“We all know that well enough,” a lady sighed. “She is the daughter of Prester John's sister, who managed to send her baby into freedom before she died. Now the lass has come back to claim her mother's title.”
“And half the prince's inheritance, to boot,” a man said grimly.
Prince Tashih winced but waved a hand in dismissal of the notion. “I am sure my father will do what is right, and is best for the empire.”
“Or what he thinks is best,” said another courtier darkly. He thought that the road to success lay in putting into words the feelings the prince longed to articulate but would not, out of loyalty to his father. “Agreed, the young lady is charming—she might well charm him into giving her anything she wishes— but could she rule well or wisely?”
“She has shown no sign of a wish to rule.” The prince strove to disprove the very suspicion he had himself planted.
“If she does not,” said the first courtier, “why does your father wish her to come to know the land?”
The prince turned away in agitation, unable to refute his own point without seeming foolish.
Two of the younger courtiers, who had not been with the prince long enough to gain much preference, exchanged a significant glance. Sikander gave a small, secret smile, and CorundePs rouged lips smiled back.
When the courtiers left the prince's apartments, Sikander and Corundel lagged behind until they were sure they would not be overheard. Then Sikander said, “I do not think the prince would be overly distressed if the princess were to disappear.”
“I think he would be inclined to favor those who aided her escape,” Corundel agreed.
“But what if she does not wish to escape?” Sikander asked.
Corundel tossed her head. “Then she must be made to see the advantage of it.”
“You are as clever as you are beautiful,” Sikander replied. “How, though, are we to convince her to resume her travels?”
“I have a powder with which to spice her wine,” Corundel said. “The apothecary who sold it to me is a Polovtsi shaman, and I think he may not be as loyal to the Christian and Muslim gods as one would expect of a good citizen of Maracanda.”
“Nor of the Buddha, nor Confucius either?” Sikander smiled. “If he is a barbarian, perhaps his true sympathies lie with our recent conquerors.”
“They might.” CorundePs lips curved in a malicious smile. “Surely he would know a barbarian sorcerer whose renunciation of Ahriman might not be as complete as he pretended.”
She, like so many of the court ladies, resented the beautiful, vivacious young princess who had suddenly appeared in their midst and captivated all the young men with her grace, charm, and innocence—but she knew quite well that those who appear suddenly can disappear just as suddenly, and she had great trust in the fickleness of men.
The room was silent, everyone staring at the scroll. It seemed harmless enough, just a rolled sheet of parchment bound by a ribbon and fastened with a large blob of wax sculpted into an ornate bas-relief by the sender's seal.
Grandpa Ramon broke the silence. “Special delivery, I think.”
“It would seem so,” said Grandma Jimena. “There must be dire need if it requires the magic expended to send this letter, my son.”
“Yeah, there sure must,” Matt agreed.
No one moved, all staring at the scroll where it lay, no one particularly interested in picking it up, the sentries and the governess through fear of its magic, the wizards—Matt, his mother and father—through wariness of the news it must hold.
Finally Alisande asked, “Will you be so good as to lift that scroll, husband?”
“I suppose I should.” Matt leaned forward and picked up the scroll. He stared in surprise. “Addressed to me!” He held it up for them to see, and sure enough, there was his name in very ornate brush-stroke calligraphy.
“Then I think you may open it,” Alisande said, with a touch ofimpatience.
“Huh? Oh, yeah!” Matt untied the ribbon, broke the seal, and unrolled the parchment. His eyes grew rounder as he read.
“May I know?” Alisande's voice had a definite edge now.
“A letter from Prester John.” Matt exchanged a significant glance with Alisande.
“Ay di mi!” Alisande sighed. “The world presses in again! Sometimes I envy the burghers' wives, who need have no fear that affairs of state will descend upon them while they are enjoying quiet moments with their families.”
The children understood these preliminaries—they had heard their like many times before. Kaprin sighed philosophically, kissed his mother, hugged his father and grandparents, and went to the governess. Alice readied another pout, but Alisande cajoled her. “Come now, sweeting, you know I would not send you back to the nursery without strong need. There now, your mother is a queen, and may not always do as she wishes.”
The younger sentry visibly restrained a look of astonishment—he was new at this duty.
“Don't like it!” the three-year-old stated, but she slipped off her mother's lap anyway.
“There's my darling!” Alisande leaned forward to kiss the crown of her head, then turned her toward the governess and gave her a pat to start her. “Perhaps a story, Lady Lenore?”
“I have just the one!” The governess reached down for the children's hands. “Come, Highnesses—tonight we shall learn why people live so much longer than animals.”
“A wonder tale!” Kaprin cried, his enthusiasm definitely forced—but it was contagious, and Alice was bombarding Lady Lenore with questions as they left the room.
Alisande reached out for Matt's hand as she watched them go, then dropped her gaze to the parchment. “Read.”
Matt sighed and took it up. “‘From Prester John, King in Maracanda, Lord of the land of…’ How about I skip all his titles, okay?”
“I am surprised he spent the ink to send them,” Ramon said dryly.
“It is a necessary protocol, I fear, and wastes a good deal of parchment,” Alisande said. “He addresses himself to you, my husband?”
Matt nodded. “‘To his most noble highness, Matthew Lord Mantrell…’ I'll just skip to the message. ‘We regret to inform you that your former ward, our niece Balkis, Princess of the Eastern Gate, is no longer at our court.’”
“She has run away?” Jimena stared.
“Not voluntarily,” Matt said grimly. “‘On arising this morning, we learned that she had been spirited away in the night. We hold the immediate malefactor in our prison, but know not the whereabouts of the man to whom he handed over the princess. We would slay him out of hand, but we are in hope that by your magic you may be able to wrest from his mind some indications of Princess Balkis' fate, as our own magic, and our jailers, have failed to do. We enjoin you to beg leave of your sovereign lady Alisande, Queen of Merovence, and come to aid us with all speed.’ ” He looked up as he rerolled the parchment. “The rest is courtly protocol. Um, sovereign lady—”
“Go,” Alisande said instantly. Then tears filled her eyes and she reached out for his hand. “But O My Husband, take care!”
Ramon stood. “Perhaps his mother and I should go with him.”
“Oh, I don't think there's any need for that,” Matt said. “It's just a missing persons case, after all, not an attacking army.”
“Yet by your tales, my son,” Jimena said darkly, “even your minor troubles sometimes herald war.”
“If there is any sign of it, summon aid at once!” Alisande commanded, still holding his hand. “Fetch Balkis quickly, husband, and come back to me!”
“I will,” Matt promised. “It shouldn't be that hard a problem for a wizard. After all, it's only a kit-napping.”