Sinbad and The Eye of the Tiger (28 page)

The captain of the expedition stood up. “Come, we’ve a long journey back to the ship.”

They moved into the wind and took a last look through the Gates. Everything was white, and only lumps showed anonymously. Already the snow was packing down into ice . . . and that ice would last forever.

“Doomed . . .” Melanthius muttered. “A few hours more, and the Valley will be nothing but a bleak stretch of ice and snow.”

Sinbad put his arm around Farah. “And Hyperborea?”

The old man shook his head. “Nothing but a legend now . . . a myth . . . one among many.”

“But we saw it,” Sinbad said.

“We were there,” Farah added.

Melanthius nodded, his eyes dark with gloom. “Do you think anyone will ever believe us?” He looked from one to another. “No, only a legend now, as, in time—” He grinned at Sinbad, his good humor breaking through the gloom—“in time, they will tell fanciful stories of ‘Sinbad the Sailor.’ ” Sinbad laughed and Hassan grunted cynically. “They will say, ‘He was never real, only an improbable hero from an incredible Arabian Nights tale.’ ” The old man’s smile was sad. “That’s how the world goes, my friend. Men don’t really care for the truth.”

Sinbad nodded in agreement. “Come on,” he commanded, and they turned their backs on the Valley at the world’s end and hurried off.

Further up the gorge Melanthius stopped, apparently to rest, but actually to get one more look back at the Valley.

It was all white. The winds sent white snow spinning across a bleak landscape. It was all gone.

The old man turned away. There was a tear in his eye. It froze before it got very far.

A gust of wind came up the gorge, chilling and strong, and one of the great Gates swung shut. A second gust moved the other Gate, then moments later, a chill and terrible wind swung the Gate closed, and in moments snow had piled against the monstrous face carved on it. Melanthius looked back, his fur hood fringed with tendrils of ice, his lashes stiff with frost. But the last vision of Hyperborea was shut off. Forever.

Snow began to settle across the vast grotesque face of stone, softening the features, blending it into the white landscape. Before the tiny figures were at the top of the gorge the face was almost covered.

S
inbad’s ship was encased in ice, but there was a thin plume of smoke that came from the cabin. Sinbad sighed deeply and looked back at the straggling line of exhausted travelers that was strung out behind him. They were plodding on, too tired to even be excited at seeing the ship again.

Sinbad struggled on through the snow, his eyes picking out details of the ship. They had hacked away the ice once or twice before and were due again. All superfluous wood had been cut away, undoubtedly to burn and keep them warm. Portions of the railing, the entire crew’s quarters, even the decorations along the side had been pried loose or sawn off to be used.

The sea captain sighed. The ship was a wreck, but, still seaworthy, and, most importantly, the crew was alive. And they had waited through the blizzards and the fearful storms for his return.

“Ho, the ship!” he called out.

For a long moment there was no movement, no sound, and Sinbad was about to repeat his call when a bearded, frosted, befurred head stuck up over the railing.

“Sinbad!” croaked Aboo-seer. He called back to the others. “It’s Sinbad!”

The frost-bitten adventurer climbed aboard and looked around in weary resignation. Aboo-seer looked sheepish. “It got cold,” he muttered.

Sinbad clapped him on the back. “Wipe that look from your face, old friend—I would have done the same!”

“The spare mast, too?”

“The spare mast, my fine furniture, everything but the hull!”

Aboo-seer scuffed at the plating of thick ice on the deck. “Uh . . . speaking of your furniture . . . ah . . . it was easier to warm your one big cabin than the several cabins of the crew, and—”

Sinbad laughed. “There will be gold to buy a bigger ship, a better ship!” He turned to the opening in the railing to help Farah aboard, then Dione. Hassan boosted up the old Greek from below, then stumped wearily onto the deck himself. Kassim swung over the rail, too.

Sinbad shouted out to the remains of the crew that was coming from his cabin, their faces wreathed in frosted air. “Break out the axes! Chop away this ice! We’re sailing for home!”

A gong sent its golden boom throughout the throne room. The jeweled throne stood empty, but it was surrounded by the richly robed priests, officials, and various dignitaries. The colorful tapestries sent back glints of golden thread from the flaming braziers. Polished wood, silk, gold, polished steel spear points, jeweled turbans, and damask all sent their colors into the magnificence that was the coronation ceremony.

Incense from India and Persia scented the great room. Musicians played distantly. The rustle of silken gowns, the shuffle of polished boots on the parquet floor, the murmur of approving voices, the clink of swords and chanting of priests all filled the great room with sound.

Princess Farah came through a bowing corridor of nobles to where Sinbad stood unobtrusively by a pillar. He bowed to her, smiling. His scars were healed and all their gauntness from the torturous journey had gone. The sea captain was richly robed, with a new turban, a tunic edged in gold-worked braid, and soft leather boots. A jeweled dagger was stuck in his belt.

Farah was soft and lovely in a pale gown worked with tiny golden sunbursts and a dark cloak with the sunburst designs repeated. She wore the jeweled tiara of a princess of Charak, but her most dazzling possession, for Sinbad, was the smile directed at him.

“A great day,” he said to Farah.

“Yes . . . thanks to you,” she replied.

Sinbad grinned. “Hassan and my men thank you for the gold.” He pointed at the back wall, where the freshly washed and freshly robed crew was looking uncomfortable. “They would much rather be out spending some of it than being here.”

“But it is Kassim’s coronation day . . . Caliph of Charak!”

Sinbad smiled. “They would probably be much more comfortable robbing these rich nobles than trading compliments with them.”

Farah’s eyelashes swept her cheek as she asked softly, “And are they buying six wives?”

“At the rate they have been spending your uncle’s gold, they might be lucky to have enough left for a few goats.”

“But . . . I thought they fought for gold and—”

Sinbad touched her arm. “Princess, they must have a
reason.
No man wants to be thought a fool. To endanger yourself for nothing is foolish. To fight for a baboon is ridiculous. To fight for a prince that is not even
your
prince is asinine. Ah . . . but to fight for gold Any man can understand that!”

“You mean . . . they needed some, um,
respectable
reason to go fighting?”

“To go
adventuring,
your highness. There is a great difference. If you say you fight for a smile from a princess, other men . . . who have not seen that smile . . . think you are mad. But if you say you are fighting for enough gold to buy six beautiful wives, then—” Sinbad spread his hands in an expressive gesture—“then all understand. There are no uncomfortable questions. Do you understand?”

The princess of Charak nodded. “I think so. Men like to be heroes, but heroes are often men who failed to have imagination, so they think they might seem foolish. So they give other reasons for their deeds.” She smiled at Sinbad warmly. “But we need heroes. We’ve always had them.”

“And made some men heroes that didn’t deserve it,” Sinbad said. “A man might kill a monster to save his life, not even knowing of the princess in the tower.”

Farah shook her head. “But the best heroes—like
you,
Captain Sinbad—are those that know the danger and attempt the deed in any case.”

“Aye,” Sinbad agreed. “I grant you that courage is knowing danger, but proceeding . . . but . . .” He grinned. “But so is foolishness.”

“Perhaps the two are not far separated?” Farah asked with a winsome smile. Sinbad was about to reply when Balsora the Regent, who would soon be surrendering the kingdom to the new Caliph, approached them.

“Your highness,” Sinbad said, bowing in tribute.

“Captain Sinbad, I’ve thanked you before and I imagine I shall thank you again every time I see you,” Balsora said. He wore a high turban, plumed and jeweled, a fur-trimmed cloak embroidered elegantly, and the famous Charak royal jewels. He carried the scepter of state, but it was his wide smile of friendship that Sinbad valued most.

“It was a worthy adventure,” Sinbad said. “My men and I were glad to be of help.”

There was a twinkle in Balsora’s eyes. “You work only for glory, then? I need not have rewarded your men with those chests of gold?”

Sinbad grinned back. “Every man likes to be paid his worth. Especially the crew of my ship.”

“Half of the kingdom would not be payment enough,” Balsora said munificently. “And I am certain Kassim would agree.” The turbaned Regent turned toward the entrance to the throne room. “Kassim will be crowned today . . . and just in time to satisfy the ancient laws. He will be certified as Caliph of Charak . . . and that is something we thought not possible a short time ago.”

The shrewd Vizier looked wisely at Sinbad, and his twinkling eyes touched on the face of his niece. “I thought . . . for a time . . . that the royal line of my brother and I might end with me. My niece here has not seemed to favor any of the blue-blooded suitors that have come bearing gifts and words of undying love.”

“And hopes of Charak gold,” Farah added with a blush.

Balsora looked at Sinbad with an expectant expression. The sea captain knew what the Vizier expected of him, but he could not say it. “Melanthius was delighted with your gifts.”

Balsora shrugged. “He has no need of gold . . . so I dug through the treasure rooms here . . . some have been sealed for ages . . . and found him the Phoenician scrolls, that petrified egg of some ancient dragon, those carved stones said to have come from the Throne of Saturn . . . oh, and that mirror of Medusa, or so they say . . . they all seemed to give him pleasure and Kassim was only too happy to give them.”

Sinbad grinned and laughed. “A treasure beyond comprehension to a man such as Melanthius. He said he might spend years studying just those treasures.” The sailor looked over Balsora’s brocaded shoulder and saw Dione and Melanthius enter.

The old Greek had a new robe, but it was plain still. His daughter had discarded her homespun dress in favor of a gift from Farah, a sheer and lovely gown ornamented by jewels from the royal treasury. They came to the small group and Melanthius brought a silk-wrapped object from the folds of his robe.

“A gift for Kassim,” he said. “Perhaps you could give it to him at some quiet moment?” he asked Balsora who took it.

The silk folds slipped back and the Vizier looked at what he held. “A medal?”

Melanthius pointed to the figures engraved on one side. “An owl for wisdom, a lion for courage, a bee for industry, a dove for peace, and an eagle for majesty.” Balsora turned the coin over and Sinbad again pointed at the figures there. “And lest a future ruler forget . . . a peacock for pride, a rooster for boastfulness, a crocodile for hypocrisy, a grasshopper for irresponsibility, a mule for stubbornness . . .” He glanced sideways at Farah. “And a goat for lecherousness.”

“A fitting reminder to any king,” Balsora agreed. “But what are these symbols engraved upon the rim of the medal? They look newly cut and the medal is old.”

Melanthius nodded. “An incantation against . . . well, see? There is a tiny figure . . . a monkey . . . the symbol of trickery in the symbolic language of the alchemists. Never again can Kassim be transformed . . . he can only transform himself.”

“We all can do that,” Farah said quietly, her eyes upon Sinbad.

The sailor nodded. “Aye, but few have the will to do so.” He grinned down at her. “Some of us are amazingly lazy . . . like myself. I am what I am, no more . . . and no less.”

Balsora took a ring from his finger and pressed it into Sinbad’s hand. “One more gift . . . no, please . . . it, too, is a symbol.” Sinbad examined the gold ring and saw it held a sapphire carved into the shape of a sunburst. “A sapphire is the symbol of wisdom, my friend,” Balsora said. “May you always have the wisdom to do what is right . . . even if it hurts.”

Sinbad nodded, but before he could reply there was a blare of trumpets and all turned toward the ornate throne room doors.

Plumed guards, armored and glittering, preceded the handsome, dark-haired Kassim. He wore a jacket richly embroidered, a wide jeweled belt, flaring silken trousers, and the jewels of the heir to the Charak throne. His head was high and proud, but not so proud that he did not see Sinbad standing next to his sister.

The Crown Prince stopped the procession—much to the dismay of the dignitaries charged with the orderly proceeding of the coronation—and the nobles parted before him as he veered to come to Sinbad’s group. The bearded adventurer smiled as he gave the prince a bow of homage, but Kassim stopped him before the bow was complete.

“Not you, Sinbad. You shall not bow before me, not now, not when I am Caliph.”

“But, Your Highness—” Sinbad protested.

“No, Captain Sinbad. You have earned that honor.” He smiled. “It is not something you can spend in a tavern, nor stock a ship with . . . but it is something I give no other man.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Sinbad said. The Crown Prince reached out and seized him in a bear hug of friendship. Then he gave Dione such a look of love that all those present knew that a marriage would soon follow the coronation. Dione seemed to have eyes only for the handsome prince and her gaze followed him adoringly all the way to the throne.

Kassim turned as a cheer rose from the assembled crowd. “Allah’s blessing on Caliph Kassim!”

Balsora stepped through the nobles into the empty space before the throne dais. The trumpets blared and everyone fell into a respectful silence. Balsora’s voice boomed out over their heads.

“I, Balsora, Regent of Charak, do proclaim my nephew Kassim, Crown Prince and heir to the throne—Caliph of Charak!” His voice rang clear and strong and all the nobles cheered. Kassim sat quietly on the fantastically jeweled throne, taking the noisy tribute without expression . . . but his eyes were upon Dione.