The Dragon and the Djinn

by Gordon R. Dickson

  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 quiveringly. "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 Tr
ipoli. 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."