The Feline Wizard

CHAPTER 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

The courtier shrugged. “It is possible.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A horseman? What horseman? Where to?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sikander raised a stony face and kept silent.

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

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

The prince paled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Corundel almost went limp with relief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I suspect it was too late by dawn,” Matt said in as reassuring a tone as he could manage. “The sorcerer had struck a blow for his people that more than justified his stay in Mara-canda. Why should he stick around?”

“Why, to be caught.” Prester John gave him a wry smile. “I thank you, Lord Wizard. Indeed, my niece was gone before any of us wakened, and the sorcerer gone an hour later, belike.”

“Likely indeed,” Matt agreed, “not that you were about to stop looking, of course.”

“Indeed not! I sent for you straightaway, for I knew that you were at least as well acquainted with Balkis as I, having traveled through hazardous realms and faced many perils with her. I know something of battle, Lord Wizard, and of the kinship engendered by undergoing hardships together and standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the face of danger. Then, too, you were her teacher, and I presume that her learning your methods and techniques has engendered in you a magical affinity for her.”

“I'd say there's something of a bond there, yes.” Matt didn't mention that watching Balkis in spellcasting action had probably given him a greater understanding of the workings of her mind than an endless succession of banquet conversations. “You didn't wait for me before you started hunting, did you?”

“Indeed not! My wizards have searched the ether night and day for a trace of her. I have joined them whenever I could spare the time, but there is no sign of her upon this earth.”

Matt nodded, knowing that John was a more powerful wizard than any other in Central Asia. “But you didn't find anything?”

“Not even the most vagrant and fleeting fragrance,” Prester John said, chagrined. “While we have searched with magic, though, I have assembled a force often thousand men and a dozen wizards, though it has taken two more days to equip them and see them ready to march. Tashih shall lead them through the length and the breadth of the land, wherever the wizards find the slightest hint of Balkis' presence!”

Again Matt bit back the urge to ask if the wizards were any more apt to trace Balkis on the road than here, where she had been cat-napped. However, he did say with as much delicacy as possible, “I am sure Prince Tashih is quite skilled at leadership, Your Majesty, but perhaps it is less than wise to put him in charge of the princess' recovery.”

Prester John frowned, storm clouds gathering around him almost visibly, the sheer power of his personality suddenly visible. “He must have an opportunity to prove his loyalty and his willingness to reconcile with her, Lord Wizard!”

“If you say so,” Matt sighed. “However, I can't help but wonder if that is the wisest idea, since Sikander seems to have thought Prince Tashih intended the kidnapping. Certainly he stood to gain by Balkis' absence, at least in his own mind.”

“In Sikander's, you mean! My apologies, Lord Wizard, but an accusation is not a verdict. I cannot suspect a man who reported the abduction to me as soon as he learned of it.”

“I hope you're right,” Matt said wearily.

“I trust my son implicitly.”

Matt reflected that Caesar would have said the same about Brutus, but also realized the wisdom of keeping his mouth shut. “Still, I might point out that ten thousand men marching down a highway isn't exactly the most subtle of approaches. Anyone who does know anything about Balkis would be apt to run for cover as soon as he saw them coming.”

“There is something in that,” Prester John said with a frown, “but surely that is the minimum number necessary to guard a prince.”

“He won't find out much, with that kind of ruckus announcing his presence. I must admit, though, that if Prince Tashih is leading a couple of armies through the northern provinces, anyone hiding her in the south is apt to breathe a sigh of relief and stop trying so hard to be invisible—and might not notice a lone traveler nosing around.”

Prester John's frown turned meditative. “There is some merit in what you say. You, I assume, would be that lone traveler?”

“Well, almost alone.” Matt could see Prester John's over-protective instincts swelling and hastened to reassure him. “I'll take my dragon friend along, of course. He'll stay hidden but near at hand, except when I need to travel from one city to another.”

“There could be fewer guards who would be more effective,” Prester John admitted.

“Except my own magic spells,” Matt reminded him. “I've gotten rather good at crafting passive defenses—they don't hurt anybody unless I'm attacked.”

“Then how much pain do they inflict?”

Matt shrugged. “As much as my attacker is trying to inflict on me. Sometimes more, if I'm feeling nasty. Depends on what I set 'em for.”

Prester John managed a smile—faltering, but a smile. “Well thought, Lord Wizard. Very well, we will try your style of investigation for a few days. But where will you search, and where shall Prince Tashih march with his army?”

“Give me a few minutes alone with Sikander, then with Corundel,” Matt told him. “Then I'll need a quick trip to the apothecary's shop. After that I should have some idea of direction.”

The world whirled, a myriad of colors that swirled around her. Balkis had been through this before when Matthew had taken them magically from one place to another, but had never been suffering from being drugged at the time. Nausea churned within her, clambering up farther and farther. She held it down by a frantic effort of will, afraid that in this kaleidoscopic whirlwind it would drown her.

Then the rainbow kaleidoscope stopped whirling, a solid surface steadied beneath her knees, and the malaise would be contained no longer. Balkis was violently sick. Even in the throes of regurgitating, she remembered to lean forward, to keep her robes clean.

The spasm passed, and she sat back on her heels, gasping for air. Now she could look about her, and years of fending for herself as a cat made her put aside her misery long enough to learn her surroundings. She obviously wasn't completely steady yet—the ground still seemed to be tilting.

Then she realized that it really was tilting. She was on a hillside, kneeling in brown frost-covered grass—and those huge four-legged shapes coming to investigate her were cows.

But the smell of her must have been alien to them, for they began lowing to one another in a more and more urgent tone. Her stomach sank as she realized they were egging one another on, working themselves into a herd frenzy to attack the intruder. They were coming faster and faster, and here and there one broke into an ungainly run, then more, then all, charging at her in a thunder of hooves, heads down, horns aimed at this strange and somehow threatening human.

Balkis' every instinct told her to flee, but she knew that in her weakened condition she couldn't possibly outrun a stampede. One thought struggled up through the dizziness of her concussed brain, though—smaller objects were harder to hit. She fought down panic and tried to imagine what these cows would look like if they were six times taller, if the meadow grass about her ankles were up to her shoulders, if the meadow were alive with scents, if she stood on four legs instead of kneeling on two …

The old, familiar sensations claimed her, and the cows swelled to become ten times larger, the grass shot up shoulder-high about her, the world became a wonderful symphony of smells, but bleached of most of its color. She knew she had become a cat again—and, wonder of wonders, her headache was gone!

The cows slowed and bawled to one another, confused by the strange human's shrinking away and disappearing—but their momentum carried them to her and beyond. Trotting hooves still flashed around her, and she danced, trying to avoid them, head whipping from side to side as she tried to keep track of each, but there were too many moving too fast, and the lowing and bawling all about her was too confusing. A hoof cracked into her head, making her wobble; then another hoof lifted her high, to carom off the side of another cow, who promptly turned, bawling, to see what had hit her, and trod on Balkis' tail. She yowled. The sound surprised the cows enough so that they pulled back and away from her a little.

Head whirling, Balkis nonetheless recognized opportunity when she saw it. She streaked through the suddenly open space, zigzagged between hooves, and darted into the shelter of a clump of small twisted pines.

The cows ignored her; they milled about, lowing to one another in confusion, trying to find the woman whose appearance had startled them.

Under a pine tree, Balkis curled herself into a fluffy ball of misery. The blow from the hoof had brought her headache back, pounding at the inside of her skull until unconsciousness mercifully claimed her. She didn't even notice the long rip in her side that a sharp-edged hoof had opened, nor the blood flowing from it that began to clot in her fiir.

The key groaned in the lock, and Sikander looked up dull-eyed to see the jailer ushering in a man with a face so pale that he wondered what illness had beset him. Then he saw the prominent nose and round eyes, and stared.

The stranger gave him a sardonic smile. “Where I come from, it's rude to stare.”

Sikander blinked and tore his gaze away. “Your pardon. It is only that I have never seen a Frank before.”

“Only part French ” Matt corrected. “The rest is Spanish and Cuban. Mind if I sit down?”

Sikander stiffened with sudden anger. The man was only a commoner! Oh, his buflf-and-brown traveling clothes were of stout cloth and excellent cut, but a single glance showed they were certainly not those of a courtier.

The man seemed to read his thoughts. “I'm traveling incognito, but I'm really Matthew Mantrell, Lord Wizard of Merovence and consort to the queen of that land.”

Sikander stared, then leaped to his feet. “Sit, certainly, my lord, and forgive my impertinence!”

The stranger sat down on the cell's only stool, then frowned up at Sikander. “I didn't mean to reverse things. Sit down, courtier!”

“You—You do not mind?”

“Hey, it's your cell.”

Sikander sat slowly on the edge of the bunk, his mind in a whirl. Had this wizard come out of mercy, or to make him suffer for his wrongs? He could think of no other reason for his presence.

“I need to know everything I can about the night you stole Princess Balkis away,” the Lord Wizard explained.

The mention of the princess' name linked with that of the Lord Wizard, and Sikander blurted, “You were her master!”

“Teacher, maybe,” Matt qualified. “Traveling companion, certainly—but don't worry, I haven't come to skin you alive. I'll leave that for her to do, when she gets back.”

Sikander's heart sank at the thought of confronting an enraged wizard-princess. Then it bounced back up as he realized that for Balkis to seek him out, he would have to be alive when she returned. “Am… am I to live?”