One of Balkis' ladies-in-waiting wished to keep a moonlight tryst with a handsome young courtier and found Corun-del to be very sympathetic, offering to take her place for the evening—so that night, the princess' bedtime cup of heated rice wine was something more than it seemed. When Balkis had fallen into a sleep far deeper than usual, Sikander stole into her bedchamber, threw her cloak over her and wrapped the blankets around her, and carried her out into the hallway. With Corundel pacing ahead to keep watch, he carried the sleeping princess down a flight of stairs, out a door, through the shadows along the walls of the palace, and across the lawn to a man who waited astride a horse. There, he handed up the sleeping princess. The rider gave the courtier a nod of thanks, but as he turned his mount away, his lips curved with a smile of contempt.
Back into the palace Sikander went, where he told Corun-del, “She is persuaded.”
“And has begun her journey? Good!” Corundel's eyes shone. “What manner of man is her carrier?”
“Neither a Mongol nor a Turk—that much I could tell.” Sikander shrugged. “Nothing more, though. He might be a Polovtsi or Kazakh, or of any of the other tribes of the western steppes.” He turned away eagerly. “Let us tell the prince that he has one less concern.”
“No, wait!” Corundel caught his arm. “Let the palace find her gone and take alarm. Then, when he cannot suppress his glee, let us tell him privately, so his gratitude may be all the sharper.”
“Brilliant as ever.” Sikander turned to beam upon her. “Still, let us celebrate by ourselves, sweet Corundel.”
So they did, with wine and laughter—but in the midst of their merrymaking, Corundel could not rid herself of the thought that a man who would kidnap a princess could not be trusted in any way. Sikander, for his part, realized that a lady who would drug her mistress' wine must be naturally treacherous.
Such being their natures, the knowledge added spice to their evening.
Prester John lived half a world away, so Matt wasn't about to walk. He recited a spell to contact an old friend, then set off down the road from the capital. He had gone about three miles before a dragon pounced on him.
Of course, this dragon was the old friend. Matt looked up at the boom of wings cupping air for a landing and grinned. “Long time no see, Firebreather!”
“Long indeed, Softskin!” Stegoman settled beside Matt, folding his wings. “What emergency urges you to summon me from my life of indolence?”
“Indolence, my foot!” Matt scoffed. “What's all these stories I hear about a dragon scouring the countryside looking for troops of bandits to chase?”
“Mere popular fictions intended to lend color and excitement to an otherwise boring and lackluster existence,” Stegoman said airily. “Where shall we wander, Matthew?”
“You remember that little cat I was traveling with last year?” “The one who was a princess in disguise? She stayed in Central Asia, did she not?”
“Sure did, but now she's gone and gotten herself kidnapped.”
“Well, we cannot have her lost in the wilds of the steppes, can we?” Stegoman lowered his neck, the triangular plates along his spine forming a convenient stairway. “Climb aboard, Matthew!”
CHAPTER 2
Even as the dragon flies, it was a three-day journey. The first night, Matt bought a bullock from a farmer for Stegoman. Apparently he paid more than the beast was worth, for the dragon complained that Matt had given him a bum steer— old, tough, and no longer good for anything but leather. The second night, though, the dragon was able to hunt and bagged an elk.
They were on the same latitude as the Holland of Mart's universe, and as they flew over the broad, flat plains of Russia, Matt realized that Prester John's realm had to be at the southern edge of the Siberia of his own world and wondered how it could be anything but a frozen wasteland, let alone so warm and fertile as the land he had seen when he visited. He had come up from the south then, flying in the arms of a genie princess, so he hadn't been able to see much, but the glimpses he had gained made it seem quite natural to go from the heat of India and the dryness of Afghanistan into the moderate climate of Maracanda, Prester John's capital city. Coming from the west, though, he was far more aware of the steppes, and when Stegoman gave him a culinary review on a dinner of raw musk ox, Matt realized they had come into tundra.
The next day, though, they flew over a lake that was so huge Matt thought it was a sea until the far shore came in sight. When they were finally over dry land again, he could see the eastern horizon glitter with a sheen that could only be another vast lake. Between the two bodies of water, the land fairly glowed with the green of rich farms and was tidy with the neatness of fields diligently tended. The same climactic shift that had kept the England of this universe joined to the rest of Europe had also created a lush realm in the very heart of the Asian plains.
A climactic shift, or enchantment. Matt looked down at Prester John's kingdom and wondered how much magic had gone into the creation of this realm. If it had, then magic must also sustain it, and what would happen if there were no Prester John, no heir to the title, to keep that magic flowing? Matt did not doubt that Prester John prized Balkis because she was his long-lost niece, but he began to wonder if it was also because she was a powerful wizard, only in her teens, with the promise of learning even more.
Looking off toward the north, Matt saw the green fade into the tan of steppeland again. Looking southward, though, he saw the richness of field and orchard die away in the desert into which Prester John had fled to escape the horde. He thought he saw more greenery beyond, but it was so dim with distance that he couldn't be sure.
Then alabaster towers appeared on the eastern horizon. Half an hour later they were flying over the steeples and minarets of Maracanda.
Matt had better sense than to try to land in the middle of the city—people were already crowding into the streets and squares, pointing up at dragon and rider and exclaiming in excitement and fear; he could hear the buzz of talk even a hundred feet up. “Better land outside the walls, Stegoman.”
“That would seem prudent,” the dragon agreed, and circled outside the wall to land in the center of a grove a quarter mile away. As Matt climbed down, Stegoman said sternly, “None of this creeping off in the night to spare me danger, now!”
“Not a bit,” Matt promised. “If we march and I have to ride with them, I'll let you know.”
“March?” Stegoman reared back his head. “Would this Prester John truly take an army to search for a missing child?”
“Doesn't seem likely,” Matt admitted, “though the rumors about him make you think he never goes anywhere without a few thousand troops. But we've met before, and I think I can talk him into letting me go alone.”
“Not alone!”
“Present company excepted, of course. I'll call you when I leave. In the meantime, take a well-earned rest. Lie around a little. Have a cow.”
The drug was not as effective as it might have been; a creature so saturated with magic as Balkis could not be held unconscious for long. She regained awareness with the jolting of a horse beneath her, saw the buildings of Maracanda passing stark against a starry sky, and wondered what manner of dream this was.
Then the horse stopped. A man slid from its back, pulled her down into his arms and carried her through a darkened doorway into a darker house. Balkis would have screamed, would have clawed at her captor's face, but though her mind was aware and her eyes open, a strange lassitude gripped her; she was too weak to move even a finger. Fear stabbed; she would have recited a spell to defend herself, but not even her lips would move.