, “do not stand
on manners, I beg you. Drink!”

The two men rather hesitantly picked up filled mazers-which neither
of them had touched in years and which they handled with unusual
caution-and conveyed them almost reverently to their lips. Geronde
herself set an example by drinking from her own mazer.

Angie, Jim was glad to see, was already drinking from hers.
Encouraged by this, he drank almost as deeply of his first cup as
Brian had done. With the taste of the wine, the last of a feeling of
being out of place left him. He drank almost as deeply from his
mazer as Brian had done-and almost choked. None of them had
thought to water their wine, though there were water pitchers on the
table. His mazer was already being refilled, even though it had not
been emptied.

Angie smiled at him. He smiled at Angie.

“Oh!” said Angie, setting her mazer down. “The Hobs!”

She turned. They all turned and looked. Hob of Malencontri and
Hob of Malvern still stood side by side, small and forgotten on the
floor.

“There will be a good fire already going in the serving room, little
ones,” said Geronde gently. “Take your guest there, Hob Malvern!”

The faces of both Hobs lit up.

Hob of Malvern took Jim and Angie’s Hob by the hand.

“Come with me!” he said, and together they ran off into the serving
room.

“See that none disturbs the small creatures!” said Angie severely
to the closest server. “They are to have whatever they want”

“Yes, m’lady!” he said, and followed the Hobs into the serving
room.

Those at the high table took to the food, when it arrived, gratefully;
for in fact, no one there had eaten recently. But better than the food
was the release of tension that came with the eating and drinking.
Gradually, even Sir Geoffrey and Sir Renel relaxed enough to take
part in the nearly forgotten pattern of the social conversation they
had been used to back in their homeland.

They talked only to each other, however. At the other end of the
table, Brian’s normal ebullience revived with the food and drink;
and he led the conversation there into something very much like
normal chatter between himself and Jim, Angie and Geronde. But
there was still a certain constraint even in Brian’s talk, Jim
observed.

Geronde’s hardness toward her father had not softened, and there
was a consciousness of this among the others that added an
uneasy note to the gathering, even though everyone pretended that
it was not there; and the manners of the day caused Geronde to
speak to her father-when she did speak-with the same respect she
would have shown if he had never left home. As if he had always
remained Lord of the castle and in the castle.

Sir Geoffrey replied in the same manner. But it was clear to
everyone that he would happily have traded all this courtesy for one
word from Geronde that would indicate that the antagonism in her
had diminished a little, and that she might sometime forgive him for
all those things of which she had found him guilty.

There was nothing worse, Jim thought, than a polite dinner party;
where everybody was avoiding what was foremost on the minds of
all here. He found himself feeling almost as wistful about the ill
feeling between daughter and father as the Hobs had shown
standing forgotten on the floor, before Geronde had sent them to
the serving room fireplace.

This would have been a very happy, celebratory occasion, he
found himself thinking, if the daughter-father feeling had not been
present. But it was-like a ghost with them at the table. It pushed
them all into formal manners that were not in key with what should
have been a celebratory occasion. A little anger stirred in Jim that
neither Angie nor Brian-nor yet even Geronde herself-had ever
chosen to tell him of these deeps of resentment in her toward her
father.

Perhaps they had not known, either; but it was hard to believe that
people as close to her as Brian and Angie had not.

Jim could see that the unhappiness was pressing on them, too;
and gradually, after everyone had taken the edge off his or her very
real hunger, and begun to reach the point where food and drink did
not have such a great deal of interest, talk began to slow at both
ends of the table.

“But you must be tired!” said Geronde to Jim and Angie. “Will you
stay overnight here”-she cast a glance down the table-“with my
father’s permission, of course?”

“Oh. Certainly, certainly, stay, I pray you, m’lord, m’lady,” said Sir
Geoffrey hastily. “I have scarcely had time to meet either one of
you, and to thank you. I know it would pleasure me; and I am sure it
would pleasure Geronde.”

Angie cast a meaningful glance at Jim. Under the manners of the
period, it was his job to announce whether they would stay or go;
and Angie was clearly signaling that she believed they would do no
good by hanging around here. Jim’s guess was that she sensed
that Geronde, herself, in spite of her invitation, would just as soon
have all her visitors out of the way, so she could stop being
hostess and be herself with her father- except, of course, when
servants were present.

“You tempt us, Geronde,” Jim said. “But you know, with Angie as
well as my self gone from Malencontri, we need to get back there.
There’s something about your own roof, you know, that calls you
back. Also, as you know, while our servants are pretty well trained
now, they can’t compare to yours; and they’ve been on their own
with both of us gone. Something’ll have gone wrong. I’ve no idea
what-but something will have. It always does when neither Angie
nor I are there. You understand?”

“I do indeed know the way of servants,” said Geronde. “Therefore,
though I would love to have you, I will not press you to stay.”

She turned and looked down the table to Sir Renel.

“Sir,” she said. “You are welcome to stay here as our guest until
you have reason to go someplace else, of course-“

“I’m afraid, Geronde,” interrupted Angie quickly, “that Jim and I are
guilty of having hoped to invite Sir Renel to stay with us.
Particularly, it would pleasure us to take him back with us now; and
then after he is settled down a little bit, perhaps he can come back
for a visit with you and Sir Geoffrey. Besides, you’ll feel a duty to
entertain him; but I know how busy you’ll be getting ready for your
wedding.”

Whatever insensitivity Sir Renel originally had to the attitudes and
emotions of those around him, it had been burned away by his
years as a slave.

“Indeed, m’lady,” he said to Geronde, falling back with remarkable
ease and a certain amount of obvious relish into the formality of
earlier years, “blithe I would be to stay with you and Sir Geoffrey.
But also I was hoping to visit with Sir James and his lady wife. I am
most interested in one whom Sir Geoffrey tells me has renown as
a Dragon Knight. Also, as Lady Angela has mentioned, I would not
be a burden to you with your present cares and needs.”

“Alas,” said Geronde, “it cannot be denied there will be certain
pressures upon me”-she darted a glance down at Sir Geoffrey-“but
I will indeed have much to do; and would enjoy seeing you with
more freedom of time on my hands, and more of a chance to enjoy
your company. I must sound like an ill hostess to you, but perhaps
Lady Angela is right and it would be best that you return with her
and Lord James to Malencontri.”

After a few more stilted verbal exchanges that fooled no one and
were not intended to-Jim had heard their exact counterparts a
number of times as he had been leaving social gatherings back in
his own twentieth-century world-it was established that Sir Renel
would not consider Geronde an ill hostess; and Geronde would not
consider Sir Renel an ungrateful guest who was scorning Malvern’s
hospitality, because of a preference for the company of Jim and
Angie. Sir Renel would leave with Angie and Jim. But now Jim
himself was beginning to feel more and more uncomfortable.

He could not shake the feeling that there was something wrong
with all this, the three of them going off (four, counting their own
Hob, of course, though indeed the little hobgoblin might be at
Malencontri right now, having returned there on a waft of smoke
from Malvern). There was something badly wrong about leaving Sir
Geoffrey here alone, abject and despairing, and Geronde as hard
toward her parent as only Geronde could be.

It was not right. They were all on their feet now, ready to go their
separate ways.

“Hold on!” said Jim.

He had spoken without thinking, but his anger was now out in the
open. It was aimed primarily at Geronde, but also at Sir Geoffrey
and all the rest of them, including himself.

He was stared back at awkwardly. He had broken the glass curtain
of sociability with which they were covering up an uncomfortable
situation; and the two responses to that in their historical period
were to challenge him on it, or pretend to ignore what he had just
said. Ignoring it had become a little difficult. On the other hand,
Brian was his closest friend, Geronde would be in a sense
acknowledging the situation by saying anything, Sir Geoffrey owed
him his freedom from something very like slavery and Sir Renel
had literally been rescued from that state.

Jim was aware of all this, and of Angie moving closer to him and
looking back at the rest of them with him, and he had no solution to
the impasse he had created. But it did not matter. He was now in
the full tide of his own emotion, and he charged ahead without
bothering to sort out his words ahead of time.

“This is all wrong!” he said. “Sir Geoffrey, tell your daughter why,
though you had the palace that she saw you in and the wealth to go
with it, you couldn’t come back to her, much less bring back what
you had with you. Tell her!”

Sir Geoffrey stared at him with a white face, saying nothing.

“Tell her, man!” said Jim. “Tell her, or I will!”

Jerkily, moving like a jointed doll, Sir Geoffrey turned to face
Geronde.

“I could not,” he said to her. “I was under a curse.”

“Could not?” said Geronde with emphasis on the first word. Her lip
did not exactly curl contempt, but it looked as if it might.

“I dared not,” said Sir Geoffrey then, bluntly.

“Dared not. Sir Father?”

“Tell her the whole story,” said Jim. “The curse had originally been
laid on Hasan ad-Dimri, he transferred it to you and you accepted it
from him. Tell her why.”

“Hasan offered me the palace and all that went with it that you saw
in Palmyra, Geronde,” said Sir Geoffrey. “That was to be my price
for accepting the curse and lifting it off him on to myself. It offered,
I thought, all I had been searching for. But he laughed when I
accepted.”

“Why did he laugh?” said Jim relentlessly.

Sir Geoffrey was still looking only at Geronde.

“He laughed, and I did not mind it, then,” said Sir Geoffrey. “He
laughed because he told me that now I had accepted, if I should
ever try to escape from him, the curse would follow me wherever I
went. Not only that, but it would be extended.”

Sir Geoffrey ran down again.

“Tell it all to her,” said Jim, more gently now.

Sir Geoffrey looked at the ground, away from Geronde’s eyes.

“He said part of the curse was that if I did escape, its effect would
go with me. It would not only fall on me, but on my descendants
unto the seventh generation. That was why he laughed. “Think of
your sons, and your son’s sons,’ he said, ‘all of them suffering it,
down to the seventh generation!’ “

Sir Geoffrey took a deep breath, and without raising his eyes went
on.

“I had gathered as much already from what he had said, although
he had not made it plain in words until then,” he said. “But I was
sure I would find some way to get out from under the curse, you
see; and manage to take much of what I now had back to England.
Indeed, I doubted a curse that would hold a Muslim would have any
effect on a Christian. I was wrong; but when I found out how wrong,
I could not come back. I could never escape the curse-but I could
not bring it back to you.”

He raised his eyes to Geronde.

“So,” she said cuttingly to him, “as you say, in the end you dared
not.”

“Tell her what the curse was,” said Jim. “Geronde, you saw
Ahriman. He was real enough. What would have followed Sir
Geoffrey home would have been real enough too.”

“I am not afraid of curses!” said Geronde, raising her head proudly.
“Even if my father is.”

“Tell her what the curse is,” said Jim. “She may think differently
after she hears.”

Sir Geoffrey looked at him, the knight’s face drawn and old.

“Surely, I need not-“ He stopped.

“Name it,” said Jim. “Don’t you see that you’re going to have to
name it, for Geronde to understand?”

Sir Geoffrey took a deep breath and straightened, stiffening. He
looked back at Geronde.

“I could not bring it back to you, my daughter,” he said in a harsh
voice. “The curse was leprosy.”

“Leprosy!”

Brian’s and Sir Renel’s voices spoke together. As for Geronde,
she said nothing; but the blood left her face.

In England, as Brian had told Baiju, lepers were not driven into a
desert by men with clubs and sticks; but certainly, here too, they
would be as surely put out, not only of the society of those they
knew, but of their home and family-to wander, begging and ringing
a bell to warn everyone out of their path. The horror of the disease
as it was known in England during the Middle Ages was no less
than it was in the Near East.

“That was why he would not come back, Geronde,” said Jim softly.

Geronde’s eyes moved. She stared at Jim for a second. She
made a small choking sound, looked once more at her father for
another second. Then she leaped up, whirled and ran, down from
the dais and out through the doorway leading toward the stairs to
the tower, where her own solar room was-leaving silence behind
her.

After a long moment Angie spoke, her voice clear in the hall.

“Sir Geoffrey,” she said, “I think what’s been between your
daughter and yourself will begin to heal, now. But it will take time,
and you will have to prove yourself a different man.”

The table was silent for a long moment.

“God send it so,” said Sir Geoffrey.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

They were wing to wing, soaring on the broad river of air, home to
Malencontri.

“Are you sure Sir Renel really wanted to stay at Malvern after all?”

Jim nodded, then realized the ridiculousness of this in his dragon
body.

“Yes,” he said. “He’s a stranger here, and the situation’d gone
through a large change since we had talked about taking him home
with us. After all, Sir Geoffrey’s the only one he actually knows, and
they were close friends once, evidently. He’ll be better off with a
friend around, particularly if things are going to be starting to mend
at Malvern.”

“We hope. No, I shouldn’t say that,” said Angie, as they began to
circle upward on another thermal. “Things will mend. I’m sure they
will.”
“So am I,” said Jim, and meant it

He was happy; and he knew mat Angie was too. Happy to be going
back to Malencontri. Happy that they would be alone there-alone,
that would be, except for young Robert and the castle staff-and
both were welcome elements in homecoming. In a way it was
almost as if he and Angie had shared in the reconciliation of
Geronde and her father.

He winced a little internally, thinking of the shock to Geronde-to
learn that her father had been ready to accept leprosy for himself,
rather than inflict it on her. Particularly after the way she had been
thinking of him for years.

In any case, she understood him better, now. He and Angie had
never had to suffer that way; and right now, for both of them, the
world was good. Warm in their dragon bodies, riding the air
currents together, it seemed to Jim that the sun had a special
brightness.

Above, the sky was almost cloudless. Below them, a little of the
rawness of winter still survived in the leaves that were still curled up
tight in buds-too tight to show green on the dark limbs of the trees;
and even farther down on the ground black patches of wet earth
still showed through the drab carpet of soggy leaves revealed by
the melted snow of a winter now vanquished. But the whole world,
nevertheless, seemed to be demanding summer just as soon as it
could get there; and birds called loudly. The smell of early spring
was in the rushing air around them. Jim snuffed it through his
dragon nostrils with pleasure.

He was happy Sir Renel had decided finally that he would remain at
Malvern, even if it had only been after everybody thoroughly
assured him he would offend nobody by staying; and Geronde
would echo that assurance if she was with them.

So, with no reason for Jim and Angie to go home on horseback, as
they would have if they had taken Sir Renel with them, it was a
natural decision to bedragon themselves and fly. The others had
waved them off from Malvern’s tower.

“I’m going to be really glad to be home,” Jim said to Angie.

“Me too,” she said. “I hope everything’s been all right with Robert.”

“I’m sure it has,” said Jim, and a moment later, they were landing
on the tower roof. The man-at-arms on lookout gave what sounded
more like a whoop than the usual ritual shout, on seeing them; but
by the time they had changed back into their human bodies,
clothes and all, his face was unusually rigid.

“Well, we’re back, Harold,” said Jim to him.

“Yes, m’lord,” said the guard, without giving up a bit of the stiffness
of his expression.

“Super-formal!” said Jim under his breath to Angie, grinning once
his back was safely turned to the guard and they were going down
the flight of stairs into the solar. There was no one on duty at the
outside door; and inside there was a fire in the fireplace that was a
very low fire indeed- just enough to “air the cloth,” as the servants
put it, coming from a profound belief that clothes hung in a room
without a fireplace would overnight become damp and mildewed.

Actually, there was some reason for it, since many castles were
afflicted with dampness most of the year around. Jim stood, gazing
about himself with pleasure. What a homelike sort of space it was,
he told himself.

“I’ll go see Robert,” Angie said, vanishing out the door toward the
separate room created for Robert out of the solar floor.

She was back in a minute.

“He just fell asleep, the lamb,” Angie said.

Woken out of his pleasurable contemplation of their private
quarters, Jim automatically went to add some of the logs standing
beside the fireplace to the flames. Angie stopped him just in time.

“Oh, yes,” said Jim, suddenly reminded that people would be
along to take care of this in a moment-in fact, the man-at-arms
overhead could be heard shouting something from the top of the
tower down to the courtyard below right now.

Undoubtedly, the message was being passed that the Lord and
Lady of the castle were back. The servants would be very upset if
Jim had needed to pick up a log with his own hands to lay it on a
fire. Indeed, there was only time for Jim to take off the mail shirt he
had practically lived in these last weeks and settle himself in one of
the comfortable chairs he had caused to be made for the solar,
while Angie also got rid of her traveling cloak and sat down, before
there was a scratching at the door.

It was opened without waiting for the order to come in; several
servants entered, one of whom rebuilt the fire, another who went
around straightening and dusting things, and a third who was
already carrying a tray with wine and cakes into the room.

“Put it on the table, Beth,” said Jim. He was still too full from the
meal at Malvern to want anything more; and he suspected that
Angie was in exactly the same condition. But to simply send the
food and drink back could hurt servant feelings.

“Yes, m’lord,” said Beth, a serving woman in her late twenties, her
lips now thinned a little bit. She spoke without looking directly at
him.

The others finished their tasks and they all went out, backing
through the door, saying with the same odd stiffness the sentry had
shown, “With your permission, m’lord!” and “Crave pardon, m’lord
and lady, for the disturbance!”

After the door was shut behind them Jim looked at Angie.

“Did you notice anything?” he asked Angie. “It seems to me they’re
all acting unusually strange. I thought they were just being extra
correct. But it’s something more than that.”

“It is,” said Angie. “I don’t know why.”

“If this is their way of welcoming us back,” said Jim, “I wish they’d
get over it. You don’t suppose they were upset by both of us being
gone?”

“I don’t know why they should be-“ Angie was interrupted by
another scratching at the door.

“What is it?” called Jim.

“Crave pardon, m’lord.” The voice of a male servant came back,
loudly. “John Steward is here to speak with you, m’lord. If your
Lordship permits.”

“Send him in!” said Jim. He looked at Angle. “Whatever’s going on
here, we ought to get a handle on it from John.”

The door opened and John Steward came in. They had inherited
him, as they had the blacksmith and nearly all the other servants,
when they had taken ownership of Malencontri. He was a tall,
rectangular-framed, stern-looking man in his forties.

He had been steward here during the times of the last three
owners of the castle; and he was proud of having most of his teeth,
though two of these were missing in front. He smiled seldom,
either to hide the gap, or simply because he believed his air of
unquestionable authority required it. His black hair, still untouched
with gray, was combed straight back; and even indoors he always
wore a hat that was shaped like a loaf of bread, and a cast-off robe
from the castle’s former lord that had once been a dark blue in
color. He was heavily boned and broad shouldered enough to
make a good man-at-arms, rather than a steward; but of course,
from his present position he looked down on all men-at-arms
below the rank of squire.

“I hope I am not intruding, m’lord, m’lady,” he said, once he was in
and the door was closed behind him. He stood a good eight feet
from them, upright as a post, and frowning down on them like a
schoolteacher at a couple of pupils.

“Not at all, John,” said Jim genially. “We’re glad to be home and to
see you all. How have things been? Happily, your Lady was not
gone long, so I suppose there isn’t much to tell.”

John Steward looked at him for a long moment, his expression
unchanged.

“Yes, m’lord,” he said flatly. “If your Lordship so desires it.”

“Desire?” said Jim. “What’s my desire got to do with it?”

“I am entirely at your service, m’lord,” said John Steward, still in the
same voice. Belatedly, it occurred to Jim that the magic with which
he, Angie and the rest had been involved might have caused some
kind of backwash affecting the castle staff.

“Has something been changed, for all of you, here at the castle?”
he asked.

“I would not say so, m’lord,” pronounced John.

The suspicion in Jim of something being badly wrong, which had
been faintly woken by the manner of the tower sentry’s greeting,
suddenly blossomed. Jim’s happiness at being home was rapidly
evaporating. He knew John well enough by this time to read in the
other’s voice that the answer he had just heard had hinted at things
unsaid.

“No nonsense, now, John!” said Jim. “If it’s been different for you
people, I want to know about it. How long did it seem to you that
m’lady Angela was gone, for example?”

“Since you asked, m’lord,” said John Steward, “it has been ten
days.”

“Ten days!” Jim stared at the steward, then got himself under
control. “Is that so? Well, that’s something I hadn’t expected. But it
may have been because of what we were doing. Anyway, the
people of the castle shouldn’t be surprised if we’re gone for any
length of time. We’ll always come back. Now, if we were gone ten
days, perhaps you’ve got things to tell us. What happened while we
were gone?”

John looked at him for a moment, like a physician considering
whether a patient was strong enough to be told bad news.

“Well, m’lord,” he said deliberately, “Mistress Gwynneth Plyseth,
who as your Lordship knows has charge of the serving room,
spilled a great jug of your lordship’s finest French red wine.”

This was not exactly earth-shaking news. The wine John was
talking about was something normally reserved for their most
special guests, and brought out only on special occasions even
then. The loss of a great jugful was at least a gallon and a half,
which was certainly regrettable, but not the sort of thing to send
either Jim or Angie into fits, and John knew it There was something
behind all this.

“What else?” he asked.

“She was clearly at fault, m’lord,” went on John, inexorably, “but
she had some reason. Mage Carolinus had just appeared beside
her.”

“Carolinus?” asked Jim, sitting up in his chair. “Carolinus was here
while we were gone?”

“Yes, m’lord,” said John heavily.

“Why was he here?”

“He came, m’lord,” said John, “because the blacksmith’s foot had
been stepped on.”

“Foot?” said Jim.

“Stepped on?” said Angie.

“Yes, m’lord and lady,” replied John.

“A horse, I suppose,” said Jim. “Still, I’m a little surprised that
Carolinus would come here just for that.”

“It was not a horse, m’lord,” said John. “The devil did it”

“The devil?” said Angie and Jim together.

“The devil from the sea, m’lord,” said John. “You had scarce been
gone three weeks when he came seeking you. You know of whom
I speak, m’lord. He’s been here before. He is a giant devil.”

“You mean Rrrnlf!” said Jim.

“Yes, m’lord,” said John. “He wished to speak to you; but I spoke
to him myself and told him you were not here. And when he would
speak with the Lady Angela, I must needs tell him that she was not
here either. So he settled down in the courtyard to wait for your
return, like he did before when the serpents attacked-you
remember, m’lord. A terrible time the stablemen had getting
horses in and out, for he fell asleep in such a position that there
was only a little space to get past his arm into the stables with the
horses; and the horses grew very skittish when led close to him.”

“I’ll bet,” said Jim. “Well, I’m back. I can see him now.”

“Now, m’lord, he has left,” said John. “Crave pardon if I exceeded
my duty. But in desperation I had sent one of the men-at-arms to
the cottage of the Mage Carolinus, to ask if something could be
done. The Mage returned, bringing the man-at-arms with him-both
carried back by magical ways-so that they suddenly appeared in
the courtyard. The devil was still asleep, but Carolinus told me and
all else to go inside the castle. He would speak privily with the
devil. He did so and then disappeared. The devil was still here, so I
went to see what had occurred; and the devil said that he had
looked for you in Cyprus and not found you and then come here
and not found you; but he would return to speak to you at a later
time.”

“Oh,” said Jim, sinking back into his chair. “That’s all right, then.
And it explains Carolinus being here. Carolinus didn’t say anything
to you about me or anything else, did he?”

“He did not, m’lord.”

“Oh, by the way, John-“ Jim began, and then changed his mind.
“No, on second thought that’s all right. Thank you. You may go
now.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

John Steward bowed himself out. He was the one person in the
castle who could bow properly; although Theoluf, the man-at-arms
who had become Jim’s squire, had gotten better at it since his
promotion. Jim suspected him of practicing privately.

“I was going to ask him directly about the way people are acting,”
Jim said, looking at Angie. “But it wouldn’t have been any use. He’d
never tell us right out, whatever it is. We’ll just have to wait and see
what develops.”

He stared into the flames of the fireplace.

“Not that it matters...” he said to the flames in a low voice.

“You’ve been through a lot,” said Angie, getting up to go to the
fireplace and kissing him as she passed his chair. She took the
poker and jabbed at the logs. Sparks flew upward and the flames
reached higher. She put the poker back and came down and sat in
her chair. Jim was still staring into the flames.

“Tell me,” Angie said, after a moment, in a conversational voice,
“where did you go just before you got your staff?”

“Go?” Jim started as if he had been woken out of sleep. “Staff?”

“You told me once that Carolinus said he had to go a long way for
his staff when he helped you at the Loathly Tower to rescue me,”
went on Angie in the same gentle voice. “You must have gone a
long way too.”

“What made you think I went at all?” asked Jim. “Did I disappear?”

“No,” said Angie. “But I could feel you were gone. The you wasn’t
there. It was more than a moment for you, wasn’t it? What did you
have to do to get the staff?”

“Climb a mountain,” said Jim. “It was...”

He looked at her, wanting very much to tell her, but unable.

“I don’t think I can tell you about it right now,” he said finally. “Let
me have a little time. Get away from it so that I can think about it
differently; then I’ll tell you all about it.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?” said Angie. “You had to go a long way too,
like Carolinus, didn’t you?”

Jim nodded.

They sat in silence for a little while and the fire crackled as another
small burst of sparks went up.

“It’s all part of a whole,” said Jim, looking at the fire again. “It’s like
this business now with the servants acting so funny. You know as
well as I do they wouldn’t do that with any Lord or Lady of the
castle who was born and raised here in the fourteenth century. We
may dress like they dress in this time, we may use their manners
and talk the way they talk; but we’re different and these people who
have to live with us feel it”

He looked over at Angie again, grimly now.

“We just wanted to stay in this time because we liked it,” he said to
Angie. “Remember? We didn’t want to change anything. But that’s
what I’ve been doing. I never planned to be a magician, either. But
I’m a magician whether I like it or not; and I’m doing things to their
magic. I’m twisting it in twentieth-century ways, using it with
twentieth-century twists, just like we’re infecting these people in the
castle here with us with our twentieth-century attitudes.”

He paused but Angie said nothing. There was, he thought, nothing
much she actually could say to what he’d just said.

“We can’t help it and they can’t help it-but it’s happening,” he went
on. “I’m like something put in the oil of an engine that was running
smoothly, but now with me there, it runs differently. I think I can tell
you what’s bothering everyone in the castle right now. They resent
our leaving them.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Angie.

“That-or something just as bad,” said Jim. “They’ve got all sorts of
advantages having us here-they can boast about having a magician
for a Lord; and we’re the most easygoing superiors that any
fourteenth-century castle help ever had. They can twist us around
their finger, and they do that all the time. Now they’re letting us
know that we shouldn’t have done anything like going away without
checking with them first and getting their permission.”

“Jim-“ said Angie.

“No,” said Jim strongly, “I’m right about this. The way we make
them feel-things like the hypocaust that warms this room from
underneath its floor, all the things that I thought I was so clever
about changing around the castle-all these have to have been
going against the grain for them. And they’re right. They should
have their world the way they made it, without me messing it up. I
think secretly they’ve come to hate us. They won’t even admit it to
themselves, probably, but that’s how they feel; and now it’s
beginning to show. Wait and see if that isn’t what we find out
behind this new attitude of theirs.”

He stopped speaking, and Angie sat looking at him for a long
moment.

“You really must have had a hard time getting that staff,” she said
at last, gently. “But I think-“

There was a scratching at the door.

“Now, damn it-what?” said Jim, looking up.

“Come in!” called Angie.

John Steward entered once more, carefully and quietly closing the
door behind him.

“M’lord,” he said formally, “Mistress Plyseth is here from the
serving room and wishes to crave pardon and mercy from you for
her spilling of the wine.”

“Your Lord will see her,” said Angie before Jim could answer.

“Very good, m’lady,” said John, going out and closing the door
behind him. There was a little pause and then the door opened
again and John ushered in Gwynneth Plyseth, with a tear-streaked
face and wringing her hands. She made directly for Jim and started
to fall on her knees before him.

“Stand up!” said Jim harshly.

Gwynneth Plyseth caught her balance with an effort and remained
upright.

“M’lord,” she said in one fast, garbled string of words, “the - fault -
was - all - my - own - and - I - acknowledge - it - freely. Whatever -
your - Lordship - feels - should - be - done - to - me - is - only -
right. Yet - for - all - these - years -1 - have - served - you - may -1 -
crave -your - mercy - and - your - pardon?”

It was a set speech, but Jim was in no mood to pick on that fact.

“It’s all right. Mistress Plyseth,” he said, still harshly. “That’s all.
We’ll say no more about it. You can go now.”

“Wait a minute!” Angie’s voice cut in. Only a month or so earlier, in
addition to Robert’s room being partitioned off from the solar, the
remaining, still large, circular area had been divided into two lesser
rooms- there was plenty of space in it to do so, since the original
space had occupied one complete floor of the tower-and now
there was a living room and separate bedroom, with an extra
fireplace in the bedroom. Angie pointed at the door of the
bedroom, now. “Go in there and wait for me, Gwynneth. I’ll be in in
a moment. John, you can go now.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

John took his stiff-backed way out.

Angie got up from her chair again.

“I’ll find out for you why the servants are acting this way,” she said
to Jim. “Gwynneth and I get along very well together. We think
alike. I’ll have an answer for you. Just stay put”

She went into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Jim sat
where he was. After a while, mechanically, he got up, poured
himself some wine, sat down again and sipped at it. The division
between the rooms had been made with stone blocks like those
that made up the rest of the castle. These, in fact, had been stolen
from lower levels to make the partition wall. They were effectively
soundproof; but through the door, which was just an ordinary door
of wood, Jim could hear Angle’s and Gwynneth’s voices, without
being able to make out what was being said.

Not that it mattered, he told himself. He had never been cut out to
be a fourteenth-century knight and magician. He should have
realized that from the start.

Anyway, his mind was not really on what he was hearing from the
other room, which could make no difference in what he now
understood. He sat staring at the fire and thinking black thoughts.

After a little while, the sound of someone weeping roused him from
these, however. It was almost certainly Gwynneth. Angie did not
weep easily, like that, on the rare occasions when she wept at all.

“The whole thing’s a charade,” he muttered to himself, sipping at
the wine and staring at the fire. “I’m just playing the part of Lord of
the castle. I don’t belong here and everybody knows it. The hell of
it is, it’s become home-and I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

He felt bleak inside. Whether he even had enough magic available
now, to take Angie and himself back to the twentieth century, he did
not know. He doubted it, after what he must have spent to get the
staff. But right now, his mind refused to come up with any other
possibility but magic transfer back to the twentieth century, where
at least the most damage he could do to anyone else was what he
could do as his ordinary, nonmagical self in his native time.

The door opened suddenly and Angie came out, followed by
Gwynneth. Gwynneth’s face was still wet, but happy.

“It’s so good to have you and m’lady back!” she said to him,
bobbed a curtsy, hurried to the outer door and let herself out. Jim
stared at Angie, who had not sat down again but was standing over
him.

“What happened in there?” he asked.

“I found out what’s going on,” said Angie. “She couldn’t keep up
the act with me-just as I thought. Jim, our people here didn’t resent
our being gone. It never occurred to them they had any right to
resent it. Jim- they love us! But they thought it’d be presumptuous
of them to show it. They were very happy to have us back safe-
when people leave you in this time, remember, you’re lucky to see
them safe and sound again.”
“But,” said Jim, “the way they were acting-“

“They were trying to act as if our coming back as good as ever was
nothing important-when they really wanted to celebrate. Jim-we
should make an excuse to let them celebrate!”

Jim stared at her. He was having trouble adjusting to everything
she said. He started at the first unbelievable statement.

“Love us?” he said. “What for?”

“What does it matter what for?” said Angie. “They love us because
they love us. And we like them-we love them, too. We love it here.
Here loves us. You must’ve been carrying this worry around with
you for months now, haven’t you?”

“As a matter of fact...” said Jim, his voice trailing off into silence for
a moment. “Maybe it began when I first started to feel that Brian
and Dafydd and Giles and all our other friends were giving me way
too much credit... I don’t know. And then, gradually they were all
seeming to be so glad to have us around because they had a false
idea of what I-I don’t know. It’s been upsetting, sometimes. Angie,
you know what I am. All I am-all I’ve ever been-is myself.”

Angie came to him, sat down in his lap, put her arms around him
and kissed him.

“Jim Eckert,” she said, solemnly, looking into his eyes, “that’s all
you ever have to be!”

There was a scratching at the door.

“Oh, no!” said Jim. Angie sprang to her feet.

“Come in!” she snapped.

Once more, John Steward came through the door. It was hardly
perceptible, but now Jim saw that there was a change in him. He
was back to being his old self, rather than the stern and distant
master of lesser servants he had been, talking to Jim and Angie
earlier.

“I do beg pardon, m’lord and lady,” he said, apologetically, “but the
Devil is back. He’s in the courtyard right now and wants to talk with
you. And he’s got an ugly little man with him.”

Jim looked at Angie. Angie looked at Jim.

“Tell him I’ll be down in just a while,” said Jim.

“Yes, m’lord.” John went out.

Jim and Angie exchanged glances again. Slowly, Jim relaxed. He
sighed, and shook his head. Angie smiled widely at him; and
gradually he felt himself beginning to smile back, in spite of
himself. Then they were both laughing.

“Maybe you better go take care of your Devil before he decides to
take another nap,” she said, wiping her eyes.

He sighed deeply but happily, and got to his feet.

“Ah, well...” he said; and headed out the door.