“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.
Chapter Seventeen
The pavilion was of silk, but the guards walked the two men around it several times as it was being raised, no doubt to point out the lack of a back door, and to introduce them to the sentries who were standing, two by two, at each corner.
“It’s nice to feel secure,” Matt told Papa.
Papa gave him a peculiar look, but only said, “Yes, it will be pleasant to sleep in safety.”
When the pavilion was up and the front flap raised to form an awning, they went in. A guard lit a lamp for them; another set out a bowl and pitcher for washing, a third placed a tray with a small brass pot and two shot-glass-sized cups. They all retreated, bowing, leaving the father-and-son team alone.
“Not bad.” Matt looked around at the walls of maroon silk, letting himself enjoy the feeling of the thick Oriental carpet beneath his feet. “Certainly a lot better than some of the jails I’ve been in.”
Papa stared. Then he frowned, stern and forbidding. “You have been in jail?”
“At least once a year, ever since I came to Merovence. Has something to do with fighting evil tyrants for the sake of the rightful queen.” He smiled at Papa. “Of course, when you’re in love with her, it’s worth the inconvenience.”
Papa stared for a moment, then gave him a smile that combined warmth, shared understanding, and pride. “As long as you weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“Only by the most puritanical definition. In fact, in this world, you can land in prison for doing right.”
Papa grinned. “Well, if you were a respectable criminal, I cannot but approve.”
“Anyway, it’s the first jail I’ve seen here that had coffee.” Matt stepped over to the low table, sank down on the cushions around it, and inhaled the strong, heady aroma from the little brass coffeepot. “In fact, it’s the first coffee I’ve seen anywhere in this world! After we get this little misunderstanding about conquest straightened out, we’ll have to see about establishing trade.”
“You’re not really planning to sit there and do nothing!”
“What can I do?” But Matt pointed toward the silken wall, then pointed to his ear.
Papa’s eyes widened. He got the message… every word they said was going to be heard very clearly. He sank down on the cushions across from Matt, reached inside his medieval doublet, and pulled out a very modern notepad and ballpoint.
Matt grinned. “The old professor strikes again, eh?”
Papa nodded at the wall and pointed at his ear, saying, “Lifetime habits don’t die just because of a change of scene.”
It was true; Matt couldn’t remember his father ever being without writing materials in some pocket or another. Still, he had to keep the chatter going, or the people outside would start wondering what mischief he was conjuring up.
Papa seemed to be thinking the same way. “It is my fault that we are here at all. I am sorry for my outburst, Matthew. I simply could not bear to hear such specious reasoning any longer.” But he pushed the pad over to Matt.
“Don’t worry… you were only ahead of me by a minute or so.” Matt scribbled a note on the pad. “Mind you, I would have tried to put it nicely, but it still would have sounded like blasphemy to them. Christianity and Islam may come from the same source, but there really is a fundamental difference in the way they see the world.”
He turned the pad around so Papa could read it: We’re going to break out, of course.
“A fundamental difference, yes.” Papa took the pen and scribbled a response. “But I recognize the boy’s attitude. He is a typical adolescent, assuming that he is right, and that anyone older must be wrong.” He passed the pad back. It bore one single word: How? Matt grinned. “Mark Twain’s old line about being eighteen, and realizing that his father was so stupid he was ashamed to be seen with him?” He took the pen and wrote, I’ll try a few magical probes first, to see if they’ve put prison spells on us. If they haven’t, I’ll have us ten miles away in a jiffy.
“Yes,” Papa said, to both spoken and written comments. Matt started writing again, and Papa padded.
“Of course, Twain went on to say that when he was twenty-two, he was amazed to discover how much the old man had learned in four years.”