“Verily, you are a mountain of wisdom,” said a commanding voice. “What shall be your reward for having at once provided a pearl beyond price for my couch and an arm of the best for my battle?”
“Lord, I ask no more than the sunlight of your favor, and the payment of my proper reckoning. This unlucky Frank keeps the gains he has doubtless made from the robbery of true believers in his belt.”
The owner of the commanding voice turned: a tall man with an unpleasant, dish-shaped face. “Seek if this be so,” he ordered one of the men holding Shea. The latter, seeing that it would do no good to struggle, refrained from doing so.
“Verily, Lord Dardinell,” said the one who was robbing him, “he has fourteen dirhams and a half.”
“Give them to the innkeeper,” said Lord Dardinell, and, turning back to that worthy, added: “You shall surely wait upon me in my tent after the hour of the second prayer tomorrow, when I shall have made proof of this Frankish damsel. If she prove a filly, as you have declared, your reward shall be ten times this amount; but if not, then only the double.”
“Hey!” shouted Shea. “You can’t do that. She’s my wife!”
One of Shea’s holders hit him across the face as Dardinell, expression going glum, turned to the girl. “Is this indeed the truth?” he demanded.
Before she could answer, another voice, somewhat high-pitched, spoke up: “O Lord Dardinell, it cannot be. When lately we saw this damsel at Castle Carena, she was surely neither wife nor widow, but a free maid of the forest, the inspiration of poetry.”
Dish-face ran a tongue around red lips. “There is but one resource,” he said, “and that is to smite the head of this dog of a Frank from his body, so that if wived, the damsel shall be widowed.”
“Yet it is written,” said the other voice, which Shea noticed belonged to an olive-skinned young man with delicate features, “that one shall not deal unjustly even with unbelievers, lest it be held against you at the last day. It is also lawful that even if the damsel be widowed this very day, the three-day ceremony of purification is necessary before one shall go in unto her. Therefore I say, my lord, that we should hold them both in a secure place until a learned Kazi can find the line of truth among these thickets. Moreover, O Prince of warriors, was it not your own word but now that here was a good arm to the service of the Prophet, on whose name be peace? Yet of what avail the arm without a head to guide it?”
Lord Dardinell put a hand to his chin and bowed the spiked helmet surmounted by a crescent. “O Medoro,” he said finally, with somewhat ill grace, “you argue more finely than a doctor of law, and in a manner to make one believe that your own eyes are set on the damsel. Yet I can find small flaw in your doctrine.” Shea, who had been holding his breath, let it out in a long whoosh, and the other Saracens murmured approval.
Dardinell stepped over to Shea and felt his biceps. “How came you hither, Frank?” he asked.
Shea said: “I had a little run-in, you might say, with some of the Emperor’s paladins.” That ought to put him in the best light, and had the advantage of being true.
Dardinell nodded. “Are you a fighter of proved worth?”
“I’ve been in a few scraps. If you’d like a little demonstration, just turn me loose from this gent holding my right arm . . .”
“That will not be needed. Will you faithfully serve the Amir Agramant in this war?”
Why not! Shea felt he owed nothing to the paladins, while consenting would at least keep him alive long enough to figure out something. “Okay. Bring on your dotted line. I mean, I’ll swear to uphold your just and merciful Amir and all that, et cetera, so help me Allah.”
Dardinell nodded again, but added severely: “It is not to be thought that even if the Kazi decides that your marriage to this damsel be lawful, you shall retain ownership in her, for it is my wish that you pronounce upon her the formula of divorcement. Yet if you bear yourself well, I will give you sixteen others from the spoils, with faces like full moons. How are you named?”
“Sir Harold Shea.”
“Sir Harr al-Sheikh. Hear a wonder: he bears both Nazarene and Muslim titles! How became you a chieftain?”
“I inherited it,” said Shea ambiguously. “You know, border family,” he added, remembering the Carenas. He felt easier as the grip on his arms relaxed. No, he decided looking around, there was no chance of getting the jump on the situation and releasing Belphegor. Too many of these guys had sharp-looking scimitars in their hands.
Lord Dardinell appeared to have lost interest in him. “Let the maiden be bound, but lightly, with silken cloths,” he ordered. “O Medoro, you shall take this new warrior into your troop and see him armed; and your courage shall be responsible for his.”
As the girl was led past, she looked toward Medoro instead of him, and Shea’s heart ached. At the street a number of horses were tied, one of which was held for him to mount. It was a damn shame that there was no chance of going back for one crack at that innkeeper, but that would have to wait until more important things were cleaned up.
Shea winced as he climbed into the saddle, for his crotch muscles were as hard as cables after the long centaur ride. But they soon loosened under the rugged massage of the high saddle, and Shea was able to go along with only nominal discomfort.
As the cavalcade set off through a hot sun that had already passed noon, it occurred to Shea that it would take something more than magic to make his wife try sleeping in a bed again after this.
Eleven
Tents were pitched in all directions with a maddening disregard of order. Over the whole brooded a smell suggesting that the sanitary arrangements were primitive. Muslims of every size and complexion wandered among the tents, though there was little about them to suggest that this was an army. In fact, it looked more like an imitation Oriental bazaar at a big fair. Little groups argued and haggled over bargains or just argued; men lay asleep, ignoring the flies that crawled over them; from somewhere came the banging that might mean a smith. As the cavalcade picked its way among the tents, the arguers stopped arguing and some of the sleepers sat up to watch.
They made audible and highly personal comments on Belphegor. Shea felt his own face burning and began to invent a long series of ingenious tortures for them. However, she held her head high, paying no attention as she was carried past sidesaddle on a led horse. She had not so much as spoken to Shea since their capture. He did not blame her, remembering how much his fault it had been for not being careful about that scoundrelly innkeeper and for failing to interpret the dwarf’s warning aright. It was certainly a poor payoff for the way she had got him out of a jam to dump her into one like this. Still, the question was . . .
Medoro touched his arm: “We ride this way,” and led off to the left, followed by three or four of the group. Presently they arrived before a large striped tent, before which stood a pole from which hung what looked like the tail of a horse. Medoro dismounted and flung open the flap. “Will you enter, O Harr?”
Inside it was at least cooler than on the road. Medoro motioned toward a pile of carpets near the cloth partition that divided this outer room from another, and sat down cross-legged on another pile adjoining. As far as Shea, no expert on Oriental ruggery, could judge, they were very expensive specimens. The young man clapped his hands, and then said to the straggly-bearded servitor who appeared from within: “Bring bread and salt. Also sherbets.”
“To hear is to obey,” said the man, and ducked out. Medoro stared moodily at the carpet in front of him for a minute, then said: “Will you have a barber? For I perceive that you follow the Frankish custom of shaving the face, even as I myself, and are long from the pleasure of this cleanliness.”
“It might be a good idea,” said Shea, feeling his rasplike chin. “Say, tell me, what are they going to do with her?”
“It is written that the tree of friendship may grow only beside the fountain of security,” said Medoro, and lapsed into silence again until the servitor returned, followed by two more. The fir
st carried a ewer of water and an empty basin. As Medoro extended his hands over the latter, the servitor poured water on them and then produced a towel. Then he performed the same service for Shea, who was glad to get off a little of the grime.
The second man had a tray on which stood something that looked like a flannel waffle, with a little dish of salt. Medoro broke off a piece of the waffle, sprinkled a pinch of salt on it, and thrust it toward Shea’s face. The latter reached for it, but Medoro skillfully avoided his fingers and poked the morsel closer. Shea inferred that he was supposed to open his mouth; when he did so Medoro popped the object in and waited expectantly. It tasted fierce. As something more seemed to be expected, Shea in his turn broke off a piece of the flannel waffle, salted it, and returned the favor. The servitor disappeared. Medoro picked up his bowl of sherbet and sighed heartily.
“In the name of Allah, the Almighty, the gracious,” he said, “we have partaken of bread and salt together and have no harm towards each other. I have written a poem on that theme; would it broaden your bosom to hear it?”
The poem was long and, as far as Shea was concerned, did not make much sense. Medoro accompanied himself on a goose-necked lute he picked up from behind the rugs, caterwauling his refrain in a series of minors. Shea sat, sipping his sherbet (which turned out to be merely fresh orange juice) and waiting. In the midst of one of the refrains there came a squalling of many voices outside. Medoro flung down his lute, seized up one of the smaller rugs, and rushed outside for the afternoon prayer.
When he returned he flopped down on the rugs again. “O Harr, verily you sheikhs of the Franks know no more of the spirit of life in Allah, whose Prophet is the True and Indubitable, than a pig knows of the nuts whereon it feeds. Yet you shall now tell me nothing less than the truth: are you indeed an approved warrior?”
Shea thought that one over for a moment. “How the hell do I know?” he said finally. “I’ve done a little fighting when I had to, but I’ve never been in a regular formal battle, if that’s what you mean.”
“Aye. On bread and salt I cannot conceal it; I am myself as a stick in the sand. None dare love me but for my verses alone; yet I am of great family, and nothing less than the tradition of might will serve.”
He picked up the lute again and struck a few melancholy chords. “May I be forgiven,” he said languidly, “and let it not be borne overlong against me on the Day of Days. The Lord Dardinell said nothing less than that you were to be armed. Are you one of those Franks who will strike with the lance?” He brightened momentarily. “I have composed a poem on the subject of blood. Would your soul be soothed to hear it?”
“In a while, maybe,” said Shea. “Don’t you think we ought to get this arming business over with first, chum? Lord Dardinell with be coming around on a tour of inspection, and I don’t think it would look good.”
“Ah, Allah, deliver me from this life whose weight is irksome to me!” said Medoro, and without appearing to exert himself threw the lute across the tent, so that Shea heard it crack against some solid obstruction on the far side. Medoro, after a moment of silence, clapped his hands and ordered the thin-bearded servitor: “Summon my armorer.”
The armorer was a squat, brawny man with black hair clipped close and black eyes. Shea judged he might be a Basque like Echegaray, but he spoke in the manner of the Muslims: “Will the wonder of the centuries deign to stand? Ha, hum; I have a suit of mail that may fit the Light of the East, but how will you be weaponed: A target, ha, hum. No doubt your magnificence will wish a scimitar also?”
“If you have a small straight sword with a point, it will do me swell,” said Shea. Medoro appeared to have gone to sleep, with his mouth in a determined pout.
“O Sheikh Harr,” said the armorer, “there may be such a weapon among the booty of Canfrano, but it is not to be hidden that these Frankish blades fail to hold the edge.”
“Let’s see one anyway. If it won’t do, I’ll take the longest and straightest scimitar you can find. With a point, too.”
“May Allah strike me dead if you be not one of those who use the thrusting stroke! My father, who was smith before the Prince of Hind, has spoken of such in that land, but never have mine eyes been delighted by beholding such a one.”
Medoro opened his eyes, clapped his hands, and told his valet: “Another lute, and tell the cook to set forth meats for the evening meal of my guest.”
“Aren’t you going to eat too?” asked Shea.
“My breast is straightened. I will dine on the food of thought.” He took the new lute, struck it a couple of times, and gave vent to a long, howling note like that of a pin scratched across a windowpane.
The smith was still fussing and bowing. “It is revealed to me, O lord of the age,” he said, “that there will be need for mail of unusual strength both on the shoulder and the upper arm—”
Medoro set down the lute. “Begone!” he shouted. “Master of noise, whose mother was mistress to a pig! Make your vile armor if you must, and send it here, but in silence.”
As the smith scuttled out and the servitor began placing dishes before Shea, the young man relapsed into his playing and singing. It was not the ideal accompaniment to a meal. Shea managed as best he could the sticky mess before him without a fork; it was heavily spiced, but he was too ravenous to let that bother him. Coffee was brought, of the same appalling sweetness as that at the inn. Medoro laid aside his music to accept a cup. As he lifted it delicately to his lips, Shea said:
“What’s eating you so, anyway? You act as though you’d lost your last friend.”
“Nay,” said Medoro, “I have found one, but—” he put down the cup, picked up the lute again, and sang:
“Ah, bittered is the heart
Which with all love must part;
The sun declines, and as it sinks
The tears from out my eyeballs start.”
Although Shea was not overwhelmed by the pathos of the poetry, Medoro laid down the lute and began to sob.
“Pull yourself together, pal,” said Shea. “Is it about our friend Belphebe—Belphegor, I mean?”
“ ’Tis true. Spake you sooth when you said she was your wife? Or was that a ruse to balk my lord Dardinell?”
“Well,” said Shea, “that’s a long and complicated story . . .”
“Nay, fear not to open your soul to your comrade of bread and salt. True friendship is above the base weakness of jealousy, as says the philosopher Iflatun.”
Shea calculated his reply with the care of a sharpshooter. “I’ve known the girl for some time. But as for the rest of it, her status now is exactly what it was when you met her at Castle Carena. Doesn’t that make you feel better?” When Medoro only sighed gustily, Shea added: “I should think we could hire a lawyer or something—”
“Verily, Sheikh Harr,” interrupted Medoro, “your understanding is darkened. Know that the Kazi will surely decide that it is lawful for the Lord Dardinell to go in unto the damsel; for if you pronounce not the formula of divorce, he will cause her to do so himself. Ah, what have I done that a mere woman should bring this sorrow upon me? It was clear that with hair of gold-red she would be of ill-omen. Woe’s me! I have but delayed the inevitable hour for the three days of purification.”
Shea said: “Anyway, I can tell you that anybody who tried to make proof of our girlfriend without her consent has got his work cut out for him.”
But Medoro’s tears were flowing again. Shea sat back, thinking furiously. This twerp was about as much use as a third leg, though Shea tried to be fair, balancing his natural jealousy of Medoro’s libido towards Belphegor against the fact that the youth had, in a manner of speaking, saved Shea’s life at the inn. However, Medoro knew the rules, and there was one resource which he had not yet exploited: his own knowledge of magic.
“Where have they got her?” he asked.
“Nowhere but in the harem-tent of Lord Dardinell.”
Said Shea: “Do you know whether Roger—you know, the one from Care
na—has joined the army?”
The Saracen’s woebegone expression changed to one of fine contempt. “It has reached me that the misbegotten son of a whore is indeed among us.”
“You don’t like him, then?”
“By Allah, if a cup of water would save him from Hell, I would give him fire to drink. At Castle Carena but lately, when I was reciting my stanzas in lament of Ferragus, which is the best and longest poem I have composed, he snatched the lute from my hands.”
For the first time Shea felt a certain sympathy with Atlantès’ bull-like nephew. However, he said: “Okay, then, I need Roger in my business. Specifically, I want to kidnap him and get him back to Carena. You help me do it, and I think I can show you how to get Belphegor out of hock.”
The handsome face distorted into lines of fear. “O Harr, Roger is so potent that no ten could stand against him. In Allah alone is protection, but we two would be to him as mice before an eagle.”
“Take it or leave it,” said Shea coolly. What he really wanted was to get Belphegor out of there and never mind the small change, but the chances of restoring his wife’s Belphebe memory were not too good unless he could get her to Chalmers, with the latter’s superior knowledge both of psychiatry and of magic. If Medoro just wouldn’t play, however, he could back down at the last moment.
Someone howled at the door of the tent. The servant scampered through, and returned presently with a package that proved to contain the arms. Shea examined them while Medoro remained sunk in gloomy thought. The sword, while still a curved saber with most of the weight toward the point, was straighter than most, and the smith had ground a fine needle point to it. There was also a spiked steel cap with a little skirt of chainmail to protect the neck, a dagger, a small round shield of brass hammered thin, and a mail-shirt.
Shea laid them down and turned to Medoro. “Well?”
The young Saracen looked at him craftily. “O Lord Harr, how lies it in your power to perform things for which half this army were not enough?”
The Complete Compleat Enchanter Page 36
