The Dragon and the Djinn

  "No," said Jim, feeling Angie's eyes stony upon him. "It's too much of a chance. You should probably follow this up as quickly as possible. I'd like to go more than I can tell you, Brian. But I think in this case, you'd better go alone."

  The light that they had seen in Brian's face from the moment he had come in, the light and the excitement, had completely gone out of it. Now his back stiffened.

  "Of course," he said, "you are absolutely right, as usual, James. It would be too much of a gamble; and I can indeed understand why you would want to wait here to be on hand to make sure of the Falon wardship. We will say no more of it."

  "If there's any other way in which I can help you, Brian," said Jim earnestly. "I don't know what it would be; but since I have some magic at my disposal, maybe we could set up something, or think of something—some way in which I could be useful to you while I'm still here."

  "No, no. Not necessary at all," said Brian. "As I say, we will speak no more of it. In any case, I should have asked you how you and your people came through the storm. I and mine were safe within our walls, with all we needed to survive; but you have serfs and tenants in out-lying buildings; and if I mistake not even some cattle in the open. Did you lose much of importance because of the snow and the wind and the fierce drop in temperature?"

  "No, surprisingly not," said Jim. "I've just come back from flying around the estate in my dragon body; and I found almost nothing in the way of problems. I did help a few people, including the widow Tebbits, who had run out of firewood. But actually, it did us no harm at all."

  "I'm glad to hear it," said Brian, rising from the table. "But, now that I think on it, there is still light enough for me to get back to Castle Smythe this eve before total darkness; and while there's wind, there is no snow. Indeed, the weather is not as bad as I've endured many times before. I think I will leave, then. You will understand there are things that I must make ready, a great deal of planning and arrangement so that Castle Smythe will go forward properly while I am gone; because I will probably not be able to take anyone with me, even John Chester."

  John Chester was Brian's squire, and the last person Brian would ordinarily leave behind. A coolness had come into the atmosphere, however; and it was very clear that any protest by Jim or Angie, that Brian should stay after all, would have no success and possibly just make the situation that much more awkward. Jim and Angie stood up also.

  "Well, good luck," said Jim.

  "Yes, Brian," said Angie. "Be careful—for Geronde's sake as well as your own. And for ours."

  "A prudent knight takes no unnecessary risks," said Brian. "The same may be said of a prudent traveler—and I shall be both. Farewell, then. If there is any news that I can send back from this Palmyra place, Geronde will have it; and she will let you know."

  The light was going from the day, and the warmth of being together had already departed from their little gathering in the Great Hall. They accompanied Sir Brian to the far end of the hall, where servants helped him back into his armor and outdoor traveling cloak. His horse was brought around; and they stood for a moment in the doorway, watching him out of sight across the courtyard and beyond the gates, until he could be seen no longer.

  Chapter Four

  For nearly five weeks neither Jim nor Angie mentioned Brian or Geronde to each other. This was unusual, since normally they talked everything over. But in this case, Jim had a new feeling of guilt, this time about their last meeting with Brian; and he suspected that Angie had, too—so the subject was bound to be a little touchy.

  It stayed there, like a sort of half-forgotten headache that would surface from time to time when there was nothing else to think about. But still, with time, it was surfacing less often, when unexpectedly there was a blast of a silvery horn from outside the castle walls—not the braying of a cow's horn, or even one fitted with a nipple to act as a hunting horn—but the sound that only a true musical instrument could make; and a man-at-arms came running to them from the guard on the gate, meeting them just as they stepped outside the Great Hall, on their way to see what was happening themselves.

  "M'lord! M'lady!" gasped the man-at-arms, a relative youngster with the bright blue eyes common in the countryside and a shock of slightly reddish hair. "Yves Mortain sends to say that it is Sir John Chandos who approaches, with a dozen mounted men-at-arms."

  "Well," said Jim. "Welcome him! Welcome him! Run back and tell them on the gate he's to be brought in with all courtesy!"

  The message bearer spun around and dashed off ahead of them again.

  "You'd think they'd all realize by this time," grumbled Jim, "Sir John's welcome here anytime."

  "That's not the point," said Angie beside him. "They're doing what they're supposed to. And, anyway, how do they know but what Sir John's turned out to be an enemy, since he was last here at Malencontri? Things like that happen in this time, you know."

  "I suppose," said Jim, still dissatisfied. "What I wouldn't give for just some kind of speaking tube that would reach from the Great Hall to the front gate."

  He wiggled his shoulders uncomfortably, for although the day was bright, and the castle walls around the courtyard cut off most of the breeze from him, he and Angie had come out dressed as they were for the relative warmth inside the castle. It was a bright day and a relatively still one as far as moving air went—but it was still February.

  "Yves Mortain is simply doing his job," said Angie.

  "Yes, you're right," said Jim. Yves Mortain had been named Chief man-at-arms when Theoluf had been elevated to the position of Jim's squire. Yves was entirely competent; and, to tell the truth, Jim was secretly aware that Yves knew a lot more than he did about how a castle should be defended and a watch on the gate should be kept.

  But already through the doors of the gate, opening now to the bridge above the moat, the sound of the hooves of the first two horses of their visitors were audible, and Sir John rode through the gate into the courtyard, looking elegant and barely middle-aged as usual, on a large black stallion which whisked its tail as it approached, as proudly and cheerfully as if it was just starting the day's trip, not ending it. It halted in front of them.

  "Sir John!" said Jim happily. "It's good to see you!"

  Sir John took off his steel cap with a flourish.

  "Sir James, Lady Angela!" he said. "I bring special news for you, and I wanted to be the first to get it to you. So I have come down from London. Shall we go inside?"

  "Absolutely!" said Jim. He looked around for his squire.

  But Theoluf had already appeared, with a man-at-arms to lead the train of Sir John's armed retainers off to the stables for their horses, and to shelter for themselves, as well as, undoubtedly, to food and drink. Theoluf himself came forward to hold the head of the stallion, as Sir John swung down from the saddle.

  "By your leave, Sir John," said Theoluf, "I will have him in the third stall from the front door to the stables and the best care taken of him. May I ask his name?"

  "He is Tonnere de Beaudry," said Sir John.

  "This way, if you please, Tonnere de Beaudry," said Theoluf, addressing the war horse with the courtesy its worth deserved, and leading it off.

  Sir John turned back to Jim and Angie, and all three together began the walk toward the entrance of the Great Hall. Thoroughly chilled by this time, Jim would just as soon have moved a little faster, but manners dictated that their stroll to the front door be leisurely.

  "I can only stay the night," said Sir John. "I have matters to deal with in the west. But my way led by Malvern Castle, where I had hoped to possibly encounter Sir Brian without turning aside—for Smythe Castle was out of my way. I wished to bring him his Majesty's personal congratulations on winning the Earl of Somerset's Christmas tourney. His Majesty was held in thrall by the description of that tourney by Richard de Bisby, Bishop of Bath and Wells. But Sir Brian was gone, unfortunately, to the Holy Land. Lady Geronde de Chaney, however, gave me shelter for the night. While I'm here, though, I mus
t say how I, myself, was impressed by the way the Earl's troll, under your handling, of course, handled those five good knights of ours. He is indeed an unusual troll, both in size and, I assume, in attitude."

  "Yes, you could say that about him," said Jim. "I didn't see you in the stands, though. I looked for you by the Earl—"

  He broke off, feeling an impulse to bite his tongue, though the words were already out. By his status, if not his official rank, Sir John should have been seated very close to the Earl, but he had not been.

  "Oh that," said Sir John lightly. "I was sitting with an old friend, a fellow campaigner, on one of the lower tier of benches there. But I missed nothing—"

  He turned to Angie.

  "—And I was most impressed by the diversion you arranged for us on the last night of Christmas, m'lady."

  "Well, thank you," said Angie. "But I enjoyed putting it on, as much probably as anybody watching it."

  They passed through the door into the relative warmth of the hall, still chatting, Sir John, Jim noticed, did not seem in any hurry to get to what he had come to see them about. Bad news, perhaps. The most probable thing was that there had been some hitch in the wardship proceedings for Robert Falon, and Sir John was planning to break this to them gently—possibly over dinner.

  But Jim was wrong. After they had been sitting and making light conversation for a while at the high table over wine and oreoles—which were something like small, holeless donuts in fantastic shapes, with a certain amount of fruit preserves in them—Sir John's squire approached the table and stood waiting patiently until he should be noticed, Sir John eventually did.

  "Ah," he said. "You found it. In good shape I see. Pass it up to me, here."

  The squire handed him what looked like a square of folded parchment, its edges sewn together so that it would not open up into its normal, larger shape.

  "You may go," said Sir John to the squire, and turned to Jim and Angie, the package in his hand. "I suppose I should wait until some high point of our meeting to give you this," he said. "But I know you are anxious to learn what is in it. Therefore…"

  He passed the package to Jim, sitting next to him; and Jim overcame his own overwhelming desire to hand it on to Angie, to whom it mattered most—if it was what he thought it was. But the manners of the period were that it should pass from Sir John to him, since he would be the responsible recipient.

  Jim took out his belt knife, cut the stitching that held the parchment closed; and, sure enough, it opened up into a single sheet with a heavy seal, pressed on to a strip of smaller parchment fed through two slits at the bottom of the letter, so that it hung down from the page almost the way a pendant would hang down on a human neck.

  He looked at the writing on the parchment sheet.

  It was in fairly readable medieval "Latin"—done by a clerkly hand with the style particular to the time and originator, with various ornate flourishes, including the fairly common so-called "clubbed ascenders"—the vertical strokes of certain letters being pushed upward and thickened, so it looked like those words were carrying spears.

  He read the written words with some little difficulty, but with reasonable ease—

  Edwardus Dei gracia Rex Anglie et Francie et dominus Hibernie omnibus ad quos presentes litere pervenerint saluten…

  Even as he watched the Latin suddenly blurred before his eyes and turned into English. It was that same overall magic that he had long since decided had been doing a constant job of translating not merely different languages, such as French, but innumerable different dialects, and the speech of wolves, Sea Devils and the like, to a sort of common, modern English, understandable to both his and Angie's ear.

  In English it began: "Edward by the grace of God King of England and France and Lord of Ireland to all to whom these present matters are concerned, greeting."

  In the matter of Robert Falon, son of Ralph Falon, Baron of Chene, now deceased, concerning the wardship of said Robert Falon until he shall be of age…

  Jim's eyes slid rapidly down the page. It was what he and Angie had been hoping. The wardship had been assigned to him; and at the very bottom was the royal seal that he had noticed the minute the letter was opened. Without a word, he passed it to Angie. Angie's eyes filled with tears.

  "We must celebrate," said Jim. He turned to Sir John. "I don't know how to thank you, Sir John. We weren't expecting an answer on this for months; in fact, I had understood it might even be years before something like this was decided on."

  "It can sometimes well be," said Sir John. "However, those close about the King decided that it would be best if his Majesty saw to the safe-keeping of young Robert Falon with dispatch, his royal command passing over ordinary procedure. You have the good Bishop of Bath and Wells, Richard de Bisby, to thank in part. He made a visit to court and his arguments for you to be appointed had a powerful effect on his Majesty, who may God bless."

  "Amen," said Jim and Angie dutifully.

  Jim cleared his throat, embarrassed; for Sir John had uttered the last words with a perfectly straight face. Jim could imagine the Bishop's powerful voice and determined attitude having its effect on a king who only wanted to be left free of state responsibilities.

  "You won't mind a little celebration, considering you've got to ride again tomorrow?" he asked Sir John.

  "Certes, in this instance, absolutely not," said Sir John.

  So they celebrated, medieval style, with the best of wine and the best of food; and by whatever occult means it was done, the word spread through the castle to all the servants. The result was all of them also went around beaming; quite as if the wardship had been given not merely to Jim but to all of those at Malencontri, collectively.

  Their general happiness, and Jim and Angie's as well, lasted until the next morning, when they waved Sir John Chandos and his troop of men-at-arms off on his further journeys.

  But then it began to fade as they walked slowly together back into the castle and climbed the stairs to their solar. They had both fallen silent, and it lasted even in the solar for a little while, until Angie, looking not at him but out one of the solar's windows, spoke.

  "Well," she said in a low voice, "you're free to go now."

  "Go?" said Jim, with complete understanding and acute discomfort.

  "You know what I mean," said Angie. She turned around to face him. "To that place—Palmyra—that Brian's going to. I mean, that he's probably gone to already by this time. You're free to follow him, now."

  "No, I'm not," said Jim reflexively.

  Angie looked away from him again. It was almost as if she had not heard what he had said.

  "You know," she went on in the same low voice, "I started thinking, some time back, how I'd feel if I was Geronde and you were going to try to find my father; and how I'd feel about you not having Brian with you."

  "It's not the same situation," said Jim. "With Robert Falon belonging to us now, we're a family. Besides"—he tried to prod a smile from her—

  "I'm wounded, deeply wounded, by the thought you don't trust me out alone without Brian to protect me."

  "It's not funny," said Angie, looking squarely at him. "I worry a lot less when Brian's with you and you're off on one of these things—a lot more than I would if he wasn't there."

  "Anyway," said Jim, "we've already told Brian I wouldn't go. He's undoubtedly left some weeks ago; and there's nothing to be done about it now."

  "Isn't there?" said Angie.

  "Well," said Jim, feeling uncomfortable, "barring the possibility that I could catch up with him. But you still don't really want me to go, do you?"

  "Of course I don't," said Angie. "But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you should go."

  "That's something no one can tell for sure."

  "Maybe we can," said Angie. "Anyway, I think we ought to go and have a talk with Geronde."

  Jim stared at her.

  "You've already decided to let me go, haven't you?" he asked.

  "Yes," said Angie, almost angri
ly. "But I want both of us to talk to Geronde first."

  "Maybe that's a good idea," said Jim. "To be truthful, Angie, it's been gnawing at me a little that I didn't say yes, in the first place, when Brian asked me to go. But by all means, let's find out Geronde's point of view on it. Maybe—well, let's go talk to her anyway."

  He stood up.

  "You don't mean now?" said Angie.

  "It's still early in the day," Jim said.

  "It's a three-hour ride over there in this weather," Angie said, "and if we have any kind of a talk with her, it'll be too late to ride back. That means we've got to stay the night. That means we've got to take our bedding along with us. I love Geronde, but I wouldn't sleep in one of the beds in her castle without my own bedding unless someone forced me to it at the point of a knife. Can't you just take us over there by magic?"

  "Carolinus warned me against using too much of my magic, even though I've got an open drawing account," said Jim. "I've been meaning to tell you about that. It was the day Brian came—and that drove Carolinus clear out of my head. He warned me to always be as careful to use as little magic as possible—so I'd have enough for any emergency."

  "Well, then," said Angie, "isn't there some way you can turn into a dragon and just carry me over by air?"

  "No," said Jim slowly. "A dragon really hasn't got that much lifting power. An adult human is more than one can fly off with. Remember back in the twentieth century how there were old folk tales of eagles flying off with babies? Well, the truth of the matter is there was no truth to them. A baby weighing much more than ten pounds would be too much for any eagle to carry. For the same reason, an adult human being would be too much for me to carry. I might be able to get you off the ground and sort of flop along with you for a short distance, but then I'd run out of strength; and we'd both come back to earth."

  He hesitated.

  "I don't suppose you'd like me to go alone—No," he answered himself as he saw her mouth open.

  "You're right. No," said Angie. "You don't think you should use the magic just this once?"