Chapter 30

Things were still too uncertain to go out alone, so Marlowe and Foster were wandering the bazaar together. Dressed in desert-camo BDUs instead of the dress uniforms they wore when on duty as Embassy guards, they still stood out – not least because there were no other Changelings in the marketplace – but at least not because of bright colors. Foster completed the purchase of a bracelet, and Marlowe rejoined him as they continued their walk. Marlowe watched the locals carefully, nodding occasionally. “Have you noticed anything unusual about how they treat you, Rick?”

Foster grinned. “I haven't noticed much that -wasn't- odd, Gunny. They're polite, even though you can tell sometimes that they want to spit in my beer. Or they would if they sold any. But when I'm right there? They get so polite they don't even haggle too well. It's like they're afraid to offend me.” He twitched his oversized ears. “And they seem to forget that I can hear them just fine before I get up to their stalls. That last fellow? Muttered 'dog of an American. Why does he not shop with his own kind in the -animal's- souk' before I got there and he was suddenly all smiles. To be fair, I don't think he realized I understand Arabic.”

Marlowe frowned. “Really? There's a marketplace that caters to Changelings? That is -very- interesting, Sergeant. You take the overwatch this time. I'm going to go ask that fellow over there where I can get something decorative for my girlfriend's tail.”

Foster stifled laughter. “He'll blow a fuse, Gunny. Much as they dislike -me-, the idea of a mixed relationship? They'd probably be less offended if you had a boyfriend.”

Marlowe snorted. “Ah, but it's all right for a human to be the dominant one in a mixed couple, as long as you're just taking advantage of her. Not nearly as bad as you with a human gal, you see. Bigotry always goes just one way. Where do you think all the half-black Americans came from?”

“Really? Wasn't President Obama's mother the white half, Gunny...?”

“That was recent, youngster. I meant before the civil rights era. Now shush and keep your eyes open while I go find out where they're hiding all their fuzzies.”

* * * *

The passageways beneath the palace of the Prince of Ba-Yabel went deeper than any outsider suspected. Few even of Haroun's confidantes had an inkling of their true extent. He and Bast were now two miles below the surface of the desert, facing the final door. The lioness surveyed the wards and runes embedded in the door and the surrounding rock with interest. “So this is how you did it? Set it up far enough down so that the mana left in the deep rocks would maintain the spells through the drought?”

“Part of it, Bast. But I also arranged for some help.” He released the final ward on the door and gestured her through. Beyond the portal was a huge cavern, broiling hot from the fissure that ran across the center of the floor and dimly lit by the orange-red glow of the lava deep within it. “Al-Ifri? Are you here?”

The thing that reared up from the fissure was only vaguely humanoid. The head was a faceted crystal with glowing diamond shapes for eyes. The body and limbs were more like a centipede's,
segmented and flexible, with a pair of limbs ending in grasping claws on each segment. Its voice was crystal chiming, but with a deep pitch to fit its titanic size. “I am here, my Prince. Is all well?”

“It is, my friend. Is all well with you?'

“I am fully functional, my Prince. I sensed that the new cycle had begun when I detected the presence of fresh mana, so I woke Ba-Yabel and brought it to the surface as you had instructed. The mana reserves were barely over half depleted.”

Haroun nodded. “Excellent. I thank you for a task well done.”

The creature nodded. “You are gracious, my Prince. Do you have further tasks for me?”

“Not at the moment, my friend. You are free to return to your primary tasking. Check in every quarter century with either myself or my assistant.”

Somehow, the thing conveyed a frown with an immobile face. “I have no knowledge of this assistant, my Prince.”

He gestured to the lioness. “Al-Ifri, this is Bast, also known as Sekhmet. I am designating her as my immediate subordinate, and acting Prince in my absence. Record and confirm.”

The rock-centipede leaned forward until Bast could feel its heat start to singe her fur. A deep vibration set her teeth on edge, and then it withdrew. “Recorded and confirmed. I am pleased to meet you, Prince Bast Sekhmet.”

She bowed, not knowing what else to do. “And I am happy to meet you at last, Al-Ifri.”

It turned back to Haroun. “I shall return in twenty-five years, my Prince, unless you contact me earlier.” Without further formality, it withdrew, sinking into the lava and vanishing.

Bast stared at the fissure. “What -was- that thing?”

Haroun smiled. “It is the reason you and I and the city survived the cycle just passed. The last of the Lemurian fire-servants. I discovered it about five centuries into last cycle, and learned Pele's secret. The deep rocks hold mana that is not depleted so quickly, because there is little down there to use it. It took me a while to learn what it was, and how to give it commands, but when the time came, all was in readiness.”

“That was probably how I survived my first drought, then. We had retreated to the deep caves west of the Nile Valley when the magic dwindled, but even so I barely survived. If you hadn't found me...”

Haroun nodded. “That was my first clue, my dear Bast. Set and Horus and Anubis were nothing but bones in the chambers above you, but you lived, if barely, down in the deepest cavern. So I nursed you back to health, and you taught me, and it has never been all that clear to me who was the master and who the apprentice.”

Bast purred. “I owe you a life-debt, Haroun. It took you a while to realize that I mean that, even for an Immortal's lifetime. But I thank you for letting me know this secret. Why did it call me 'Prince'?”

Haroun laughed. “The word seems to have made its way into the language somehow. In the Lemurian tongue, though, it seems to have meant 'supervisor'.”

* * * *

The route was a bit convoluted, but tucked in on the far side of the palace from the Embassy, the two soldiers located what the merchants had described as the Old Quarter. Foster grinned when they found the market – for the first time since they had arrived, they saw Changelings mingling with humans openly and without any trace of animosity. “This must be where Mr. Cabell was, Gunny. He mentioned something about listening for unusual accents, and these guys... their Arabic is like nothing I've ever heard before.”

Marlowe chuckled. “I'll take your word for that. It's all gibberish as far as I'm concerned. But it does sound friendlier.” He paused as a horde of street urchins surrounded them, begging for whatever they could give. “Although I see there is a down-side.”

Foster nodded. “I see what you mean. They didn't come around mobbing me when I was considered unclean, or whatever it is. Still...” He pointed to a fennec-kit, and barked an order in Arabic. “You! Come here, boy. We have need of a guide. The rest of you, begone.” His hand flashed back and intercepted an attempt to pick his pocket, dragging a young human around in front of him. “And I had best not see you again, ever.” He threw the young thief after the dispersing crowd, glaring around one last time before settling a friendlier look on the kit he'd picked out. “That's more like it. What's your name, boy?”

The kit swept a bow. “My name is Farid, oh mighty warriors. Where may thy humble servant guide thee?”

“For now, somewhere quiet where we can get coffee and something to eat. After that, we will see.”

“Ah! I know just the place, then.” Farid lead them out of the market plaza and down a side street. “Tis this way, near the Street of the Weavers.”

* * * *

The shop was a tiny place, more a storefront with seating in the street than a restaurant. The proprietor was himself an elderly fennec who gave young Farid a glare before smiling at the two Americans. “Welcome to my humble shop, gracious folk. What may Hakim provide for you this day?”

“Coffee for each of us, my friend, and something to eat would be welcome.” Foster sniffed appreciatively at the aromas drifting out of the shop. “Is that, perhaps, roast lamb I smell?”

“Lamb shawarma is on offer for today, good sir.”

Foster glanced at his boss, who'd been only vaguely following the conversation in Arabic. “Ever had shawarma, Gunny?”

Marlowe nodded. “Yeah, but this time it smells good. Go for it.”

“For both of us, then, Hakim.”

The elder fennec bustled around his storefront, preparing the meals. “Two silver royals, it will be.”

Foster did a quick calculation. Ba-Yabel was still using only coinage, and had not yet gotten used to the idea of paper money. Still, given the weight of the coins and the current price of silver, it amounted to somewhere around eight dollars. A bit high by local standards, but given their per diem... He decided not to haggle, and put the coins on the counter. “May I ask a question, Hakim? The young one, Farid – he is your son, perhaps?”

The elder grumbled. “My grandson he is, for my punishment. He should be here at the shop, learning the trade, but he constantly wanders the streets with the homeless brats.”

“Ah.” Foster took his food and gestured to Marlowe to follow suit. “Forgive me for asking... his parents...?”

“My daughter works in the kitchens at the Palace since her husband died fighting against the Legions. The boy prattles constantly of joining the Army...” Hakim remembered who he was talking to, and changed tack abruptly. “A noble profession, to be sure, but it worries his mother. She has no one else since Rashid's passing.”

“I thank you for telling me, Hakim. My name is Richard, though my friends call me Rick.” He grinned, whispering to the old fennec. “I shall be sure to bring the boy back if I see him in the streets again, shall I?”

Hakim smiled. “I would not wish you to trouble yourself... but I will not say no if you should choose to do so.”

Foster and Marlowe sat down at one of the small tables in front of the shop and switched back to English. “So what was all that about, Sergeant?”

“A lead, Gunny. You know that we haven't learned much about the place yet. This fellow is from the old time. Did you catch him saying 'Legion' in all that Arabic?”

“Not really. Did he mean...?”

“Aye, I think so. His son-in-law fell fighting the Romans. And his daughter works in the Palace kitchens, and is unattached. I just might wander back here some time to meet her. I'm sure Cabell would be pleased if I could find out more.”

* * * *

Thor found Qaqortoq to be surprisingly congenial. The locals had obviously intermarried with the skraeling tribes of the island, but they spoke the modern version of Danish, and while they couldn't out-drink him, most of them could handle enough to keep him company. They told tales in the ancient style and watched the modern bards on the (as he had to keep reminding himself) non-magical magic boxes. Gold was at least as valuable as it had been back before he had drowsed away the mana-less years in Iceland, so everyone was glad to see him and spend their evenings with him when they weren't out hunting. The winter ice was closing in now, and even the machine-boats dared not venture out.

* * * *

“Ambassador Knight must have made an excellent impression, Mr. President,” Secretary Rice stated. “Prince Haroun seems to have agreed quite readily to doing a full exchange of ambassadors.”

“That, and Coyote mentioned that he was called on the carpet by the Eldest.” Director Lowe suppressed the urge to grin in the canine fashion. “But apparently Knight did make a good impression by bringing Sergeant Foster along as the official party's standard-bearer.”

Boehner steepled his fingers and looked at the wolf. “You think that is why he sent us a Changeling ambassador, Director?”

Lowe nodded. “I do. It's a statement on multiple levels. First, that he does not share the prejudices of the Muslims, even though he rules a fair chunk of the Muslim world and professes to be one.”

Rice frowned. “You're sure it's not a veiled insult?”

Lowe shook her head. “I doubt it. For one thing, Haroun is not likely to -be- a Muslim, no matter what he puts out for popular consumption. We have confirmation from several sources now – the city of Ba-Yabel and a significant number of her citizens are time-travelers of a sort. Somehow they skipped over nearly two thousand years, jumping from the time that mana began to deplete in the last cycle to the present. Very few of the time-travelers are Muslim; there appear to be a small number, all full humans, who are recent converts, but in the main they are either animists of some sort, or Coptic Christians.”

“So then why do we have reports of terror cells operating under his orders?” The President was quite angry about the issue, and Lowe had to close down her empathic sense to avoid being overwhelmed.

“I am not sure those reports are accurate, Mr. President.” Black-tipped ears splayed out apologetically. “They believe they are working for him in some cases, but as the Philippine incident showed, at least some of them are simply following their old orders and biases, and are assuming that their nominal boss shares their feelings.”

Boehner nodded, calming down. "Let's hope that's it, then. “At any rate, his ambassador will be arriving tomorrow, on a French aircraft; they seem to be eager to ingratiate themselves now that the door has been opened. Dr. Rice will be meeting her; would you like to be there, Director?”

Lowe nodded. “I think I would, Mr. President. It might be interesting.”