The Crusading Wizard

CHAPTER 10

There was no service as such, no liturgy, no singing, only individual people facing the fire and praying. It looked as though they were worshiping the flames, but Matt’s Asian Literature courses had taught him that the flame, like the sun, was only a symbol to these people, a reminder of Ahura Mazda, and an aid to focusing their prayers. If he was up and about at dawn, he knew he’d find them out in the village common, gazing at the rising sun.

Seemed perfectly reasonable. As long as he was there, he decided to say a few prayers to his own god—or rather, his own conception of the One.

After half an hour people began to leave. In ten minutes or so the temple was almost empty, only half a dozen people still praying. Matt realized there was no set time for this worship—it was just that most of them wanted to pray when they came in from the fields. He had a notion he’d find many of them back, probably as families, after dinner.

He contrived to find a shadowed comer near the door, hoping the dark robe and tunic he’d taken from the thief would keep him from being noticed.

It almost worked.

The younger priest happened to turn his way and froze, staring at Matt, then turned back to the older priest. “The stranger is still here, Dastoor.”

So much for passing as one of the natives, Matt thought. He should have known better, in a village in which everybody no doubt knew everybody else.

“Bid him come nigh,” the older priest said. “He is the one who was foreseen.”

Matt stood very still. Foreseen? How? By whom-and what magic?

Then he remembered—the magi were excellent astrologers.

The younger priest approached him. “Come to my master,” he invited.

Matt gave him a little bow. “You are gracious.”

The younger priest returned the bow, then went back to his elder. Matt followed.

“Why have you come, stranger?” the priest asked. “Are you a follower of the teachings of Zoroaster?”

“I’m afraid not.” Matt tried another little bow. “I thank you for your hospitality in letting me pray in your temple.”

“All are welcome,” the old priest said with a smile, “but you have not answered my question.”

“Noticed that, did you?” Matt forced a smile of his own. “Well, uh … I wanted to ask some questions, but I don’t know if the temple is the right place.”

“Do they concern the Lord of Light?”

“No. His … adversary.”

Both priests stiffened, but the older one only nodded and said, “Come.”

Matt followed him out the side door, noticing that the younger priest stayed to watch the fire. He wondered if one of them was always on duty, night and day. If they were, where did they ever find time to study the stars?

They passed out a small door at the back of the temple, where the old priest turned and said, “Ask now your questions.”

“I have heard of the magi, the priests of Ahura Mazda,” Matt said slowly.

The old priest waved his hand in negation, shaking his head. “No longer. Zoroaster freed us from the reign of the magicians. You may call me ‘dastoor’ if you wish—that is my title.”

“Dastoor, then, for a priest of Ormuzd?”

“No, an ordinary priest like my young associate is a mobed. A dastoor is a high priest.”

“A bishop, in our terms, I guess.” Matt nodded slowly. “No offense, Dastoor, but I’ve never heard of a priest of Angra Mainyu.”

The old priest nodded. “There are none.”

“I met one,” Matt said.

The old priest stiffened again, his eyes flashing. “If that is so, he would be a daivayasni—a demon-worshiper—for Ahriman is the greatest of demons. I earnestly hope there is no one who would be a sincere daivayasni. He must have been a rogue and impostor.”

“I think he’s more likely a madman,” Matt said slowly. “He wore garments like yours, but of midnight-blue, and ranted at me that Angra Mainyu must triumph in the battle for control of the world so that Ahura Mazda can begin winning again.”

“We have never taught such nonsense!”

“I thought not,” Matt said. “What do you teach?”

The old priest shrugged and spread his hands. “That Ahura Mazda will win when the world ends. That is all.”

“And Angra Mainyu will never win?”

“Never fully, or forever.” The old priest smiled sadly. “Though when the Arabs conquered Persia and converted so many of the faithful, there were many who thought the Dark One had triumphed. Our ancestors, loyal to the Lord of Light, held fast. Some few were in small enclaves in the hills of Persia, and there are still some there. Most, though, took ship and sailed to the island of Hormuz. After some years, they had need to set sail again, and landed on the seacoast not far from here. We are seeds from which Ahura Mazda can begin once again to raise a forest of faith.”

“Only of faith?” Matt asked. “You’re not planning to start a holy war for him?”

The old priest shook his head, again with his sad smile. “The day of the Persian Empire is done, my friend. It is in the spirit, and in the hearts and minds of men, that Ahura Mazda will conquer.”

“Reassuring,” Matt said, “but Arjasp isn’t willing to keep the fight on so noble a plane.”

The old priest went rigid, eyes wide with anger. “Arjasp! Calls he himself that?”

“Yes, he does.” Matt frowned. “What’s wrong with the name?”

“Arjasp was the general who defeated the last emperor of old Persia,” the old priest told him. “Taking that name is as good as a declaration that he intends to conquer all the world!

Even worse, it was one of his soldiers who slew the prophet Zoroaster himself. Only that soldier’s name would have been more abhorrent to us than that of Arjasp!”

Matt stared. “You don’t think it’s the same person, do you?”

The old priest shook his head, still angry. “As a soldier, though the real Arjasp’s actions against us were evil, I have always sought to remember that he quite likely believed himself right in what he did. To us that was evil, of course, and a stroke for Ahriman, but I doubt Arjasp intended it so. Moreover, he died two thousand years ago.”

“So this renegade magus deliberately took a name that would be insulting to you?”

“Perhaps.” The priest frowned, looking away, thinking. “It is my habit, though, to be slow in imputing evil to people’s reasons—to their actions, yes, but not to their motives. He may believe the real Arjasp‘s deeds were, as I have said, blows for Angra Mainyu, and taken the name as a way of declaring whose work he seeks to do. Where is this man, my friend?”

“I don’t know,” Matt said slowly, “but he seems to be the one who convinced a barbarian chieftain he could conquer the world, and is using his magic to help the man do just that.”

The old priest stared. “You do not mean it is this Arjasp who is the power behind the horde and its conquests!”

“I’m afraid it looks that way, yes.”

The old man looked away in horror, grasping Matt’s shoulder to support a suddenly trembling body. “Oh, my friend, then the world is in deep and deadly danger indeed, for if Arjasp‘s gur-khan conquers in the name of Ahriman, there is no end to the evil he may do!”

Matt stepped closer, putting an arm around the old man to hold him up. “I’m sorry—I didn’t realize this news would affect you so deeply.”

“How could it do aught else?” the old man asked. He lifted his eyes to Matt’s again, deeply agitated. “Is there nothing we can do to stop this man?”

“Actually,” Matt said, “I was going to ask you that.”

With a cry of despair, the old priest looked away again. “I shall pray … I shall pray to Ahura Mazda to strike stronger blows against Angra Mainyu …”

“Yes, attack the source of the trouble.” But Matt knew that if Ahura Mazda wasn’t supposed to win until the world ended, it wasn’t going to do him and his beloved much good right now. Only a bigger and stronger army would. An army, or …

The old priest lifted reddened, frightened eyes to Matt’s. “What more can I do?”

“Actually,” Matt said, “I was thinking you might teach me your magic—but if the magi are gone . ..”

“Gone, but we were careful to preserve knowledge of their ways, so they might never rise to their despotism again,” the dastoor said darkly.

Matt lifted his head slowly. “Which is what Arjasp is trying to do!”

The dastoor nodded. “I shall teach you.”

Matt stayed with the dastoor for two weeks, learning the essential spells and the basic approach to magic. It seemed to be based on astrology, on reading the future, and he was astounded at how accurate and detailed the priests were able to be. Of course, they reinforced the stargazing with some highly secret verses in an ancient and arcane language, but with his translation spell still going strong, Matt had no trouble learning them. Memorizing the sounds of the alien syllables took a bit more doing, but he managed it.

Somehow, he had a notion that the dastoors of his own universe didn’t know a thing about magic, and probably avoided the idea like the plague—but they didn’t live in a universe in which magic really worked.

He found that the priests didn’t really see the future—they saw a whole range of futures, from the disastrous to the supremely fortunate, and the events that caused each to happen.

“Can you foresee that for a single individual’s life?” Matt asked, awed by the panorama of the heavens as seen from the top of the hill near the town.

“Only the broad sweep of it,” the old priest told him, “only the major events, such as births, marriages, and deaths. We can advise overall policies that will lead to prosperity, and warn against others that will lead to ruin.”

Matt frowned. “But that’s what you can foresee for your whole people, too, and even for the world.”

“Even so,” the old priest agreed. “For nations, though, details are the whole lives of individual people. We cannot see so finely for anyone person.”

“Because he or she is the detail.” Matt nodded.

But once they knew the range of possible futures, the priests were able to see which events would lead to each, and were then able to compose verses that would strengthen Ahura Mazda’s struggle to bring those events to pass.

“Then all the congregations of Pars is include those prayers in their daily worship,” the old priest explained, “each yielding his own tiny bit of power to the Lord of Light.”

Matt knew it wouldn’t happen in his home world, of course. “But thousands of those bits of energy add up to a huge increase in strength,” he said. “And since Angra Mainyu doesn’t have such congregations giving him power, Ahura Mazda wins.”

“Now, though,” the old priest said, “Angra Mainyu has such worshipers.”

“Yes,” Matt said grimly, “thanks to Arjasp.” Then a thought struck him. “If Angra Mainyu didn’t have priests and congregations, though, where did he get the strength to fight Ahura Mazda in the first place?”

“Every evil thought, word, or action anyone commits strengthens Angra Mainyu,” the old priest said.

“And every good thought, word, and deed strengthens Ahura Mazda?”

“Exactly.” The old priest beamed. “You have understood the essence of our purpose on this earth.”

Matt thought of the number of atrocities the horde was committing, and shuddered.

He learned the Parsi rules of versification, learned how to craft a poem that would strengthen Ahura Mazda for battle in a specific event. The old priest was delighted with his progress and amused by his extra student.

He chuckled. “Your cat seems as interested in our lore as you yourself.”

“She’s a very patient one,” Matt said.

Finally the fortnight was over, and the old dastoor had taught him as much as he could in that time. The priest regretted that Matt couldn’t stay to study longer, but understood that he had to forge ahead northward to discover the horde’s Achilles’ heel, if it had one. The villagers held a farewell banquet for him, then all turned out the next morning to see him off.

As the collection of cottages receded behind them, Balkis asked, from her seat on his shoulders, “Are they cheering us on, or glad to see us go?”

“Their hearts are with us,” Matt answered, then changed the subject. “If you do try any of that Zoroastrian magic, remember to keep it simple! I don’t want you getting blasted by an advanced spell you don’t know how to control.”

“You have scant faith in me,” the cat sniffed. “Even I have seen that those spells will hasten a favorable event, no matter whether they are addressed to Ahura Mazda or to the Christian God.”

“They’d better,” Matt said, “or they won’t be any use to us.”

Privately, he was sure that the Supreme Being was the same everywhere, and would hear and understand the petitions of any people, no matter what language they spoke or in what name they prayed, or which limited image of the Limitless they envisioned. Even more, though, he was increasingly suspecting that even in this universe, magic worked by poetry itself more than by the Being to whom those spells were addressed—by symbolism and intent, not direct intervention. Good intentions resulted in good effects here, though they sometimes did not in his home universe. Surely the Source of Goodness could read what a human heart intended and respond to the symbols to which those intentions gave rise. But most of the minor spells, such as those for lighting a fire or removing a wart, seemed an imposition on such a Being, even though God must indeed have had an infinite capacity for attention to detail. Matt suspected that simple magic worked by manipulating the laws of nature, here as well as at home. But in this universe they were manipulated by poetry and song, not mathematics and exotic hardware. He had a notion that computers wouldn’t work here, and wondered if that was a good thing.

As the sun neared the zenith, they found some shade under a deodar and broke out the leftovers the villagers had packed for journey rations.

“Another advantage to traveling as a cat,” Matt noted. “You don’t eat as much.”

“Yes, but the tastes are as delicious and last as long as a larger meal would for my human body,” Balkis answered, then took another bite of curry. She swallowed and said, “I quite approve of their cooking.”

Matt agreed, though he did leave the really hot foods to her. He was amazed that a cat could purr while she ate.

After lunch he stretched out for a nap, and Balkis curled up on his stomach. He was just dozing off when the cat squalled and sprang away. “Oof!” Matt said, and sat bolt-upright just in time to see a turbaned maniac in loincloth and bushy beard swinging a club at his sinuses.

Matt rolled to the side at the last moment, and the club thudded into the earth. He lashed out with a kick and caught the attacker in the stomach; the man doubled over, hands pressed to his belly, mouth gaping in silent agony. Matt snatched up the club and leaped to his feet just in time to see two more men charging at him out of the roadside brush.

A furry fury landed on one man’s shoulder with all claws out, yowling and spitting. The man shouted in pain and anger and swung his club at the cat, but she had already leaped to the ground. Matt gave his own shout of anger, feinting a kick at the other man, then slashing at him with the club. The mugger blocked with his own stick, and Matt slammed a real kick into his hip. The man spun away with a howl of pain, and Matt called out,

The two men in front of him slammed into something invisible and reeled back, falling. He heard shouts of surprise and pain behind him and spun about to see two more attackers down. Even in that brief glimpse a pattern struck him:

They all wore turbans and loincloths of midnight-blue.

“He truly is a wizard!” one man bleated.

“You were well warned,” said a more severe, more authoritative voice, and an older man in midnight-blue robes stepped out of the shadows, raised his arms, and chanted a quick verse. Matt instantly started reciting his own spell, but halfway through the second line, his words turned to nonsense syllables, and the magician’s words registered, something about scattering Matt’s thoughts and confusing his speech. Matt strained to force his tongue and lips to shape intelligible words, but suddenly couldn’t even form a coherent thought.

The attackers saw and started swinging with savage delight. A club cracked on the back of Matt’s head. The darkness closed in around the magician’s vindictive smile, then eclipsed even that, and the darkness settled in to stay awhile.

Visiting hours were over, so the darkness had to go away. Light seeped in, and with it, a jackhammer headache. He groaned, and a voice answered.

“Awake, are you? Haul him up, then!”

Hands seized Matt’s ankles and wrists; strong arms heaved him up and forward. Matt opened his eyes wide in alarm—definitely a mistake, for the room reeled about him. Even as he was jammed onto his knees, his stomach took up heaving where the arms had left off. He managed to turn to the side and spew most of it onto the floor, not onto himself.

“A weakling indeed! He could not even keep from fouling his chamber!” The gloating voice turned mocking. “Why are you so queasy, wizard? Come, recite a spell that will settle your stomach and banish the headache!”

Well, since he was being given the chance, why not take it? Matt had a nasty feeling about the taunting note to the man’s voice, but he went ahead and recited anyway …

… or tried to. Before he could utter more than a few words, however, a band of greasy cloth had been tied about his month. He tried to push himself up to his feet, to swing a fist at the gloating grin. Something tugged at both wrists and ankles at the same instant, and his hands yanked against each other. His stomach sank even farther as he realized he’d been tied hand and foot, with a rope connecting the two pairs of extremities.

“Can you not enchant us, then?” the voice jeered. “Then your doom has come, fool, and you shall pay with your head!”

A huge man stepped up with a huger scimitar, and Matt’s stomach clenched with fear as he realized the man spoke with the utmost seriousness.

A soft hand cupped his chin and yanked his head away from the sight of the sword. The room reeled, his stomach roiled, and he found himself staring into the black-bearded face of the man in the midnight robes. Dimly, he remembered it was the uniform of the priests of Angra Mainyu.

“Thus be it ever to the enemies of our lord Arjasp,” the man spat, his eyes glinting with malevolence. “Did you think you would find him here? Are you truly such a fool as to believe him to be a Parsi? He is a Persian of the old, pure blood, come from the hills of Iran! He saw that only through Ahriman could the Persians once again gain empire, and that only empire will bring the final battle between Angra Mainyu and Ahura Mazda!”

Matt gargled something incoherent.

“What does he say, the man so proud of his speech?” the magus mocked. “Could it be that the empire will be Mongolian and Turkish, not Persian? Ah, but who will control the Mongol? Who will seize the government of the Turks? Do you truly believe Tartars can stand against the intrigues of a Persian? Nay, be sure that when Arjasp has beguiled them into conquering the world for us and for Angra Mainyu, he will himself conquer the gur-khan, and Persians shall rule again, but this time in the name of the Prince of Lies, not the Lord of Light!”

Matt glared up at the magus with contempt, thinking that Arjasp was in for a very unpleasant surprise if he thought he would be cozening a bunch of country yokels. If they were anything like the medieval Mongols of his own world, they would be quite capable of meeting the wiliest intrigues with their direct and straightforward spears.

The magus saw and scowled. “Die, fool!” He gestured to the turbaned man next to him, and the executioner swung high his sword.

Matt stared up at the edge glinting in torchlight, his stomach hollow with dread. The magus saw and laughed, gloating at Matt’s horror. He hadn’t been so terrified since he had first come to Merovence …

… and before he was knighted. The memory of that ceremony suddenly flashed before him, of the questions firing at him as he sponged himself in a cold bath, the advice intoned as he walked the aisle between rows of knights long dead, of Sir Guy’s sword touching his shoulder …

And the fear was gone. He glared up at the magus, refusing to stretch his neck for the fatal blow.

The man’s face filled with fury. He grabbed a fistful of Matt’s hair and yanked his head down to expose his neck to the blade-so Matt was staring at the floor when the meowing voice intoned from the ceiling,

Suddenly Matt could talk again—but before he had time to chant a couplet, a furious yowl sounded, then a howl of pain and a curse from the magus. Matt pictured Balkis descending on the man with all claws out, then a sickening vision of the man hurling her from him, and wished with all his heart that he could see something besides the man’s ankles. His wish came true—he saw a flash of white twist between those ankles just as the man started to turn. He shouted a Farsi curse as he tripped and fell.

The executioner rumbled anger and swung his scimitar high, then bleated with pain and dropped the weapon, hopping on one foot. The white blur streaked toward a corner with drops of red on its claws.

Then light flared, and a stern voice called out commands in Farsi verse. The magus and his minions cringed away from the brightness, their mouths moving—but no words came out.

Finally Matt was able to get a good look at the chamber. It was dark, windowless, all of stone—someplace underground, at a guess. Torches flickered from brackets on the walls. He saw a rack, a brazier, and various torture instruments, and swiveled to see where the light and the voice had come from.

There stood his teacher, the dastoor, seeming ten feet tall and swollen with power, the mobed and four acolytes around him. Then the meaning of the words struck home:

It sounded a lot better in Farsi, of course, with rhyme and meter, but it boiled down to Matt being a Mazdaist, and he wasn’t about to correct the notion as long as Ormuzd’s mantle covered him.

The priest of Ahriman turned purple in the face, shouting—but no words emerged from his lips. Matt wondered how long the spell could last and struggled with his own bonds, trying to free a hand, his gag…

A white streak flashed again, dashing by Matt just as a roar sounded behind him. One of the blue-turbaned, blue-loinclothed bullies charged after the cat-and fell headlong with a bellow of pain. Matt had a brief glimpse of Balkis pulling her teeth out of the man’s calf and her claws out of his ankle before she dodged back behind him again.

Out of the comer of his eye he noticed the priest of Ahriman stepping back into the shadows, as any good coward would—but somehow, the movement worried Matt.

The bullies descended on the dastoor en masse, clubs whirling. He spoke a quick verse, hands darting, fingers pointing to the sticks, and they twisted out of their owners’ hands to start swinging at their heads and shoulders. Shouting in anger, the bullies tried to catch their own weapons. One did, and wrestled with it frantically; the others suffered blow after blow before one of them finally thought to pluck a torch from the wall and thrust it at the club.

“Flame is Ahura Mazda’s!” the dastoor intoned. “Let it sear his enemies!”

The torch’s flames roared up, suddenly four feet high, and bent toward the man who held it as though a strong wind blew. He yelped and dropped it. The flames swelled hugely into a bonfire.

It obliterated the comer shadows, exposing the priest of Ahriman—but it threw an even starker shadow of the rack onto the floor. The priest of Ahriman stepped into that pool of darkness, grinning, and chanted a verse in a language Matt understood but didn’t recognize. The bonfire and torches suddenly went out.

With a sinking heart Matt realized what the man had done—retreated into darkness, the realm of his lord, and regained his power of speech.

But the old man’s light still filled the chamber, and the bullies still wrestled with their clubs. The dastoor pointed at the priest of Ahriman, chanting. Quickly, the blue-clad wizard snapped a return verse, and nothing happened—except tension in the room increased immensely, as good magic strained against bad.

Matt recognized the feeling, and thought with agony that if he could only speak, he could tum the tide. Even as he thought it, fingers moved at the back of his head and his gag fell away. Matt didn’t stop to wonder who or why—he shouted,

The blue-clad toughs squalled as their feet slipped out from under them, as though a carpet had been yanked away. Unfortunately, they let go of their clubs as they fell, and the sticks immediately set about beating them again. Two of them struck home on the first try; their owners went limp, and the clubs froze, then fell, only wood again.

The priest of Ahriman turned, dark with fury, and chanted,

Before he could hit the second line, the dastoor snapped,

The shadows seemed to stretch out to envelop the man. He gave a startled cry as the darkness swallowed him.

The dastoor raised his voice over his opponents’ wails.

The torches on the walls roared to life again, flames stretching two feet and more. The whole chamber filled with light, washing out the shadows. The cries of the priest of Ahriman faded with them.

Matt shuddered, wondering to what realm the man had gone.

The two toughs still awake saw, and cried out in fear. Panic leant new strength; they shot to their feet and bolted for the door. Unfortunately, Matt was between them and it. He sprang aside in the nick of time, realizing they might be able to call up reinforcements, and called out,

The toughs wrenched at the door, then froze, then slumped to the floor, out cold.

Matt breathed a sigh of relief and turned to the dastoor. “Thank you, Honored One, for timely rescue.”

“I was pleased to be able to afford it.” The dastoor smiled, but his smile faltered and the light about him faded.

The younger priest stepped forward in alarm and caught him as he sagged.

“Thank you,” the dastoor said with a gentle smile. He was obviously exhausted, but turned to Matt and said, “Thank also your pet, for she carne running to us mewing in fear. We cast a scrying over her recent past and found this temple—she had followed your kidnappers. Then we projected ourselves here, and brought her with us. She has served you well.”

“She certainly has.” Matt stretched out a hand to Balkis, wondering which projection spell she had used to transport herself back to the Mazdean temple. “She tripped up my enemies, too.”

Balkis sniffed his fingers, eyeing him suspiciously at the pun.

Matt stood up, turning his back on one of the acolytes. “If you could untie the ropes, there, it would help a lot.” As the young man complied, Matt asked the dastoor, “Who untied my gag?”

“A spirit,” the mobed said, wide-eyed.

The dastoor nodded. “It was most strange. A girl in a white robe rose up behind you. A moment later your gag fell away, and she sank down again and disappeared from sight.”

“Amazing,” Matt agreed, his gaze on Balkis. “I am fortunate indeed to have so bright a spirit on my side.”

Balkis sat up straight, preening visibly.

On the other side of the door was a tunnel, lined with stone blocks and floored with flags, slanting up toward the surface. Matt and Balkis decided to walk, leaving the transportation spells to the dastoor and his helpers.

Outside of the daivayasnis’ temple was an ordinary village, much like that of the Parsis—only this one was inhabited by Hindus, as Matt could tell from the caste marks and the statues in front of the temple. It was night, so there was no one to see them emerge.

Matt knelt, turned to Balkis, and said, “Thanks. Thank you very much—for saving my life.”

“It was nothing.” The cat lifted her head arrogantly and flitted her tail. “Any cat would have done the same.”

“Any other cat would have hightailed it for the deep brush and paid attention to her own survival,” Matt contradicted.

“Well, I have some interest in your survival.” For a moment, the mask dropped, and the cat’s eyes widened, staring up at him with an adoring and very uncatlike gaze. Then the mask dropped again, and Balkis turned broadside, breaking eye contact. “After all, I have much to learn from you yet—and a long way to travel, I know not where. You, at least, seem to have some notion of our destination.”

“I know we need to go north, anyway.” Matt stood up. “Want a ride?”

“No, I can walk. North is this way.” Balkis padded off into the night.

Matt followed, letting the shock show, now that her back was to him. That one-second-long glance had been enough and had left him thoroughly shaken—but the look was unmistakable, even on a feline face.

Balkis had a crush on him.

Not that unusual in a teenage girl but very disconcerting in a cat. Matt had dealt with it before, as a teaching fellow. It was always difficult to deal with, though, having to make it clear that he wasn’t interested without hurting the girl’s feelings. He couldn’t even plead interspecies incompatibility, since the cat shape was only a disguise. Fortunately, Balkis was going to make it easier for him by putting up a good front and not admitting her interest—he hoped. But what was he going to do if she decided to bare all?

In the morning, they came to a much larger village, a regular town, and Matt came through the gates as just one more peasant among many. They found the bazaar, where he pulled out another synthetic-copper coin and swapped it for a throw rug. He bought a few samples of fruit and some Hindu fast food with another copper and shared them with Balkis, who was at least interested in the ghi. Then he found a plot of trees and grass near the temple of Vishnu the Preserver, hoping it would deter any would-be kidnappers, and took turns sleeping and standing watch with Balkis-cat.

“You could have slept on the bare grass,” the cat sniffed. “Why spend good money on a rug?”

“In the first place, who said it was good money?”

“You should know—you made it yourself. And the second place?”

“In the second place, you’ll see what else I can do with a rug after I’ve had some sleep. Good night.” Matt stuffed a pile of dead leaves under the carpet for a pillow, then lay down and fell asleep far more quickly than he’d thought he would.

“Should we not speed out of the gates before they close for the night?” Balkis demanded.

“No need.” Matt was hunting among the debris under the trees and came up with a couple of bird feathers.

Balkis watched him weaving them into the fringe of the rug and said, “If you had wanted feathers, I could have fetched you many.”

“Thanks, but I wanted them without the bird attached.” Matt made flying motions with his hands and recited,

The rug trembled, then began to rise from the ground.

Matt thrust it down with a hand, holding it against its own inclination to rise. “Down, boy! Lie low!”

The carpet still struggled to rise.

“That’s right, I have to do it with verse, don’t I?” Matt said sourly.

The rug subsided, settling back onto the ground.

“Okay, climb aboard,” Matt told Balkis. “We need to make up for lost time.”

The cat shrank away. “You do not mean that we shall fly!”

“You’ve always wanted to surprise the birds when they tried to wing away from you, didn’t you?”

The cat’s eyes gleamed. She sprang onto the carpet and settled herself in the middle. “Why do you wait?”

“Only for me to climb aboard.” Matt settled down behind her and repeated the elevating verse. The rug stirred and rose, and somehow, without Matt realizing the transition, he found Balkis inside the circle of his knees, forepaws on his calf, staring outward and trembling. Matt winced. “Velvet paws, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, if you really must.” Balkis was doing her best to sound disgusted, but her mew still shook.

Matt reflected that she must have spent a great deal of time as a cat for its behavior to come so naturally to her. He wondered if the same traits would show in her human form, too, and realized that he had rarely seen her so. He was far more used to seeing her as a cat and made a mental note to be careful not to address her as a kitten when she was in girl-form. An offer to pet her might have drastic consequences.

The carpet rose, slipping to and fro in the evening breeze.

Matt recited,

He wondered if it really meant anything, but the rug seemed to have no problem. It rose in expanding circles, absolutely thriving on Matt’s nonsense verse. He decided to call it postmodemism and let it go at that.

Balkis stared down as the carpet banked, claws stabbing into Matt’s robe. He gritted his teeth and bore the pain, glad the cloth was thick and understanding her fear—he had a lot of it, himself. Flying in a nice, safe jet was one thing. Even flying wedged between the backplates of a dragon was okay. But sitting on a tilting, rocking piece of fabric without even a seat belt was something else entirely.

When he judged they were high enough, he chanted,

“Monotonous, that,” Balkis mewed disdainfully, only a slight tremor left in her voice.

“I know,” Matt said, “but you’d be surprised how far it took some people.”

“How far will it take us?” the cat asked.

The carpet veered away from the thermal, levelled off, and sailed through the night.

“Until we start getting sleepy,” Matt answered. “Then I think we’d better find a nice sheer-sided mountain with a fiat top and camp for the day.”

“A sound plan,” Balkis admitted, but for a moment, the adoration shone from her eyes—only a moment, quickly masked under a haughty feline stare, but enough to chill Matt with apprehension. Sheer good manners and feline pride might prevent her from declaring her feelings—but if they didn’t, how was he going to let her down gently?

A substitute single, of course. Matt decided to be on the lookout for something handsome, masculine, and nearer Balkis’ own age—but should it be a man or a tom?

They sailed over the mountains of the Hindu Kush as night fell. The rug had to climb pretty high to clear their tops, and Matt shivered in his low-country light-cotton robes. Balkis, on the other hand, simply fluffed out her fur and was fine. Matt considered shape-changing himself, then remembered what he’d been thinking about a handsome young tomcat and sheered away from the idea. Of course, he could become a Pekingese, but he wasn’t up for a cat-and-dog fight at several thousand feet of altitude. Some other species—say, a fawn or a raccoon … Then he remembered that at his age, he wouldn’t show up as a fawn but as a passing buck and that cats didn’t generally get on too well with raccoons. With a sigh, he gave it up for the moment.

Down they dove into Afghanistan, sailing on through the gloaming.

“Were we not going to camp for the night?” Balkis asked.

“What are you worried about?” Matt asked. “You can still see.”

“Yes, but I am anxious because you cannot. Where is this flat-topped mountain of yours?”

“Should be any minute now—the foothills of the Himalayas … There!” Matt pointed off to their right.

Balkis looked, with night vision considerably better than his own, and said, “That would seem to have a flat top and sides too sheer for even a chamois.”

Matt noted the European word and regretfully decided that being back in Central Asia hadn’t jogged Balkis’ memory. Still, this was only southern Central Asia, and with only a cat’s brain for storage, she might not have all that much memory accessible. He sang,

The rug slowed, slanted downward, then coasted to the center of the plateau and settled as gently as a feather.

Balkis sprang off, stumbled, and righted herself with offended dignity. “This contraption has stolen my footing!”

“No, you just readjusted to a constantly moving surface.” Matt stood up, feeling his legs protest at having been immobile for so long. “You’ll find you’ll get your land legs back in no time at all.”

Balkis took a few suspicious steps and decided she was stable. “I shall hunt dinner then” she said, and trotted off.

“Hey, come back!” Matt called. “This plateau is barren—that’s what I like about it! Nothing to bother us!”

“But also nothing to eat.” Balkis turned back to him with a glare. “Will you magic up a hot supper, wizard?”

Matt frowned, shaking his head. “Don’t like to use a spell for so mundane a purpose—too much chance of tipping off Arjasp or his minions to our whereabouts. It’s chancy enough using a magical flying rug.”

“Then where are these birds you promised me we would catch on the wing?”

“Well … um …” Matt looked up at the twilit sky, hoping to spot an early owl or a late hawk. Sure enough, a spot moved against the wash of gray.

Balkis followed his gaze, tail twitching. “Let us rise to chase it!”

“Well, I really wanted to stretch my legs a little longer, but I suppose a bird in the sky is worth two in the nest.” Matt folded himself back onto the carpet with a sigh. “Jump aboard.”

Balkis did, and Matt thought for a second, then chanted,

“Can you compel by such single verses?” Balkis’ voice was heavy with doubt.

“Only one way to find out,” Matt said. “Up, carpet, but slowly, then gather speed as you follow that bird!”

The carpet drifted up from the plateau, then sailed into the evening sky, going faster and faster as it rose toward the dot above.

“I see wings.” Balkis tensed.

“Yes, and I see a tail.” Matt frowned. “We can’t be going that fast-the wind would be blowing us flat!”

“It grows larger still,” Balkis reported.

“Much too much larger!” Matt stared in disbelief as the bird descended to fill half the sky. “That’s no early owl—that’s a late roc!”

The golden-brown feathers swung low enough to fill all the rest of the sky, and a bass scream made the whole world shake as talons the size of semitrailers closed about the carpet, the cat, and the man.