The queen of zamba, p.10
The Queen of Zamba, page 10
“Perhaps a dozen, Your Awesomeness.”
“Right, right, right. We’ll have the first this afternoon. An hour before dinner. West wing of the palace. The flunkies will pass you in and show you where. Bring all your gear. All of it. Nought vexes me more than an expert who comes to perform some office for one and then has to return home for more tools. Mind you, now.”
“Yessir,” said Hasselborg. Eqrar was evidently one of those who believed that “What I tell you three times is true.”
“Good, good. And it is my command that you leave not the city of Hershid until the portrait be completed. A busy king am I, and I shall have to fit the sittings into my schedules as best I can. You have my leave to go.”
Hasselborg, outwardly obsequious, swore under his breath. Now he was stuck in Hershid for the gods knew how long, especially if the dour was given to canceling appointments. While he might run away in defiance of the dour, he might also be caught and dragged back before he reached the border. At best, he would land in this nervous but powerful king’s black book.
When he got back to Haste’s palace, he asked Fouri: “How do you get to Majbur?”
“Depart you so soon?” she cried, her voice rising in alarm.
“Not yet; the king says no. Still, I should like to know.”
“Then you might drive your carriage—there’s a good road from the south gate—or you might take the railroad.”
“Railroad?”
“Of course! Knew you not that Hershid’s on the end of the line to Majbur and on down the coast to Jazmurian?”
This I must see, thought Hasselborg, forbearing to ask more questions for fear of revealing ignorance. “Like a ride before lunch?”
She would, of course, and showed him the way to the terminal outside the wall on the south side of the city. The rails were about a meter apart, the cars little four-wheeled affairs with bodies like those of carriages, and the locomotives bishtars. A couple of the beasts were pushing and pulling cars around the yard under the guidance of mahouts, who sat on their necks and blew little trumpets to warn of their approach. Fouri said:
“Alack, my hero, you’re too late to see the daily train for Qadr pull out, and that from Qadr comes not in till around sunset.”
“Where’s Qadr?”
“A suburb of Majbur, on this side of the Pichide. No through train to Jazmurian, you see, because the river’s too wide to be bridged; one must detrain at Qadr and cross the river by boat ere continuing on.”
“Thanks.”
After they had watched for a while she continued: “I can see we’re truly soul mates, Kavir, for I, too, have always loved to hang on the fence of the railroad yard and watch the trains made up.”
Hasselborg shuddered a little mentally, as though he had cut himself on a dirty knife with no disinfectant available.
She went on: “If you’re really set on going to
Majbur—I can wheedle aught I wish from the dour. Shout I, for example, tell him that my affianced husband wished to travel, I know I could persuade him—”
Hasselborg changed the subject by asking about Zamba and its new ruler, although Fouri could add but little to what he already knew.
The king proved a difficult portrait subject, always fidgeting and scratching and wiping his pointed nose on his sleeve. To make matters worse, characters kept coming in to whisper in his ear or to present papers for him to sign. All this distraction reduced Hasselborg, who had little enough confidence in his ability as a painter, to a state bordering on frantic despair. He complained:
“If Your Awesomeness would only hold that pose for five minutes on end—”
“What mean you, painter?” yelped the king. “You scoundrel, you criticize me? I’ve held this pose without moving the breadth of a hair for the better part of an hour, and you dare say I’ve not? Get out! Why did I ever let you begin this thing? Begone! No, no, no, I meant it not. Come back and fall to work. Only let it be understood, no more irreverent criticisms! I’m a very busy man, and if I work not on my royal business every minute, I never get it fulfilled. You’re a good and faithful fellow. Fall to, waste no time, stand not gaping, get to work!”
Hasselborg sighed and stoically resumed his sketching. Then another man came in, this time omitting to whisper. The newcomer cried:
“May it please Your Awesomeness, the Dasht of Rüz has arrived unannounced, with fifty men-at-arms! He seeks an escaped prisoner who he thinks has fled to your court!”
IX.
After sitting with his mouth open for a few seconds, the king jumped up with a yell. “That blundering fool! ‘Tis just like him to descend upon me without an hour’s warning! No permission, no invitation, no request, no nought—Ohe!” He looked keenly at Hasselborg, who had given up trying to make a sketch for the time being. “You, master painter, arrive one morning with a fine story of rescuing Haste’s niece from robbers in Jam’s demesne. Then at the close of that selfsame day comes Jam himself hot on the trail of an alleged fugitive. A singular coincidence, would you not say?”
“Yes, Your Awesomeness.”
“Well, show him in, show him in! We’ll soon get to the bottom of this coil.” The king paced up and down. “I doubt not that the rescue took place even as stated, for my men questioned the survivors of that unlucky caravan at length. Still there’s a mystery here; there’s a mystery; there’s a myst— Ah, my good vassal Jam!”
The Dasht of Rüz strode into the room, made the barest pretense of dropping to one knee in front of the king, and then went for Hasselborg with a roar, pulling at his sword. “You zeft! I’ll show you to bribe your way out of my jail!”
Hasselborg, who was getting a little tired of hairbreadth escapes, looked around frantically for a weapon, since he had been required to check his sword before being closeted with the king.
Eqrar, however, took care of that. Placing one of the big rings on his fingers in his mouth, he blew a high, piercing whistle. Instantly a pair of inconspicuous little doors in the wall flew open, and out of each sprang a couple of guards with cocked crossbows.
“Stand, or you’re a dead vassal!” squeaked the king.
Jam sheathed his sword reluctantly. “Your Awe-someness, my humble apologies for an irreverent intrusion. But by Qondyor and Hoi, ‘tis not to be borne that this heap of foulness who calls himself a painter shall be allowed to encumber the earth with his loathsome presence any longer!”
“What’s he done?”
“I’ll tell you straight. He comes to me, pretending to paint portraits, and is welcomed as an old friend. What happens? Within the day I learn that he’s no painter at all, but a spy from Mikardand sent to assassinate me. So, naturally, I fling him in pokey to be expended at the holy games. Then by some witchcraft he magicks the yeki so the beast won’t eat him, and subsequently is spirited out of jail by a pair of fellow-desperadoes and disappears. Belike he corrupted someone in my service, or ‘twould not have passed off so smoothly, though the villains all swear innocence and I can’t hang ‘em all in the hope of getting the right one.”
“How know you he’s a spy?” asked the king.
“My friend at Novorecife, Julio Gois, sent word. Here’s his letter, see you, and here’s another he sent with yon baghan who altered it.”
Hasselborg broke in: “May it please Your Awe-someness, I’m not a Mikardandu, as you’ll find out if you inquire there. I only stopped a night at Mishe on my way to Novorecife, since Mikardand is no place for an artist. At Novorecife I made Gois’s acquaintance and asked for an introduction to somebody in Rosid; that’s all I know about it. The reason the dasht is so sore is that I busted up his attempt to have the Lady Fouri kidnaped by his gang of tame bandits.”
“What’s this? What’s this?” said Eqrar.
“Sure, he did it. She told me herself she left Rosid because he wouldn’t let her alone, so he had her snatched, and I don’t think because he wanted a partner to play checkers with, either.”
“What about this, my lord Jam?” said the king.
“Lies, all lies,” said the dasht. “Where’s his proof?”
Hasselborg said: “I heard the robbers discussing the matter around their campfire. Bring some of them in and they’ll tell you.”
The king asked: “Where be these robbers now?”
“Hanged, every one of ‘em,” shouted Jam. “I chanced upon ‘em whilst in pursuit of this wretch, and applied the high justice on the spot.”
Hasselborg thought, I passed by his garden, and marked with one eye, how the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie— “Because they’d failed to get her as he ordered, or else to shut their mouths for good.”
The dasht started to bellow obscenities, when the king said: “Peace, peace, peace, both of you. Now, here’s a veritable puzzle. You, Jam, say that Master Kavir’s a spy, though your only evidence is the word of the Ertsu Julio, which is inadmissible in Gozashtando law and worthless as a matter of general experience. Then you, sir painter, accuse my faithful vassal of suborning the abduction of the niece of the high priest of the Established Church for fell purposes—though the fellness of these purposes might be mitigated by the damsel’s excessive beauty, which would rouse thoughts of love in the liver of the holiest eremite. Still, the chick’s a favorite of mine, since I have no girl-children of my own, and therefore I’d take a grave view of the matter were it substantially proved. Yet your only proof is the word of men whose word would carry little weight were they alive and none at all since they’re deceased.
“I could, of course, have both of you interrogated with hot pincers”—he smiled unpleasantly, whereupon both Hasselborg and Jam looked gravely respectful—“save that in my experience that treatment, while oft beneficial to the victim as well as edifying to the spectator, fails to elicit that for which we’re most eager—to wit, the truth. What would you with this man, Lord Jam?”
“I would snatch him back to Ruz, Your Awesome-ness, to commute his sentence from death-by-beast to death-by-beheading, thereby showing my merciful nature, though I doubt he’ll appreciate the change. If his magic’ll glue him back together after his head’s been separated from the rest of him, I’d say he’d earned his worthless life.”
“But,” cried the king, “how then shall my portrait be finished? From his sketch I can see that ‘twill be the best ever made of me, which implies that, spy or no, he’s a true artist even as he claims. No, no, no, Jam, you shall not take him away ere he’s finished the great work; we owe that to the empire and to posterity!”
Jam chewed his lip, then said: “Could we not leave him here under guard long enough to complete the picture, and then slay him as he deserves?”
Hasselborg said: “Your Supremacy, d’you really think a man with my artistic temperament could give his best to his art with a death sentence hanging over him?”
“No, no, I see your point, Master Kavir, and moreover there’s the matter of your charge against Jam—”
“You’re not crediting these fantastic lies?” said the dasht.
“You will kindly not interrupt your sovereign. Tis a serious matter, Master Kavir, to level such a charge against an anointed dasht. But withal, your charge is as well-attested as his, which is to say not at all. Now, hear my judgment, both of you: You, Kavir bad-Ma’lum, shall remain inviolate at Hershid until the work be done. After that you may remain in this city, taking the hazard that Jam will return with evidence that would force me to give you to him; or you may leave, and in that case he may have you if he can catch you. You, Jam bad-Kone, abide by these conditions, and no sending of one of your ruffians to extinguish Master Kavir by stealth while he’s in my territory. Should aught of that nature befall him, I’ll know where to look. Seems that not fair?”
“Then,” roared Jam, “there remains -but one course. Kavir bad-Matlum or whatever your name is, I declare you a knave, pervert, scoundrel, spy, coward, liar, and thief, and challenge you to disprove these assertions with weapons of war upon my person.” With which the dasht pulled off his glove and threw it at Hasselborg.
The king sighed. “I thought I had everything arranged, and you do that. ‘Tis true there’s some question as to whether a person in Master Kavir’s station be compelled to accept a challenge from a gentleman, especially one of your not inconsiderable rank—”
“See the case of Yezdan versus Qishtaspandu, only last year,” retorted Jam. “A professional artist is considered constructively a gentleman, and so may be challenged.”
“Here, here,” said Hasselborg. “We do things a little differently in Malayer. Somebody explain. Jam wants to fight me, is that right?”
“And how I do!”
“What happens if I don’t feel like fighting?”
“Ha hah!” said Jam. “A thin-livered wretch, said I not? Already he seeks to crawl out. Well sir, in that case we inflict upon you, as stigmata of your cowardice, the five mutilations, beginning with your ears—”
“Never mind the rest. Do I get a choice of weapons?”
“Surely. Any weapon in the approved list—lance, pike, sword, dagger, battle-ax, mace, halberd, gisarme, flail, javelin, longbow, crossbow, sling, or throwing-knife; with or without shield, armored or bare, afoot or mounted. I’ll take you on with any combination you care to mention, for you’ll be the twelfth to try to stand against me. Twelve’s my lucky number, you know.”
Hasselborg, not thinking it necessary to ask what had become of the other eleven, got out his knuckleduster and showed it to the king. “Would this be allowed?”
“No, no, no!” said the latter. “What think you, that we’re savages from the Koloft Swamps, to pummel each other with fists?”
“Then make it crossbows, unarmored, and afoot,” said Hasselborg, who as an expert rifle shot figured that this weapon would give him the best chance. “You’ll have to give me a couple of days to practice up.”
“Accepted,” said Jam. “A fine brabble ‘twill be, with me the best crossbow-hunter in Rüz. Saw you my collection of heads?”
“You mean the ones on spikes over the city gate? Vulgar ostentation, I thought.”
“No, fool, the heads of the beasts I’ve slain. Your Supremacy, let me urge that you set a guard over this scum, lest he steal away in the night.”
“Fair enough,” said the king. “Master Kavir, hear my royal command: That you move your gear forthwith to this the royal palace. I’ll send men to help you move.”
Hasselborg mentally added: To keep him from making a break for liberty.
Fouri’s eyes widened with horror when Hasselborg told her what was up, and Haste seemed mildly distressed.
“A foolish business, dueling,” said the priest. “The Council of Mishe condemned it in unequivocal terms. Although we of the cloth have long striven to convince the nobility of its sinful folly, they throw our own astrology back in our teeth, saying: won’t the stars grant victory to him whose triumph is foreordained? Discouraging.”
When he went to his room to pack, Fouri followed him, imperiously telling his pair of guards: “Stand you outside the doors, churls! I command!”
Either the guards thought better of picking an argument with so domineering a young lady, or they knew her as a privileged character. She threw herself on Hasselborg’s neck, crying:
“My hero! My love! Can I do aught to save you?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact you can,” he said. “Could you sew a pair of pads into the elbows of the jacket of my old suit?”
“Pads? Sew? What mean you?”
Hasselborg patiently turned the coat inside out and explained what he wanted.
“Oh, I understand now,” she said. “A wretched seamstress I, but still I’ll let none other do it, for then when you wear this jacket, the occult force of my love will flow through your veins and nerve you to deeds of might.”
“That’ll be nice,” he said, folding his clothes on the bed.
“Oh, it will. And then at last shall I be avenged upon this filthy fellow.” She stitched away clumsily for a while, then said: “Kavir, why hold you yourself aloof from me? You’re colder than the great statue of Qarar in Mishe!”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Have I not given you all the encouragement a decent maiden can, and more? Look you, Uncle Haste could join us tonight in a few words, and the king wouldn’t boggle at my accompanying you to your new chamber in his palace. Then whatever ensued, we’d have a sweet memory to carry with us to our graves, be they early or late.”
Hasselborg began to worry lest he say “yes” against his better judgment simply to end the argument. When he looked at her it took all his will power not to take her up on her offer. He would have done so had he been willing to discard his disguise. Of course there was Alexandra, but she was light-years away.
He pulled himself together. “I’m grateful for your regard, Fouri, but I don’t anticipate an early grave; not this time anyway. Marriage is a serious matter, not to be entered into as a preliminary to a duel—”
“Then finish your sewing yourself, and I hope you prick your finger!” She threw the coat, needle and all, at his head, and stamped out, slamming the door.
Smiling wryly with a mixture of amusement, pity, and annoyance at the position in which circumstances had placed him, Victor Hasselborg picked up the jacket, donned his glasses, and began complying with her order. Between Haste’s mercurial and amorous niece and the Lord of Ruz, he knew just how Odysseus felt in trying to steer between Scylla and Charybdis.
His move completed, Hasselborg spent a dismal evening. The guards whom the king had assigned to him had evidently received orders to stick like leeches. Although he would like to have mingled with the court and found out more about Zamba and its new rulers, the people proved unexpectedly impervious to the charm he turned on. He wondered if the presence of the guards at his elbow might not dampen conversation, until one of his victims set him right:
