My Son, the Wizard

Chapter Sixteen

Matt’s stomach churned even faster than the whirlwind. “Somebody stop the merry-go-round!”

“Close your eyes!” Papa shouted.

Matt squeezed his eyes shut, hoping Papa was right and that it would help the motion sickness. He wished for a Dramamine, but had sense enough not to say it out loud.

Then the ground jarred up against his feet, canvas was flapping about him, and he spun one last time, then fell over. Dizzy and seasick, terrified that enemies might jump him, he tried to push himself to his feet, groping for his sword hilt.

Sure enough, rough voices shouted, and rougher hands clamped down on his own. Somebody snatched the sword hilt out from under his hand; somebody else yanked his arms up high behind his back. He bent forward, still trying to struggle up from his knees.

“No more!” a clear tenor commanded. “I must speak clearly with men who come by such magic as this!”

Finally Matt’s vision cleared, and he found himself staring at a Persian carpet. Panting, he glanced around frantically and saw Papa kneeling, bent forward, arms forced up behind his back by a robed and turbaned African. Matt felt massive relief that Papa was okay, or at least no worse off than he himself.

He resisted the urge to transport them both out of there with a spell. After all, he’d worked very hard to come here, hadn’t he? He turned his gaze forward and stared up at the figure reclining before him in a sea of cushions.

“I am Tafas bin Daoud,” the young man said. “Who are you, and how have you come here?”

Matt stared, and had to suppress an urge to call the roll. The kid looked scarcely old enough to have graduated from high school. He was slender and fine-featured, with dark skin, a high forehead, straight nose, and smooth cheeks… either he had a really excellent barber, or he had just had this week’s shave.

But his chin was strong, the set of his mouth was determined, and his eyes flashed with a lively and curious intelligence. Somehow, Matt felt certain he would have been an ideal student in an American university.

But he wasn’t in a classroom; he was in a tent big enough to be a small house, with tapestries hanging as partitions between rooms and big, stem-faced men in turbans and robes watching him with eagle eyes over hawk noses, hands fingering the hilts of scimitars and curved knives. Some of them were very dark-skinned, some light, some every gradation between; some were clearly Africans and some equally clearly Arabs. Some wore mustaches, some were clean-shaven… but all looked ready to kill Matt on the spot. They were only waiting for the Mahdi’s nod… and he was only waiting to hear what these strangers said.

Matt had better make it good.

“Good evening… ” Matt wondered about the form of address, and settled for “… Lord Tafas. I am Matthew Mantrell, Lord Wizard of Merovence.” He snapped a glare over his shoulder at the man holding him. The soldier stared in surprise; his hold loosened for a second, and Matt forced himself to his feet. “May I introduce my father, Ramon, Lord Mantrell.”

Papa looked up, eyebrows raised at the title.

The Mahdi’s eyes widened. “Ramon? You are of Ibile?” He finally seemed to notice Papa’s indelicate position and waved impatiently at the guard holding him. “Let him stand… we must honor enemies of such caliber.”

The guard reluctantly let Papa up, but kept hold of his hands.

“I am not of Ibile, Lord Tafas,” Papa said, “but my grandfather was. He crossed the Pyrenees in his youth to escape an evil tyrant.”

“Gordogrosso.” Tafas nodded. “Yes, the sage could not bid us march against Ibile until that corrupted king’s vicious force was gone.”

Matt thought of explaining that Papa had been talking about Franco, not Gordogrosso, but decided to let it pass.

“So now you come to reclaim your father’s estate,” the Mahdi inferred.

“No, Lord Tafas, we come to protest servants of the same God fighting one another.”

The kid on the throne stared, amazed by Papa’s audacity. So did Matt, though he’d been planning to say the same thing. The guards and officers around the room muttered in anger.

Tafas turned to Matt. “Do you, too, wish to follow your father’s cause?”

“Of course.” This wasn’t the time to explain who was following whom. “But at the moment, Lord Tafas, I’m astounded that you have come so far from Gibraltar so fast.”

Tafas waved the hidden compliment away. “These cowards of Ibile do not even stay to fight… they are gone before our army so much as sees their towns.”

So King Rinaldo was evacuating the towns that he knew he couldn’t defend, and avoiding a pitched battle. Wise. Probably overly cautious in getting the civilians out… Tafas’s troops seemed to be tightly disciplined… but soldiers on campaign had reputations for their dealings with civilians, so Rinaldo was probably wise. Besides, though most Muslims didn’t convert people by the sword, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t start, and there were always people hungry for martyrdom.

It also smacked of Rinaldo’s gathering his forces. He wondered what the King of Ibile was planning.

Tafas’s turn. “By what magic have you come here?”

“Oh, that?” Matt tried to be nonchalant. “A djinna gave us a ride.”

A murmur of surprise and wariness passed through the tent, and Tafas stared, a piercing look that seemed to go right though Matt. The young man asked, “A djinna? A female of the djinn? They are rarely seen!”

“Yes,” Matt agreed, “but very much worth the seeing. Seemed to be powerful enough, too.”

“How did you compel one of the djinn?” the Mahdi asked, wide-eyed.

“I didn’t.” Matt shook his head. “Just the other way, in fact. Her mortal master sicced her on me, sent her to try to kill me, so I had to free her from his spell in self-defense.”

The murmur was one of awe and fear now, and Tafas exclaimed, “Freed her? But a djinna must have been compelled by the Seal of Solomon!”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Matt said. “I mean, once you seal a djinni in a bottle with the Seal of Solomon, he stays there… and if you let him out, he’s a wild force. No, tying djinn to lamps and rings and such is another spell entirely.”

The whole crowd stared. Even Tafas seemed suddenly nervous. “You are indeed a master of magic, are you not?”

For the umpteenth time, Matt felt like an absolute charlatan. He’d been studying everything he could find about the lore of magic ever since he’d come to Merovence, but still felt that he barely knew how much he didn’t know, and it didn’t help to remember that every brand-new Ph.D. in any field of study felt the same way. But in this universe, poetry was magic, and he did know verse. “Let’s say I’m an apt student.”

“Surely if you can loose the djinn from their bonds of magic, you are a master, not a student!”

“Well, yes, but we’re never done learning, are we?”

“Are we not?” Tafas asked, round-eyed, and watching him, Matt could see that the so-called Mahdi had just absorbed something vital… and had suffered a major blow to his overconfidence.

Suddenly, Matt felt vastly wiser than the boy, and very, very old. “No one can make you keep learning, milord… but I’ve seen people who stopped. They grow stiff and narrow in their minds; they see less and less of the world around them, and never realize that it has changed since they were young, when everything was new and they delighted in each discovery. After a while, they grow so bored with life that they start wanting to die.”

Tafas almost managed to keep his shudder from showing. “A horrible fate! But how can people find new things to learn? Once you have memorized the Koran, what else is there to know?”

Somehow, Matt didn’t doubt this kid had memorized every letter of the holy book. “There is an ocean of commentary, just to begin with, which is what turns a man into a quadi, a judge, or a muzzein. Then, too, did you learn strategy from the Koran, or from campaigning?”

“I see your thought.” Tafas carefully evaded the question. “Perhaps it is that the Koran is life, and there is always more to learn about it.”

Some of the older men around the room were frowning. They had the look of clerics about them, and Matt decided to tread warily. “God is infinite, milord. We can never be done learning about Him… but we must never shirk the obligation to do so, either.”

One or two of the old men nodded grudgingly, and Tafas’s eyes brightened. “That is quite true. Really, for an unbeliever, you show remarkable knowledge of the Faith. Are you sure you do not wish to profess Islam?”

Time to tread warily here, but the pride in Papa’s eyes boosted Matt’s confidence. “Rather, milord, I wish that all men who serve God by any name should ally with one another against the forces of Evil. Instead, we fight one another; instead, you have brought fire and sword into Ibile. Why did you not strike while Gordogrosso held this land in bondage, when your swords could have been striking the agents of Satan?”

“Why, the greatest reason is that I was too young.” Tafas smiled, secure on home ground again. “As soon as I was old enough to bear arms, though, I did strike.”

“But not against King Gordogrosso, who served Satan and who used evil magic to make himself young time and time again, so that he might rule Ibile for hundreds of years.” Matt frowned. “Why did the armies of Islam not surge up from Morocco when he first usurped the throne? Why didn’t the Moors attack him at any time during the centuries that followed?”

Tafas frowned. “I cannot answer for men who died before I was born.”

They both knew the answer, of course… that Gordogrosso was ruthless and unbelievably cruel, and would have delighted in destroying any invaders in the most painful ways possible. But Rinaldo, being devoted to God and Good and Right, would show mercy to an enemy, and wait to attack until he was sure he couldn’t make peace. He also wouldn’t force every available man to fight for him, throwing the untrained against the Moors to die by thousands, wearing down the invaders so that the professionals could finish them off… and he wouldn’t call up demons to slaughter God-fearing enemies, either, as Gordogrosso would have done.

But there was no way to say that diplomatically; no matter how you phrased it, it would still sound like, “You guys were too chicken to attack when that ruthless sadist was on the throne, but now that the good guys have kicked him out, you’ve got courage enough to attack the nice ones who fight by the rules.”

Instead, Matt said, “Now that devout and godly people rule Ibile, it is no time for servants of God to go fighting one another, Lord Tafas.”

The old men frowned, but the Mahdi replied, quite calmly, “Islam must triumph throughout all the world, Lord Wizard. Ibile must surrender to Allah, and I am born to bring that to happen. Indeed, if Allah would have seen fit to bring me to life a hundred years ago, I would have marched an army against Ibile then, too.”

Matt didn’t doubt it… but he was pretty sure that Nirobus, or whoever had put Tafas up to this, wouldn’t have tried to talk him into it as long as the draconian Gordogrosso was on the throne. In fact, if Matt hadn’t been foolish enough to volunteer for the job in an unguarded moment, and if Heaven hadn’t poured as much moral support in as it could, Gordogrosso would still be ruling Ibile, and he doubted if any sorcerers would have tried to light a fire under Tafas then.

On the other hand, since those sorcerers probably worked for the same master as Gordogrosso, they probably wouldn’t have been allowed to challenge him… though Matt had noticed that Satan didn’t seem to mind how many of his servants killed each other off, as long as they didn’t weaken his side in the process. Seemed to encourage them, in fact. But that did raise the question of who Nirobus was working for. Were the Moors just pawns in a Hell-sponsored countercoup? If they were, what would happen to them when they had done Nirobus’ dirty work for him? More immediately, what would happen to this clean-cut young Mahdi?

This wasn’t quite the time to say that, though… Tafas wasn’t exactly in a mood to listen. Instead, Matt forced a smile and tried to hide his own skepticism. “I’m sure you would have attacked against any odds, my lord… if you had been born in those days.”

For a moment, the Mahdi’s whole face seemed to glow. “If I had been born, and if there had been a messenger from Allah to set me the task.”

Papa recognized hero worship when he heard it. “You met such a messenger, then?”

“I did,” Tafas answered, beaming. “Tell us of him,” Papa invited, “of this man who taught you of Islam’s destiny, and your own. What manner of clergyman was he?”

“He is a sage… not a clergyman, but a holy hermit living in a cave high in the Rif hills.” Tafas’ eyes glowed with fervor. “I came upon him while I was herding goats. ‘Why do you sit here idle, Tafas?’ he asked. Do you not see? He had never laid eyes on me, but he knew my name!”

“Very impressive.” Matt could think of half a dozen ways to learn a name, only two of which involved magic. Of course, the little problem of finding a boy who was a military genius, but who didn’t know it, was another matter entirely. “So it was he who showed you your destiny.”

“Of course.” Tafas fairly glowed with serenity, with the sure knowledge of his mission. It bordered on the kind of smugness that always made Matt angry. He fought the emotion down and asked, “What did he look like, this sage?”

“Quite simply dressed, but his robes were of a quality of cloth that I had never seen before, like silk, only thicker. They were midnight blue, and his beard and hair were gray. His eyes, though, were the arresting, magical feature of him… shining eyes they were, of silver, and made all his face seem to glow! I knew on the instant that I addressed a holy man, an emissary of Allah.”

The old men murmured pious Arabic phrases. Matt, however, recognized the description of Nirobus without any difficulty, though he would have described his eyes as gray, not silver… and the cloth had to be polyester! “He showed you your destiny by quoting the Koran?”

“No. He set his fingers on my temples and brought up visions behind my eyes… visions of the siege of Aldocer, of an army of Moors marching toward Vellese, of victory after victory to claim Ibile!”

“But no mention of the Koran,” Matt said, frowning. “No. First he sent me to wizards, who imbued me with strength and taught me the use of weapons, of the strategies and tactics of all the generals who had conquered Northern Africa before me. Then, when they judged me ready, they sent me to the mosque in Casablanca, to present myself to the muzzein. He knew me for what I was at a glance and took me to the emir, who allowed me to swear allegiance to him, then made me a general over one of his armies and enjoined me to conquer Ibile.”

“Oh, I’ll just bet he did.” Matt had a vision of a shrewd middle aged man recognizing a talented, charismatic upstart who could gather enough of a following to strike a coup d’etat. No wonder the emir had sent him off to pick a fight with a whole country and get himself killed. How could the emir have known Tafas would win?

But he had won, and that, of course, made him a real threat to the throne. Somehow Matt had a notion that if he needed allies against Tafas, the Emir of Morocco would volunteer for the head of the list. “But it was the sage, the holy man in the hills in his wondrous robes of blue, who gave this victory into my hand!” Tafas enthused. “But you have said yourself that he wasn’t a clergyman,” Matt said, frowning.

“Can he really be holy if he sends you to cause pain and suffering? Can the work he wishes you to do by fire and the sword really be God’s work?”

The old men stiffened, glaring, and set up a furious babble. The soldiers stiffened, too, and took firmer grips on their spears. But Tafas only held up his hand and waited for silence. When it came, he told Matt serenely, “Suffering is only momentary, Lord Wizard.”

“Tell that to the widow who must scrape out a bare living because her husband was slain in war,” Matt countered “Hunger is illusion,” Tafas told him, still serene “All suffering is illusion.”

“Mighty painful illusion.”

“It is not real people who are cut or beaten,” Tafas explained. “Martyrs for Islam are snatched away at the last second, and stocks put in their place. That which is hurt is not truly human… indeed, it is only a waking dream, and does not exist at all.”

Matt stared. Could the poor naive kid really believe that line?

Before he could collect his wits to answer, though, Papa frowned and said, “Shame on you, young man, for regarding people as objects, not true beings! Do you think ordinary peasants slain in war will be whisked away to Heaven before any great pain is visited upon them? Do you truly believe one of these ‘stocks’ you mention will be set in the place of a woman about to be raped, that the screams and cries for mercy will come from the throat of some sort of magical automaton?”

“Allah would not permit such suffering!” Tafas protested.

“Yet real people suffer every day, and a thousand times worse when war tears them apart. Their cries will rend your ears every night, young man, and their deaths will weigh heavily on your conscience.”

“Human life has value only insofar as it advances the cause of Islam!” one of the old men snapped.

“Every human life is sacred to God,” Papa retorted. “You hurt Him when you hurt anyone, no matter how poor or worthless they may seem.”

“Blasphemy!” the imam cried. “Mahdi, you have heard the heresy for yourself. It is thus that Christians seek to make gods of men!”

“Your war is a Holy War, O Mahdi!” cried another. “Surely you cannot believe the words of your enemies! They seek only to prevent your winning Ibile for Allah!”

“We wish Moors and Christians to be friends,” Matt protested.

“Yes,” snapped another old man, “with the Moors in Morocco and the Christians in Ibile! Lord Tafas, can you not see how they seek to betray your goodwill?”

“I see that they seek to thwart the cause of Islam,” Tafas said heavily. “Yet we cannot simply hew off the head of the Lord Wizard of Merovence.”

“If you do, you shall rid yourself of one of the most powerful of your enemies!”

Matt took a deep breath, recalling a particularly gory passage from Byron.

“If I do behead him,” Tafas said, “I shall bring down the full wrath of the Queen of Merovence and all her allies, and though I am ready for her alone, I am not yet strong enough to fight such a coalition. No, I about to go must consider most carefully how to deal with this unbeliever.” His voice was very sad. “It is a shame that you cannot see the truth, Lord Wizard. I would have valued your friendship.”

“That friendship was offered, Lord Tafas.” Fear riddled Matt… to say the least, he and Papa were outnumbered. But he kept his voice level. “It still is.”

“Such friendship cannot be lightly turned away,” Tafas replied, “but I must consider carefully how I am to respond, without wronging you or betraying the cause of Islam. You will be my guests for the night, and have every comfort we can provide.”

“Every luxury except freedom, huh?”

“That, I fear, I cannot accord you.” Tafas waved to the guards. “Raise a pavilion and escort our guests to its shelter.”

The guards bowed, then turned on Matt and Papa, half a dozen of them, huge, muscular, and glaring.

Papa braced himself, frowning.

“You are very kind,” Matt said quickly. “We are fortunate in your hospitality.” He bowed, then turned away toward the door. “I get to try room service first, Papa.”

Papa stared, taken by surprise, then smiled and followed Matt.