The Feline Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  The shaman stepped back, hands pressed over Balkis' body, and finished the incantation.

  In desperation, Balkis thought the words, mind flinging them like darts even as the room began to blur around her:

  “Abort this spell; its gist ignore!

  Regain the world, this earthen shore!

  From this realm I'll never stray

  And never shall be torn away!”

  The room turned to mist, vertigo seized her, she felt herself whirling through a void that was not of her world—but distant and fading, she heard the shaman's howl of rage and knew that, even unspoken, her spell had frustrated his, though not canceled it completely. She sailed through emptiness to a destination unknown both to herself and the shaman who launched her—unknown, but of her world …

  By Christopher Stasheff

  Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group

  A Wizard in Rhyme:

  HER MAJESTY'S WIZARD

  THE OATHBOUND WIZARD

  THE WITCH DOCTOR

  THE SECULAR WIZARD

  MY SON, THE WIZARD

  THE HAUNTED WIZARD

  THE CRUSADING WIZARD

  THE FELINE WIZARD

  Starship Troupers:

  A COMPANY OF STARS

  WE OPEN ON VENUS

  A SLIGHT DETOUR

  The Star Stone:

  THE SHAMAN

  THE SAGE

  Books published by The Ballantine Publishing Group are available at quantity discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use. For details, please call 1-800-733-3000.

  Though I have taken great liberties and embroidered considerably, most of the wonders Balkis and Anthony encounter on their trip north, such as the giant ants, the Grand Feminie, the magical oasis, and the curing stone, are taken from later versions of the Prester John letter and from works claiming to describe his empire. I have even taken a new name for Prester John's capital city—an older name for one of the great cities on the trade route. I have, of course, invented events to tie them all together. I hope the reader will enjoy the result.

  The royal children were pestering Matt and Alisande when the call came.

  “Mama, need another kitty!” Princess Alice said, pouting.

  “She has the right of it, Mama,” Prince Kaprin maintained with the magisterial weight of his six years. “Balkis was a great deal of fun, but she went away!”

  “Good cuddle, too.” Alice was still pouting.

  The family was gathered in the solar for a few precious minutes before the queen began her arduous day. Breakfast leftovers cluttered the sideboard, and the table bore the scraps of a good breakfast. Both the notion of a well-balanced meal and the china on which it was served were the suggestions of the Lady Jimena Mantreli, the royal grandmother. She had imported them from her own universe with her husband, who sat back watching his grandchildren fondly and his daughter-in-law the queen with admiration. Jimena glanced at her son, the Lord Wizard and Prince Consort, and was pleased to see that his attention was all for his family.

  It was just a quiet family morning, only the two children, one mother, one father, two grandparents, one governess, one nursemaid, a butler, and two guards at the door. There had been a footman and two servers, but they had disappeared back into the kitchen.

  The richly grained wood of the table, the chairs, and the sideboard glowed with the light of the morning sun streaming in through the tall clerestory windows. It brought out the highlights in the Oriental carpet and made the figures on the tapestries seem to quiver with life. The fire on the hearth had died to coals—both fireplace and chimney were the Lord Wizard's addition from his own universe, and his father had contrived to add a fire screen when the little prince started crawling.

  “There's nothing quite like a cat curled up and purring to give a room a feeling of contentment,” Matt admitted.

  Queen Alisande sighed. “I will readily admit that another cat would be a pleasant companion, but we could never find one like Balkis.”

  That was an understatement. Balkis, after all, had been a human teenager with the uncanny knack of changing herself into a cat whenever she wanted. She had entered the castle under false pretenses, presenting herself as a mouser and playmate. Actually, she had come to eavesdrop on Matt and learn his magic; she already knew a great deal, but had been hungry for more.

  “Want Balkis back!” Alice progressed from pouting to a trembling chin.

  Alisande sighed and gathered the three-year-old into her lap. “You know she could not stay with us, dear heart. She was a veritable princess of a cat, and had to go back to her people in their need.”

  In fact, Balkis had helped Matt free her enslaved people— but she hadn't known they were her people until after she and Matt helped Prester John lead them in reconquering Mara-canda from the barbarians who had overrun it. Then they discovered that Prester John was her uncle, and that Fortune had led her home. Matt had dropped by Fortune's cave to thank her on the way back to Merovence. Balkis, under the circumstances, had decided to stay in Maracanda and reclaim her mother's title: Princess of the Eastern Gate.

  “Her people needed her,” Matt explained.

  “So did I!” Alice's trembling chin firmed, lower lip jutting.

  “I know that no other kitty could ever be Balkis,” Kaprin said, with an air of precocious wisdom, “but we could have another for playmate.”

  That, of course, was the rub—that royal children were notoriously short on playmates. Alisande winced, remembering the loneliness of her own childhood, and Matt tried to hide his smile as her shoulders slumped in capitulation.

  A loud pop saved her from having to answer.

  Actually, it was more of a small bang than a loud pop. Alice cried out and hid her face in her mother's bosom. Kaprin shouted and ducked behind Alisande. The sentries' halberds flashed down to guard. Alisande and Matt both tensed to fight, his hand going to his dagger, her left arm tightening around little Alice as her right hand dropped to the dirk sheathed in her kirtle. Her gaze was already on the source of the noise.

  So was Matt's. They saw a scroll suspended in midair, spinning around and around for a moment before it fell to the floor.

  Three Days Earlier and Thousands of Miles Away

  The King of the Gilded Earth ladled soup into Prester John's bowl, as he did on the first day of each week. Five other kings and one queen took turns with him, a different one on each day. They did not serve Prince Tashih, Princess Balkis, or the clergy, of course; that office was left to mere dukes and counts, who took the duty in rotation—sixty-two dukes and 365 counts, a different nobleman-server for each day of the year. Other aristocrats were assigned to other duties.

  The talk passed about, lively and spiced with wit, an archbishop replying to the observations of a protopapas with quotations from Aristotle and Confucius while the prince countered the witticisms of a patriarch with sallies of his own. Amidst the good cheer, though, Balkis sat wan and dispirited, poking at her food with her chopsticks but not really eating.

  If the others noticed, they said nothing. Prester John asked with kind concern, “What troubles you, my dear?”

  Balkis looked up, startled, then gave him an apologetic smile. “Nothing, truly, Uncle. I am only a little cast down by thoughts of ho—of Allustria.”

  Prince Tashih looked up, but Prester John's concern only deepened. “We must lift your spirits, then. Perhaps coming to know the people of this land would make you feel more at home.”

  Balkis looked out over the sea of courtiers. “I have met many, and they do seem to be kind and generous people.”

  “I speak not of these gilded nobles alone, but also of the common folk. There are differences among them
, though— each district has its own customs and styles. Perhaps a journey would cheer you, a tour of the provinces—with a full entourage and armed escort, of course. It would help you come to know the land of your birth.”

  Balkis gave her great-uncle a gentle smile, touched by his concern. “I am truly quite happy here in my native land, Majesty—I have had no other home since my foster parents died.”

  “But tonight you are not happy,” he objected.

  Balkis stirred impatiently. “Oh, there will always be homesickness for my grand and awe-inspiring Allustrian forest, Uncle—but I have no home there now, and do have here. I daresay I shall grow out of this melancholy in time.”

  Prester John frowned with concern, but said no more about his proposed tour. His son did, though, after dinner in his own suite, to a dozen dandified sycophants and their languid ladies. “A tour of the provinces indeed!” he stormed. “Why should she need to come to know this land in such detail if she is not destined to rule?”

  A courtier, quick to read the prince's mood, agreed. “If not all, at least part.”

  A lady shuddered. “Divide the land? Then both halves would be weak, and prey to the barbarians.”

  Her shudder passed through the whole cortege. They had all had experience of the barbarians' rule.

  “Who is this chit anyway, to come among us so suddenly?” another courtier asked in disgust. He had spent years ingratiating himself with Prince Tashih and was appalled at the notion of his investment going to waste.

  “We all know that well enough,” a lady sighed. “She is the daughter of Prester John's sister, who managed to send her baby into freedom before she died. Now the lass has come back to claim her mother's title.”

  “And half the prince's inheritance, to boot,” a man said grimly.

  Prince Tashih winced but waved a hand in dismissal of the notion. “I am sure my father will do what is right, and is best for the empire.”

  “Or what he thinks is best,” said another courtier darkly. He thought that the road to success lay in putting into words the feelings the prince longed to articulate but would not, out of loyalty to his father. “Agreed, the young lady is charming—she might well charm him into giving her anything she wishes— but could she rule well or wisely?”

  “She has shown no sign of a wish to rule.” The prince strove to disprove the very suspicion he had himself planted.

  “If she does not,” said the first courtier, “why does your father wish her to come to know the land?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yeah, there sure must,” Matt agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “She has run away?” Jimena stared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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