Dragon - The Dragon And The Djinn Part 17

"I've heard that," said Jim; and, indeed, he had, although he had not remembered it until just this moment. It was another tag of knowledge from the twentieth-century world he and Angie had left behind.

"What about my using magic?" he said. "How do you suppose the Mongols would react to that?"

"I think it would serve you very well," said abu al-Qusayr. "It may even gain you some respect among them. They will cla.s.s you with their shamans, who indeed are magickians of a sort, although they are other things as well, including being religious figures among the Mongols."

"Speaking of magic," said Jim, "I've been enjoying the control of temperature you have in this house of yours. That will be magic, of course?"

"It is my one indulgence," said abu al-Qusayr, with something very like a sigh, "as your Master, Carolinus, indulges himself with flowers and green turf through the year, around his small cottage. When you reach A level, my son, experience will have made you clever in knowing how you can achieve your ends without magick; and consequently you will have magickal energy to spend on an indulgence or two."

He sighed again.

"I say an indulgence or two," he went on, "because the architecture of this home of mine reflects an ancient memory, an ancient, fond memory, of the time when ours was a great civilization here to the south of the Mediterranean Sea. We had builders and scholars and wise men of many kinds. But then Genghis Khan's Mongols came and the cities were conquered or destroyed; and with them went much of the ways of thought and wisdom. Now I live alone and quietly; and seldom do I have a chance for discourse with one who thinks and ponders what he thinks and looks at the world to try and understand what he sees in it."

He paused, and then almost visibly shook himself out of what seemed to be a sort of half-dream.

"But I talk too much about myself," he said. "More to the point is that, speaking of wise men and scholars, there are still a few thinkers wandering the world. You'll encounter one in the caravan. He's a young man still-no more than thirty years of age I would say-his name is ibn-Tariq and you may find his conversation a boon to you on the long ride to Palmyra. Have you ever ridden a camel before?"

"No," said Jim.

"You will find it interesting," said abu al-Qusayr.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

"Interesting" was not the word Jim would have chosen for the experience of riding a camel.

The caravan with which he, along with Brian and Hob, had left was five days out of Tripoli on the route that would take it eventually through Palmyra, climbing the steep path into the mountains, and Jim had yet to get any real control over the beast he rode.

It had to be made to kneel in order for him to get on the saddle because of the enormous height of its legs; and anyone else in the caravan, except Brian who was having the same sort of trouble, could make it do so simply by tapping its neck with a thin stick. Jim could tap away lightly or strongly or any way he wanted; and the camel simply ignored him. What the trick was, he had yet to learn. Also, the camel was equipped with reins, with which he should be able to guide it like a horse. But it ignored Jim's attempt to do any such thing.

What it would do, entirely on its own, was plod along in line with the other camels as long as they kept moving. When the other camels stopped, it stopped. It smelled, it made noisy bubbling sounds, and it was as indifferent to Jim on its back as if he had been a piece of baggage.

The one welcome thing about it was its pace, after the familiar jolting of a trotting horse. The camel traveled by moving both legs on one side forward at the same time. The result was joltless, and gave an almost soothing, rocking motion to the saddle. It occurred to Jim that it would be almost easy to sleep on the move in such a saddle-even more easy than in the Tuareg saddle with its high cross before the rider on which he could sleep, resting his arms on the crossbar and putting his head down on them.

In fact, Jim had already seen one of his fellow travelers sleeping hunched in his ordinary camel saddle.

This was a small, black-haired, bullet-headed man, with a short, curved sword and a couple of knives stuck into his belt, who rode with his legs crossed on the camel's neck before him, and who, it turned out, was a Mongol.

His name was Baiju; and he was apparently one of a Mongol tribe or group that was in disagreement with the Mongols they might meet along the way. It was difficult to learn much from him; but there was a strangely dangerous air about him, and Jim noticed that the population of the caravan in general either avoided him or were careful about doing anything that might offend him.

But another traveler was indeed a blessing. He was ibn-Tariq, the wandering scholar and thinker that abu al-Qusayr had mentioned to Jim.

He was obviously a man of means. His clothes, his baggage, his voice and actions and even the way he sat his camel proclaimed the educated aristocrat. In any case, whether he actually was an aristocrat or not, he was most certainly educated.

Jim could not make his camel go to this man; but ibn-Tariq had no trouble bringing his alongside Jim, and telling him much about the country as they went through it, about caravans, trade, and the history of the land. He was a camel-portable encyclopedia.

Often, during their conversations, Brian would either manage to urge his camel up to join them, or else he would get the help of someone else to do it for him; for ibn-Tariq was interesting to listen to.

Baiju the Mongol, however, never came over to speak with Jim when ibn-Tariq was there; and came seldom enough when Jim was alone. It seemed to Jim that Baiju looked at him, and his inability to manage the beast he rode, with a certain amount of contempt. But it was a tolerant contempt, mixed with a remarkable amount of respect. Somehow, he had learned that Jim was a magician.

Jim wondered if ibn-Tariq also knew; but if so, he was having trouble thinking of a way to ask about this politely. Ibn-Tariq himself was a model of politeness.

"About the ghouls and demons and such in these mountains," Jim ventured finally during a conversation between them on the fifth day. "How likely are we to run into them?"

"I have no doubt they are all about us now, and will continue to be so for the length of our journey," said ibn-Tariq. Like Brian, he sat very straight-backed in his saddle so that he seemed taller than his actual height, which was actually slightly shorter than Jim's, but not by much. He had a high bridge to his nose, but otherwise his face was handsome in a lean sort of way, and remarkably relaxed. His brown eyes seemed to see beyond anything he looked at, as if he was aware of all the forces that moved it or caused it to be. "To say nothing of Djinn and the lesser devils, as well as a.s.sa.s.sins, Mongols and wild tribesmen who would rob us if they could."

"Shouldn't we be taking more care to protect ourselves against them, then?" Jim asked.

"I think we have relatively little to fear," said ibn-Tariq. "The ghouls prefer a single man, lost in the wastes. To him they appear as beautiful women-only when they open their mouths, it will be seen that the insides of those mouths are green. As you undoubtedly know, they devour mainly the dead, but will not hesitate to devour the living who are helpless to keep them off. The demons prefer for their prey those who have transgressed against the laws of G.o.d as laid down in the Koran. You are a nasraney, of course; and as an infidel would not be of great interest to them. I understand there are demons in your part of the world who would be, however; and of course against those you would have the protection of your faith, such as it is. Here, of course, it would not protect you against one of our demons, who know that there is no G.o.d but Allah. But I am interested. In what way would you protect yourself against one of your northern infidel demons?"

It was a polite opening for Jim to hint that magic, though unlike that of a demon, was also his game.

"I'm not all that sure we have individual demons where I come from, any more," said Jim. "They actually belong more to pagan superst.i.tion than anything else. There's the Dark Powers, of course; and they make and use such creatures as ogres, harpies and Worms. But none of those could properly be called demons. They're merely creatures created to physically attack humankind. They cannot be turned away, as ordinarily can all the Powers of Darkness, by such things as crossing yourself or saying the Lord's Prayer."

"Ah, yes," said ibn Tariq. "The prayer of Jesus of Nazareth. He is one of our saints, too, you know. A Muslim can invoke the name of Allah and hope for his protection; but whether he receives it or not will depend upon Allah's will. Few men are so sure of that, that they would chance going unscathed among the creatures of darkness. On the other hand, as I say, it is often those who have transgressed in the eyes of Allah, whom these creatures deliberately seek out."

"And the a.s.sa.s.sins or the Mongols?" asked Jim. "Any human enemies?"

"We are a large caravan," answered ibn-Tariq. "The a.s.sa.s.sins like to outnumber those they attack. Like whatever tribes that would prey upon us and live in these mountains, they are probably not numerous enough to make an attempt against us. Against a force of Mongols, of course, we would be helpless.

They would outnumber us and they are very fierce fighters. On the other hand, a force of Mongols would not be interested in anything as small as a caravan. They would probably be happening across us in the process of going toward something more important that they intended to attack, like a city."

He paused and looked at Jim, clearly inviting him to speak. Jim hesitated. It was very clear that ibn-Tariq wanted to ask if he had some magical powers that would allow him to defend himself, and possibly all of the caravan, against Mongols, if they should appear; but politeness would not allow him to ask the question in any direct or leading manner.

Unfortunately, a comparable wariness made Jim hesitate to bring it up himself. By this time he was almost certain that ibn-Tariq knew he was a magician; but that was not the same thing as the fact being openly acknowledged between them.

Jim's mind struggled for some subtle way of dealing with the situation. He was not capable of the intricate, polite ways of approaching the topic that ibn-Tariq possessed. On the other hand, ibn-Tariq was pointedly leaving it to him to be the one to establish the fact; and Jim, while not wanting to hide his magical status, on the other hand wanted to preserve as much as possible of his primary character as a bluff English knight. An English knight who might have many other failings, but had certainly had some schooling in courtesy-at least enough not to boast of his accomplishments.

It made for a definite awkwardness. Ibn-Tariq, as a traveling scholar, was eager to trade information for information. He would have liked to have learned from Jim as much about magic as Jim would tell him, the names of any particular magicians he had studied under, and so forth. He had been trying to prod Jim delicately into talking about this for four days now.

"I was fascinated," went on ibn-Tariq, when the pause had reached unnatural proportions, "to learn about the great nasraney magician of Cordoba, and how he saved the city from an attack once more than half a century ago."

It was another delicate feeler; clearly designed to give Jim the opportunity to talk of comparable powers and situations with regard to an appearance of the Mongols. Unfortunately, Jim had never heard of the great nasraney magician of Cordoba, a city in Spain which, during the eleventh and twelfth centuries, had been almost the center of the western world, as far as North Africa was concerned.

"Ah well," Jim said. "I suppose if the Mongols show up, we'll just have to be polite to them and hope everything goes well."

"Inshallah" ("It is the will of G.o.d"), said ibn-Tariq, defeated. "In any case, the sun is close to the mountain tops, now. Shortly we will be stopping for the night. I will ride forward and find out what our chosen stopping place will be like."

Ibn-Tariq rode on ahead, and Jim was left alone. He was not particularly disappointed in this because he wanted to think. He would have liked to have asked ibn-Tariq more about Palmyra, and the chance of finding Geronde's father there. But he hesitated to talk about that until this business of his being a magician had been abandoned between them. What he really wanted-and, in fact, he had been trying to get into words-was to ask ibn-Tariq to keep any information on both Jim and Brian to himself.

It could probably not be kept entirely quiet, but the problem was that the name "magician" in ordinary gossip and conversation easily slipped into being "great magician"; and great magicians attracted great interest. Great interest would stand in the way of his and Brian's investigation of Palmyra and the whereabouts of the Lord of Malvern, by as many discreet routes as possible.

Jim's main difficulty lay in the fact that, even with the help of his invisible and undoubtedly magic translator, he simply did not have the clever control of his tongue that ibn-Tariq had. He had yet to think of a good way of meeting ibn-Tariq halfway about the subject; so that it could be acknowledged between them without ever being put into words.

He was in the midst of this particular study when he became aware that he was no longer riding alone.

Another camel had moved in beside him, and it was the one with Baiju, the Mongol, on its back.

Baiju had been riding along with him for several minutes; but in his usual fashion, he seemed in no hurry to open conversation with Jim.

It was strange, thought Jim. According to all visible characteristics, Baiju should appear unimportant, if not ridiculous. He was not only a little man, but he seemed to ride hunched in the saddle, although Jim had finally decided that his posture was indeed not so much hunched, as completely relaxed.

In fact, he seemed more at home in his saddle than anyone else in the caravan. His face was dish-shaped, with slightly slanted eyes and high cheek bones and yellow skin. His very dark eyes were essentially expressionless. It was impossible to read anything from them as to how he was feeling, let alone what his intentions might be.

Still, he had been friendly enough, in his laconic way. He was the very opposite of ibn-Tariq, in that he did not so much reply to what was said to him, as simply utter flat statements. Jim knew he would not speak until Jim initiated the conversation.

"We will be stopping for the night, soon," said Jim. "It seems to me it's already starting to get cool; but then, we're steadily moving higher into the mountains."

He looked at Baiju, who, under a coat of mail, appeared to be wearing nothing but a thin shirt of dark blue color, made of what looked like some surprisingly modern, close-woven, thin material.

"You do not notice the cold of the mountain heights with only that shirt under your mail?" he asked.

"The shirt is silk," said Baiju.

Jim felt a little foolish. Of course the Mongols, with their connections to the Far East, would tend to have garments made of silk. In fact, now that he stopped to think about the robe he had seen abu al-Qusayr wear...

"Still," he said, "in the west, we're used to wearing a garment of padding under our chain mail. Don't you usually prefer wearing something like that? Or are ways of dressing simply different here?"

"It is silk because of the arrows," said Baiju. "When an arrow goes into the body, the silk is pushed in with it. It is then easy to remove the arrow by pulling gently on the silk."

Jim winced internally. He had never heard of such a way of dealing with arrows; but perhaps it made sense. Silk was an interesting cloth in many ways, and it might well have the characteristic of entangling the barbed ends of an arrow and the strength not to tear loose, but bring the arrowhead out when pulled, instead of just tearing loose when it was pulled upon. At the same time, having an arrow removed that way would not be the most comfortable of experiences-though, come to think of it, having the arrow cut out might be even worse.

"Are Mongol arrows always barbed?" he asked.

"Always," said Baiju.

"And do the arrows and suchlike vary from tribe to tribe?" Jim asked. "Maybe I should say from kingdom to kingdom-"

"They do not vary," said Baiju.

"In the west, our weapons vary," said Jim. "Generally, of course there's the short sword and the long; and various styles of them. But usually you can tell by the weapon and the way a man's dressed where he's from. How do you tell where another Mongol's from?"

"You look," said Baiju. Jim thought he would go on from those first two words, but evidently they were his complete answer.

"I suppose what I meant to ask," said Jim, "is what differences do you look for? What about him, his clothes or his weapons, or whatever, tell you who he is?"

"You look," said Baiju. "That is all. You look-and you know."

"I see," said Jim. "If we run into a force of Mongols, have you any idea which kingdom of Mongols they'll be?"

"They would be of the Golden Horde." Baiju leaned from his saddle and spat on the ground.

"Your people?" asked Jim.

"No," said Baiju. "I am of the Il-khanate," said Baiju. "We hold this land against the House of Juchi in the Golden Horde, to the north."

They rode in silence together for a little ways.

"Are the Golden Horde friends of the a.s.sa.s.sins?" asked Jim, finally. "Are there any Mongols among the a.s.sa.s.sins?"

"No," said Baiju. "The a.s.sa.s.sins are not warriors. Mongols are warriors."

"Ibn-Tariq," said Jim, "said the chances were we wouldn't be disturbed by a.s.sa.s.sins, anyway; because the caravan is too strong."

Baiju turned his head and looked directly into Jim's eyes. Then he looked away again. Jim was growing used to the little man's ways, and he recognized this as another gesture of contempt. Clearly Baiju did not think much of the caravan's fighting ability.

They had been climbing a rocky defile between two large stony cliffs that ended in what looked like razor-edged rocks. But now they came to the head of the defile and the walls dwindled on each side, letting them out into an open s.p.a.ce, filled with boulders of all sizes, from that of a pebble to that of a small house.

It looked like an ancient water course; and indeed it had a stream running through it. The stream was from a spring jetting out of the near vertical wall of a cliff right before them. Jim could hear the cries of camel riders ahead of him, reining in their camels and beginning to make them kneel. The stopping place for the night had been reached.

As the sun disappeared behind the mountains, and the light dwindled, most of the camels were at least partially unloaded and tents or tentlike shelters were set up. Thanks to abu al-Qusayr, Jim and Brian had two baggage camels as well as the two beasts they were riding, and one of these carried a tent, which they had learned to set up for themselves.

They got it up, got a cooking fire started just outside its front flap, using dried camel dung for fuel-it having formed part of their load for this section of the trip over the mountains. Baiju had gone off by himself. As far as Jim could see, the little man had no tent and merely curled up next to his camel, or in any convenient shelter from the wind he could find.

Ibn-Tariq had evidently joined another group, barely visible between the boulders at some little distance off, but it looked like a gathering of half a dozen of the merchants of the caravan in a sort of communal meal.

"These infidel messes do not really feed a man," grumbled Brian, as they sat down to eat the stew, made up of foodstuffs that were also part of their camel loads, and courtesy of abu al-Qusayr.

"Meat is scarce in these parts, evidently," said Jim. "For one thing they seemed to have nothing but goats-or perhaps sheep; although we haven't see many sheep so far."

"There were at least adequate sheep on Cyprus," said Brian. "A roast of mutton can fill a man's stomach. But a few strings of this goat meat can hardly make anything of a handful of vegetables."

In spite of what he was saying, Brian was managing to eat more heartily than Jim at this, their late meal of the day. They only had two, one on getting started in the morning and one after stopping at night.

"Perhaps we will see some wild goats, or other game that live in these mountains," said Jim. He started to take off the thick leather ankle-boots he had bought in Tripoli for this mountain crossing; then changed his mind. His feet would be warmer overnight if he left them on. "And be able to kill an animal or two to provide ourselves with meat."

"May St. Francis mercifully send it so," said Brian.

Hob had come out of his knapsack on Jim's back and was perched on Jim's shoulder. They were far enough away from other members of the caravan so that he would be invisible in the last of the twilight, and the faint illumination of the fire. In fact, anyone there seeing him would probably have taken him for a monkey-a hairless, rather strange-looking monkey, but a monkey, nonetheless. He was about the right size and shape.

In any case, he was good at being as near to invisible as possible. He reveled in these evening caravan stops; and went riding from one waft of smoke to another, over all the cooking fires of the caravan, to come back bursting with useless information; plus stories of demons and monsters he had overheard-in the talk of men who never thought of looking up into where the thinning smoke was lost against the darkening skies. Talk that he could hardly wait to tell Jim all about.

However, he was a considerate hobgoblin; and when he came back to their tent this night, to find both Jim and Brian asleep, he let them slumber peacefully. He went back out to lie on a waft of smoke from what was left above their own cooking fire; thoughtfully, when it burned low, stoking it up with more of the fuel that had been planned to last them until the end of their journey.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Jim woke to the feeling he was being suffocated. His mind was stunned and baffled, but his survival reflexes were working at full capacity. He burst through the front flap of the tent and came to full awakeness rolling down a rocky slope just outside it, rolling over and over, tightly locked with a slighter, hooded figure, who had been trying to wind a cloth around his head and tightly over his mouth and nose.