The Dragon and the Djinn

by Gordon R. Dickson

  "I will send word if there is any word to send," said the shopkeeper. "Depend upon it. Where may you be found, O my masters?"

  "At the caravansary of Yusuf," said Baiju.

  "Good, I will send word there then. I am Metaab, the silk merchant. All men know me."

  Jim, Brian and Baiju moved off. It was a relief to Jim to be away from the shop with its association with what had just happened and what he had just seen.

  "Where to, now?" Baiju said.

  Jim found he did not want to go back to the caravansary.

  "Actually," he said, "as long as I'm here, I'd like to see Palmyra while there's time to do it."

  "You want to see a city?" said Baiju, staring at him. "You are seeing it now."

  He waved his hand at the shops in front of him.

  "No," said Jim, "I mean the whole city."

  "Come to think of it," said Brian, "I would like that too. Particularly let us look around the oasis from which the women are carrying water on their heads. I am curious as to how they do it. Besides, it is always wise to look around any new place you are in."

  "Perhaps," said Baiju, "but a city! They are all the same."

  There would be no point, Jim knew, in mentioning to either Brian or Baiju the remnants of architecture that betrayed the hand of Rome, and civilizations before that, here in this place. The caravan route must be as old as time itself. But whatever they did it would be better than going back to the caravansary, staring at the wall and seeing the reputed leper, running.

  He still kept seeing—as if in a sudden still shot made by a camera—the staring eyes, the half-open mouth of the fleeing, hapless leather merchant. Strangely, the sight had moved neither the shopkeeper nor Baiju at all. Nor, for that matter, had it evoked any emotional reaction from Brian. In fact, he was now talking to Baiju about the European way of handling such situations.

  "—Our lepers are given a bell and must wear a garment that covers them completely head to feet," he was saying. "The leper rings the bell as he moves, that all clean people may safely move out of his path."

  "Simpler just to kill him," said Baiju. "With arrows, from a distance."

  They had reached the end of the souk—or at least one of its edges. At any rate, they were coming out from among the shops.

  "If you must wander about this dung heap, I had best go with you," Baiju went on sourly. "Your customs are clearly not their customs; and you are just as likely to end up dead instead of back at the caravansary, through not understanding what you should do or should not do. Come with me, then."

  He led them about the town and passed the oasis. In spite of what Brian had said, it was on the women, rather than on the water-filled pots on their head, that Brian's eye lingered.

  "If it's the women you want," Baiju said after watching him for a little time, "I can find you places where you can see much more of them than you can here."

  "That would be instructive, would it not, James?" said Brian, looking across at Jim, for Baiju, being shorter than either of them, was walking between them, which was the most convenient position for conversation among all three of them.

  Jim did not feel any particular urge to follow Baiju's suggestion; but since his only interest was in keeping from the caravansary, he agreed.

  In the end Baiju took them to a place where coffee was served, but also where they were given the opportunity to buy, since they were obviously not Muslims, a thin astringent white wine at which even Brian made a face, though he drank it.

  There, one by one, women came out and danced. They were still clothed, however, though in layers of gauzy cloths that, while evidently calculated to tantalize, actually were little less revealing than the complete coverings of the women getting water from the oasis.

  All in all they killed about four hours and by this time Jim had managed to come to terms with the memory of the leper—although he had a notion that the memory would continue to haunt him for the rest of his life. It had not been just the fear of the crowd that had put that look on the man's face. It was the horror of what he, himself, now believed—or was at last acknowledging to himself—what afflicted him.

  Even if he himself had truly believed he did not have leprosy, he was now facing a future in which he would have to live closely with actual lepers; and being a man of his place and time in history, he undoubtedly profoundly believed that it would be only a short time before he would catch the disease from them.

  Jim, Brian and Baiju were finally back at the caravansary. There they were met by one of the regular workers, or employees—whatever they were—in the place as they came in.

  "One waits for you," he said, as they came in. "His name is ibn-Tariq; and he waits in the eating place of this caravansary."

  Jim would much rather have headed toward his room; but Baiju and Brian had immediately started off toward the caravansary eating place, and Jim went along with them. They found ibn-Tariq there, seated cross-legged on the cushions in one of the small niches, with what looked like some sort of pancake, grilling rather smokily on a brazier set up by his table.

  "Ah, my friends," he called, seeing them. "Come. Sit with me!"

  They continued across the room, and as the smoke from the brazier met them halfway Jim stifled a cough that he thought might be considered impolite.

  "Are you all right, m'lord?" said a small, concerned voice in his ear; for the cough had only been partly silenced.

  "Fine, Hob," murmured Jim. "It's just that smoke."

  "It's not the best smoke," said Hob. "But there's no such thing as bad smoke."

  Not, thought Jim, to a hobgoblin, maybe; but they were now at ibn-Tariq's niche, and greetings were being exchanged. There was no chance to utter the thought aloud.

  "—A storekeeper in the souk, who was to specially make me a headdress, delivered it to me not an hour ago," ibn-Tariq was saying. "He enclosed a message that you three were here, had visited his shop and mentioned me. He also said you were seeking a Frankish slave. It happens that I have acquaintances here in Palmyra, having been here before, and it may well be that I can help you find him you seek."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jim gulped at the small cup of incredibly sweet, incredibly strong coffee that had just been put before him by a server, scalding his tongue but ignoring that in his need to get some stimulant in him to sharpen his wits. They were now seated with ibn-Tariq at his table in a niche.

  Seeing the man was shock enough. His seeking them out like this, on top of their knowing that he must have pushed himself as hard or harder than they had pushed themselves to be here at this time, had rung every warning bell in Jim at ibn-Tariq's first sentence.

  There were several things wrong with his offer. In the first place, it was far too suddenly made, according to the rules of normal conversation in this part of the world, where the practice was to talk for anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour about unimportant things before getting to the point. Also, it was remarkably direct for somebody like ibn-Tariq, personally, who had shown an almost machiavellian indirectness in his conversation.

  But the man was looking at him now, smiling, with the open countenance of someone who was no more than delighted by being able to bring good news to someone he liked. It was true, Jim and ibn-Tariq had found a good deal of common ground in their talks, riding together in the first few days of the caravan; but they had certainly not become friends, in any real sense of that word.

  "Ah," Brian was saying cheerfully, "the silk merchant."

  "Yes, it is Metaab, the silk merchant you spoke to," said ibn-Tariq. "There are several other silk merchants in the souk. But I have always found Metaab the most honest."

  "He promised to help us, too," said Jim. It was the first thing he could think of to say.

  "That would be like Metaab," agreed ibn-Tariq. "However, his conversations are with those in the souk, in the street and in other low places. Those I know live on rather a more important level; and some are in positions to ask questions for me. I
got the impression that this Frankish slave was more than casually important to you," said ibn-Tariq. In the easy, casual way in which such matters were regarded in these parts, he went on to ask, "An old lover of yours, perhaps?"

  Jim, who had taken another, somewhat larger mouthful of the hot coffee, had trouble swallowing it politely.

  "No," he managed. "Merely a neighbor to whom I owe a duty."

  "Ah," said ibn-Tariq, "it is too seldom that duty is highly regarded in this world. I have gone about the lands, talking and asking, and seldom do I find pure examples of any of the virtues enumerated in the Koran—"

  He was interrupted by a sudden outburst of noise at the entrance to the eating place; and they all looked around to see five men wearing helmets, curved swords in scabbards and carrying long weapons that were halfway between a spear and a halberd. For a moment Jim simply assumed they were going to one of the niches on either side of them; but—no, they were coming directly toward himself and the rest.

  They came right up to the niche and stopped before it. They did not look friendly. They were all dressed more or less the same in brownish-white robes. Four of them wore boiled leather jackets, and their helmets were also of leather. The fifth one, who was in advance of the others and seemed in command, had a steel helmet and a chain mail shirt.

  He had a narrow, long face with cold brown eyes that looked hard at them.

  "You three are under arrest, by order of the Dey!" he said, arriving. "I see you are wearing knives. You will give them up. Now—hilt first."

  "Hah!" said Brian, and his hand was on the handle of his knife, but not in such a position as to pull it out and offer it hilt first; and immediately four of the long weapons were leveled at him from no more than half a foot away.

  "Brian!" said Jim warningly. But ibn-Tariq was already speaking.

  "Calm yourself, my friends," he said. "I'm sure there is a mistake here. Officer, may I speak to you apart for a moment? I am ibn-Tariq, and my name is not unknown in this city."

  "Forgive our disturbance of your meal, O ibn-Tariq," said the officer graciously, with a circular outward wave of his hand. "I assure you there is no mistake; but of course, if you would wish for a word—?"

  Ibn-Tariq got up and the two of them walked a little away. The four men stayed with their spears still leveled, although now at least one pointed each at Jim, Brian and Baiju.

  There was a matter of some minutes of rather tense waiting. Brian looked fiercely at the four spears. He had taken his hand from his sword and dropped it to his side. In appearance this seemed a move to make himself look more harmless, but Jim knew better and the knowledge made him uncomfortable.

  Knights were not supposed to need what Jim's twentieth century was to call "hold-out" knives; but Brian had explained to Jim a long time ago, near the beginning of their friendship, no one who could afford a second knife ever went without one hidden about him.

  In Brian's case, he had at least one Jim knew of. Up the sleeve of the arm behind the hand that Brian had just taken from his sword hilt, his friend carried a short, but heavy knife, hiltless, but with a leaded center to give it special weight, and a wide double-edged blade with out-curving edges that would ensure a cutting blow.

  A snap of Brian's wrist could slide the hilt of it into his hand, and it would come out, tearing its way easily through his sleeve, ready for a backhand strike at whatever he wished. The blade was heavy enough to shear through at least one of the wooden staves behind the metal spear points that were aimed at him.

  "I think we can give ibn-Tariq a chance," said Jim out loud to Brian.

  Brian looked at him without disagreement. Baiju was also looking at him, but with something more like contempt.

  It was after only a few moments, by the standards of eastern conversation, that ibn-Tariq and the officer came back.

  "I'm afraid you'll have to go with this officer," ibn-Tariq said to them. "But I'm still convinced that a mistake has been made. I will see about having it corrected right away. This officer is under the command of the military governor here in Palmyra, whom I know. I would strongly suggest that you go quietly, without complaint; and leave all to me."

  Baiju gave one of his snorts that could have been laughter or not as the case might be.

  Jim hastily pulled out his sword and offered it hilt first to the officer, who disdainfully stepped aside and motioned for one of the spear-carriers to take it. The man did, still keeping his spear leveled on Jim. Seeing Jim had done this, Brian reluctantly gave up his sword but made no move to hand over any of the other weapons he might be carrying. It was quite possible, thought Jim, that he had more blades about him than the one up his sleeve.

  Baiju stood up, letting the spear point in front of him come right against his chest, piercing his skin beneath his clothes. He lifted his own short, curved sword from its sheath with his left hand and, reaching forward, rammed the hilt into the stomach of a spear-carrier opposite him, who hastily snatched at it and took it.

  "Now," said the officer, "we go."

  They were led out into the street, attracting a crowd as they went, and marched for some distance followed by the same crowd. They went by various turns through alleyways until they reached one so narrow that the officer seemed to lose his temper with the onlookers, and told off two of his soldiers to block it behind them against any who might follow.

  That left him and the other two soldiers now behind Jim and Brian and Baiju, herding them forward. They continued on, following the directions of the officer to turn here, or turn there, until they came to a door in a stone wall, with another soldier standing beside it.

  The officer had moved in front of them by this time, since they were out of the narrow confines of the alley. He was highly visible; and at his approach the soldier standing beside the door hastily opened it. Without a word the officer marched Jim and his companions in and through a small dirty room where three other soldiers, all heavily armed with swords and wide, curve-bladed knives long enough almost to be swords, lounged on dirty cushions. They were herded farther through a very narrow door—so narrow that only one could pass at a time—down a dark flight of stairs, down, down and finally into a passageway that had earth underfoot and stone walls all around.

  They went a little farther by the flickering light of a torch on one stony wall, until the passageway widened out to become a room divided by metal bars into cages. There were a couple of barely human, barely alive individuals in the first two cages they passed, dressed in rags. Then Jim and Brian were pushed into another, empty cage together and its door slammed on them. Baiju was left outside.

  "Not you, Mongol," said the officer. "We've got someplace else to take you."

  He and the three guards from the room above, who had evidently followed him down, surrounded the little Mongol and they moved off together, leaving Jim and Brian staring at each other in the empty cage.

  A single cresset provided poor lighting to the whole room in which the cages stood. However, it happened to be fixed to the wall just behind the empty cage to Jim's left, almost within arm's reach; and this allowed them to see each other, and their immediate surroundings fairly well.

  "What will they do with that small man, do you suppose?" Brian asked Jim.

  Jim shook his head.

  "I don't understand any of this," said Jim.

  "I should not ask, perhaps," said Brian, "but is there some way in which you could use your magic—"

  He left the end of the sentence hanging.

  "Of course," said Jim, "but things aren't that desperate yet. There's always magic if everything else fails. But we ought to be braced for the fact that there're some situations magic won't deal with."

  He looked around him.

  "I wish I knew more about this place where they put us," he said. "Does it look like a city jail to you?"

  "Not exactly," said Brian doubtfully. "City jails tend to be earth dungeons, like the one you got me and Giles out of, under the French King's lodging place in
Brest, the last time we were in France. These are not only dry but clean."

  "Clean?" echoed Jim, looking around himself in disbelief.

  "Oh, yes," Brian went on almost cheerfully, "the sort of place you would have to lock up someone of rank. I do believe that's a chamber pot in the corner there."

  Jim decided not to be drawn into any further discussion of the luxury of their quarters.

  "I think you're right," he said to Brian. "I'd like to know what the rest of this building looks like. But I don't want to use my magic to do it. I'm beginning to get a strong suspicion that there may be other magic going on around here—maybe keeping an eye on us."

  He stared thoughtfully at the guttering light of the cresset, and the soot-blackened ceiling just above its flame.

  "On the other hand, now, there's some smoke right there. And there has to be some way for that smoke to get out of here—some kind of ventilation opening. Maybe Hob could ride the smoke out such an opening, possibly using the smoke of other torches, or cooking fires, or whatever, and then come back and so tell us about the place."

  He half turned his head.

  "Hob?" he said. "Do you think you could do that?"

  There was no answer from behind him.

  "Hob?" he repeated; and when there was still no answer, he put up his hand to feel the pouch behind him where Hob should be. It was limp and perfectly empty.

  "He is gone?" said Brian, staring at Jim's face and his groping hand.

  "Yes." Jim let his hand drop. "I know he was there with us when we went in to talk to ibn-Tariq, because the smoke from that cooking device almost made me cough; and he spoke to me."

  "He surely wouldn't have left us without permission or orders?" said Brian. "What? Leave his Lord without permission? What sort of hobgoblin is he?"

  "I think they're all like him," said Jim thoughtfully. A cold fear had crept into him. "You don't suppose he thought this was a sort of emergency where he was supposed to go home to England and tell Angie and Geronde about it?"

  "Back to England? Tell Angela and Geronde?" Brian stared at him. "What's this?"