The Dragon and the Djinn

by Gordon R. Dickson

  "You're all right?" Jim asked Baiju.

  "I was never otherwise," said Baiju.

  "Luckily," said ibn-Tariq, "I was able to straighten out things before our friend here was taken to a somewhat less—"

  He paused, watching Brian, who was popping small pastrylike foods into his mouth like a child eating bits of candy. He clapped his hands; and when the four men who had come out of the wall stopped and looked at him, he jabbed a fingertip twice toward the tray. They went off into the wall.

  "—Less pleasant quarters than yours," ibn-Tariq went on. "Actually, it was never intended that any of you should end up just as you two did. But, what can be done—"

  He broke off, for the four serving men had come back, bearing four trays. These were arranged around so that while one was within reach of each person there, three of them were more or less clustered around Brian.

  "—I ask you?" continued ibn-Tariq. "In any matter of government, complexities occur, and mistakes will happen."

  Jim had devoted himself to the coffee, to begin with; and that black liquid dynamite was, as usual, brightening him up inside.

  "Is this the place of the military commander of the city?" he asked.

  "No," said ibn-Tariq, "it is not. It is the house of Murad of the Heavy Purse, with whom I am acquainted."

  "Then I take it," said Jim, helping himself to one of the small items of food on his tray and watching his cup being refilled with coffee by a man who had apparently appeared out of nowhere, "that Murad of the Heavy Purse is the military commander of the city?"

  "No," said ibn-Tariq, "he is not. But he is a man of many possessions, and of importance in the city; and the military commander let him use some of the soldiers. Unfortunately, as I say, the instruction given to those low fellows was garbled when it reached them; and they took you for offenders of some form or another."

  That first foodlet he had eaten had awakened Jim's hunger. He felt as ready as Brian was showing himself to be to wade into the food; and was trying to do this discreetly while talking at the same time. It was not easy, but he persisted.

  "All right, then," he said, around mouthfuls, "can you tell me why we were brought here?"

  Ibn-Tariq spread his hands.

  "I must express my own personal deep regrets that it happened," he said. "Murad of the Heavy Purse wished only to do me a favor, by bringing our friend Baiju here; so we two could speak without arousing undue interest in the streets. It is not unusual to see such a one as a Mongol being arrested by soldiers of a city. But, as it happened, before the soldiers were sent out—and this may have contributed to the confusion of their orders—I discovered that one of the matters Baiju and I need to discuss fully turns out to involve you two to a certain extent, although to what extent I am not quite sure."

  He looked inquiringly at Baiju, pausing as if to give the other an opportunity to speak. Baiju looked back at him, poker-faced, and said nothing.

  "As all men know, the Mongols conquered the castles of the Assassins in Persia, whereas we of Egypt—for that is my native land—conquered all those here. However, in recent times, these Assassins have revived in the shape of Grandmaster Hasan ad-Dimri and his White Palace, to which I believe you two were taken after you were captured and stolen from the caravan. Recently the sultanate of Egypt was approached by people speaking for Hasan ad-Dimri, and offering friendship to our Bahri Mameluke caliphate—may something be done for you, my friend?"

  His last words were addressed to Brian.

  "Wine—or water!" said Brian thickly. "I choke on cinnamon!"

  "Of course," said ibn-Tariq. He clapped his hands, and within seconds Brian was diluting the cinnamon-loaded foodlet he had tried to swallow with the help of a tall vessel like a vase full of water.

  "—As I was saying," ibn-Tariq continued to Jim, "Hasan ad-Dimri has been making approaches to our Egyptian caliphate. It was not long before it was found there was a reason for this offer of friendship. Hasan had gotten word of the Golden Horde's push southward toward Persia, with possibly its ultimate aim being Egypt; but it had been announced that they came to take out Hasan and his foul nest of Assassins. As a friend of a friend among the Mamelukes, I undertook to speak with one or possibly more of the Mongols who might be coming and inquire if this matter could not be settled otherwise. We of Egypt would prefer to destroy Hasan ad-Dimri ourselves; and intend to. Therefore there is no need for the Mongols to come this way. Indeed, the arguments in favor of this are overwhelming; we are closer, in a better position to do so, and our Mameluke soldiers are better suited to the task than nomad horse-riding ones—I say that without any intention of offense to friend Baiju."

  He paused and smiled at Baiju, who looked back at him with the same unchanged expression.

  "But then word came to me, just before we were going to have Baiju conducted to where he and I could talk, that he had recently acquired some information through you two that would give the Mongols perfect confidence they could take the White Palace with great ease. I have no idea what this information is; but it caused me to ask the soldiers to inquire whether you would join Baiju and myself in our conversation. As you know, that order to take you from the caravansary was badly misunderstood."

  "Hah!" said Brian quite distinctly. He had finally succeeded in satisfying his hunger and was just now availing himself of a basin of water and a towel being held for him by one of the servitors. In the process, he checked suddenly; and Jim realized that he had caught the eye of Baiju, and it was looking at him with a particularly deadly intent. Jim had a sudden strong guess that the little Mongol was regretting that he had not killed Jim and Brian before they could be trapped into such a situation as they were now, where undoubtedly torture could—and undoubtedly would, if necessary—be tried to extract the secret of their escape from the White Palace. The Mongol must have allowed them to live this long because he intended to use their experience of the secret way out of the White Palace. Now he was regretting he had done so.

  Jim turned back to ibn-Tariq, only to see that ibn-Tariq was occupied at the moment, by a servant who was whispering something into one of his ears. As he looked, the servant stopped whispering and went back into the wall of the room; and ibn-Tariq turned to him with another of his ready smiles.

  "I have just had word," he said. "Murad of the Heavy Purse is now able to meet with you. Will you do me the honor of coming with me, then?"

  There was a noise—not a large noise, but a shuffling of feet and a slight clinking of metal, and Jim, looking around with Brian and Baiju, saw at least a dozen of the soldiers dressed in the colors of the house, armed with spears this time, as well as their swords, coming in through the entrance through which Jim and Brian themselves had entered just a moment before.

  "Perhaps we could go now," said ibn-Tariq mildly.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  They were conducted politely enough, but also effectively, with half the armed men behind, half in front and themselves in between; as a group effectively filling even the wide corridor through which they were ultimately taken.

  They did not turn down any side passage. This last corridor led directly to the spacious entrance of a very large room, empty of furniture or anything else except at the far end, where, beneath a canopy under the domed ceiling high overhead, a very wide, big man sat on cushions with trays, cups and beakers around him.

  He was, thought Jim, as they got closer in the great room, not merely big but almost unbelievably huge. Not only that, but his face was almost buried under an amazingly full, fluffy, white beard that seemed to start right under his eyebrows and bury his features—chin, neck and all—in a beard that would almost make a mattress for a bed. The only thing really visible was the red interior of his mouth, as he picked up some morsel and it disappeared into that aperture.

  He wore a turban on his head and a massive, overflowing gown of silk in purple and red that made him seem even bigger. It must, thought Jim, take at least four of his servants to help him even ge
t to his feet.

  It was just at this juncture that he was a little startled to hear Brian's voice, low-pitched and hoarse in his ear.

  "Is that this fellow with the heavy purse?" muttered Brian. "There's something false about all this, James. As if I'd seen him somewhere before."

  "Where?" Jim would have asked, but they were already too close to the massive owner of this establishment for any further low-voiced conversation.

  "Welcome!" said the enormous man in a heavy voice. "Pray be seated"

  Servants rushed forward with cushions, trays, stands. To Jim and Brian they gave tankards; and to Brian's obvious delight, they filled them with a red liquid that was all too clearly a wine.

  "O, Murad of the Heavy Purse," said ibn-Tariq, "these are those I have spoken to you of: Baiju the Mongol, Sir James and Sir Brian—the noble Franks."

  "They are welcome, very welcome!" said Murad. "Am I right, my guests, that you, being unknowing of Allah, believe yourselves free to drink alcohol?"

  Jim suddenly noticed that Baiju also had a flagon. Not only that, but he was already drinking out of it in a way that would have it emptied in a few more seconds. Ibn-Tariq had not said anything; so Jim supposed it was up to him or Brian to answer.

  "You are right, Murad of the Heavy Purse," he said. "We thank you for this wine, it being a familiar drink to us."

  "I wish my guests to be pleased and furnished with whatever brings them pleasure," said Murad. "I appreciate my food and drink—and I wish all others to appreciate theirs too. As Allah has commanded, I feed all those who are truly hungry who come to my door; and to the best of my guests I offer their choice of my food."

  "All know that, O Murad of the Heavy Purse," said ibn-Tariq, while Jim was still hunting for a polite form in which to make an answer.

  "It is well," said Murad. "O Franks, I understand you are looking for a Frankish slave; and my great friend ibn-Tariq is aiding you in this search. I myself will do what I can to help. What sort of man would he be?"

  "When I last saw him, some years ago," said Brian, "he was an erect man somewhat taller than I, but not as tall as Sir James, here; with black hair just beginning to go gray, a small mustache, a high, arched nose and a jaw that came to a point in front. A scarred and somewhat small jaw, for the rest of his features, which were big-boned and strong."

  "A search shall be made," said Murad. "I have connections and affairs with many people; and the search shall be an extensive one. We will hope that it finds what you need."

  "Are not the ways of Allah marvelous, Murad, my friend?" said ibn-Tariq. "That the emirs of the caliphate of all Egypt should need information which possibly these Franks can supply; and they should be led directly to you, who are in a best position to answer the Franks' own need to find this long-lost other Frank?

  "It is so," said Murad. And a small brown dog came out from somewhere behind him and sat down, beside the cushion on which he rested, looking directly at Jim. "The wonders of Allah are beyond all men's comprehension."

  "But perhaps some of the wonder may be guessed at," said ibn-Tariq.

  "Egypt is by rights the source and headwater of a mighty empire and so destined to be. The caliphate with its many emirs does not always move as swiftly as it might. Perhaps the time has come for another like Sala-ad-Din was—may Allah keep him forever in His arms—a Kurd as thou art a Kurd, O Murad. Some master of wisdom and possessor of infinite courage, who will lead us into this new empire."

  "Blessed indeed, be the name of Sala-ad-Din," answered Murad. "It would indeed be well to think that someone like him might arise again, and even that he might be a Kurd. But we must not look beyond the present moment."

  While this flowery speech was going on between the two men, Jim was looking at the brown dog and the brown dog was looking back at him. It was a ridiculous situation.

  He could not say to the dog, "What are you doing here?" in spite of the fact that he was sure that the dog he was looking at was none other than Kelb, still in his canine shape.

  Likewise, he could not say, "Kelb, I told you not to show up again unless you were called by me." And in fact something suggested that if the two of them were alone together, even then it might not be wise. There was an air of insufferable arrogance about the dog's yellow eyes, which were meeting his unblinkingly at the moment.

  There had to be, of course, an outside chance that the dog was not Kelb. Small brown dogs were small brown dogs, particularly when they had obviously been pushed around by circumstance; and were scruffy and unkempt, with short hair.

  But if it was Kelb, then what possible connection could he have with Murad? Jim looked into that question and saw possible different answers stretched out apparently without limit.

  He gave up on it, for the moment. There was no point in exercising his imagination on it now. He returned his attention to Murad and ibn-Tariq. The compliments were still flowing back and forth between them.

  "If Sala-ad-Din were to be once more among us," Murad was saying, "he could do no better than appoint you as his Vizier, ibn-Tariq—" Murad was saying. But Jim missed the last of that particular verbal flourish, because Brian had just caught his elbow between thumb and middle finger and was digging those two fingers into his flesh to attract his attention.

  Brian had an iron grip, and it would have been hard to ignore this example of it in any case; but Jim only glanced sideways out of his eyes, enough to see that Brian, although he had hitched himself a little closer to Jim, was also pretending to look straight forward and listen to the dialogue between ibn-Tariq and Murad. However, he was also now close enough so that he could murmur out of the corner of his mouth to Jim.

  "James!" he said. "That server, just going back into the wall. Look quickly."

  Without turning his head, Jim slanted his gaze swiftly over in time to catch a glimpse of a relatively tall but bent man with gray hair, thin almost to the point of emaciation, going into the wall. Before he could see more, the wall closed behind him.

  "Sir Geoffrey! Geronde's father!" muttered Brian. "James, I'm sure it was him!"

  Jim thought swiftly.

  "We'll have to wait, Brian," he murmured back. "Wait until he comes out again."

  "But he hasn't come out before this!" said Brian urgently. "He may not come again!"

  This was all too possible, Jim realized. Murad seemed to have as many servants as a queen bee had workers feeding and caring for her. His mind raced.

  "Give me a chance to break into the conversation," he said to Brian, and resolutely returned his attention to ibn-Tariq and Murad.

  Their talk had wandered off to matters dealing with Sunnis and Shi'ites—which, as Jim vaguely remembered from the days of his twentieth-century education, were the two major sects of Islam. In fact, if he remembered rightly, the Sunni were the orthodox, and perhaps by far the largest sect; but the Shi'ites were numerous enough to be formidable. At the moment, Sunnis were being spoken of with approval and Shi'ites not so. Jim got the strong impression that both Murad and ibn-Tariq belonged in the Sunni camp.

  "—A change is coming, O Murad," ibn-Tariq was saying, "I tell thee. We must be ready; and there is no time like that which is now."

  He paused and Jim jumped in quickly, before Murad could speak again.

  "If you will forgive me, O Murad of the Heavy Purse and ibn-Tariq," he said, "a remarkable thing has just happened. My friend Sir Brian and I have just seen a man that greatly resembles the one we seek. He was dressed as one of your servants, O Murad of the Heavy Purse, and has but a few moments ago left us through that entrance there."

  He pointed to the wall that had now closed up again to Murad's right.

  "A servant of mine? Are you sure, Frank?"

  "I cannot be sure," said Jim. "Neither can Sir Brian. Would it be possible to have the man back so that we can look at him?"

  "Indeed, this is a time of wonders," murmured ibn-Tariq, stroking his neat mustache.

  "What manner of man was he?" demanded Murad.

>   "He was elderly—more elderly than any of the others who have served us since we have been here," said Brian. "He is gray-haired, somewhat stooped and thinner than I remember him; but he is very like Sir Geoffrey, the man we seek, if he is not indeed Sir Geoffrey himself."

  "In my own household!" said Murad. He clapped his hands three times.

  The door through which Jim and Brian had seen the man they were interested in disappear opened again; but this time what came out was a tall old man with a wispy white beard and a tall staff, with some sort of gold ornamental top on it. He salaamed, bowing very low to Murad.

  "Is there something in which Murad of the Heavy Purse needs to be served?" said the old man.

  "Yes," said Murad. "There has been, within a short time here, a servant who came into the room, more elderly than any of the other servants, stooped and gray-haired, which two of my guests think they recognize and would like to see again. Find that man and send him back out here again."

  "The command of Murad of the Heavy Purse will be obeyed," said the bearded man. He backed into the aperture in the wall, which closed upon his exit.

  "Did you know him very well?" asked ibn-Tariq, turning to look at both Jim and Brian.

  "I knew him very well," said Brian, "though it was some years back and I was younger then."

  "Well, we will soon see," said Murad.

  In fact, it was only a few moments before the aperture opened again and the man Jim had just caught a glimpse of came back into the room, followed by the bearded man with the staff, who herded him around to face Murad. Even though his face was half averted, Jim could see a sort of worn hopelessness in it. He did not raise his gaze to meet Murad's eyes.

  "How art thou called?" demanded Murad.