The Queen of Zamba, page 20
“Had Sir Shusp won, he’d have challenged you!”
“Gluk!” said Borel. He hadn’t thought of that.
“What is it, my dearest?”
“Something caught in my throat. Let’s get back to dinner ahead of the crowd, huh? Giddap, Galahad!”
Zerdai. retired after dinner, however, saying she would not be back for supper; the excitement had given her a headache.
Kubanan said: ” Tis a rare thing, for she’s been in better spirits since your arrival than was her wont since Sir Shurgez departed.”
“You mean she was grieving for a boy-friend until I came along and cheered her up?” Borel thought, Kubanan’s a nice old wump; too bad he’ll have to be the fall guy for the project. But business is business.
“Yes. Ah, Felix, it’s sad you’re of another species, so that she’ll never lay you an egg! For the Order can use offspring inheriting your qualities. Even I, sentimental old fool that I am, like to think of you as a son-in-law and Zerdai’s eggs as my own grandchildren, as though I were some simple commoner with a family.”
Borel asked: “What’s this about Shurgez? What happened to him?”
“The Grand Master ordered him on a quest.”
“What quest?”
“To fetch the beard of the King of Balhib.”
“And what does the Order want with this king’s beard? Are you going into the upholstery business?”
Kubanan laughed. “Of course not. The King oi Balhib has treated the Order with scorn and contumely of late, and we thought to teach him a lesson.”
“And why was Shurgez sent?”
“Because of his foul murder of Brother Sir Zamran?”
“Why did he murder Zamran?”
“Surely you know the tale—but I forget, you’re still new here. Sir Zamran was he who slew Shurgez’s lady.”
“I thought Zerdai was Shurgez’s girl.”
“She was, but afterward. Let me begin at the beginning. Time was when Sir Zamran and the Lady Fevzi were lovers, all right and decorous in accord with the customs of the Order. Then for some reason Lady Fevzi cast off Zamran, as she had every right to do, and took Sir Shurgez in his stead. This made Sir Zamran wroth, and instead of taking his defeat philosophically like a true knight, what does he do but come up behind Lady Fevzi at the ball celebrating the conjunction of the planets Vishnu and Ganesha, and smite off her head just as she was presenting a home-made pie to the Grand Master!”
“Wow!” said Borel with an honest shudder.
“True, ‘twas no knightly deed, especially in front of the Grand Master, not to mention the difficulty of cleansing the carpet. If he had to slay her, he should at least have taken her outside. The Grand Master, most annoyed, would have rebuked Zamran severely for his discourtesy, but he’s hardly past the preamble when Sir Shurgez comes in to ask after his sweetling, sees the scene, and leaps upon Zamran with his dagger before any can stay him. So then we have two spots on the rug to clean and the Grand Master in a fair fury. The upshot was that he ordered Shurgez on this quest to teach him to issue his challenges in due form and not go thrusting knives among the ribs of any who incur his displeasure. No doubt he half hoped that Shurgez would be slain in the doing, for the King of Balhib is no effeminate.”
Borel was sure now that nothing would ever induce him to settle permanently among such violent people. “When did Shurgez get time to—uh—be friends with Zerdai?”
“Why, he couldn’t leave before the astrological indications were favorable, to wit for twenty-one days, and during that time he enjoyed my secretary’s favor. Far places have ever attracted her, and I think she’d have gone with him if he’d have had her.”
“What’s the word about Shurgez now?”
“The simplest word of all, to wit: no word. Should he return, my spies will tell me of his approach before he arrives.”
Borel became aware that the clicking sound that had puzzled him was the chatter of his own teeth. He resolved to ride herd on Henares the next day to rush the model through to completion.
“One more question,” he said. “Whatever became of Lady Fevzi’s pie?” Kubanan could not tell him that, however.
The model was well enough along so that Borel asked the Grand Master for the perpetual-motion meeting the following day. Although he expected an evening meeting, with all the knights full of dinner and feeling friendly, it turned out that the only time available on the Grand Master’s schedule was in the morning. /
“Of course, Brother Felix,” said Sir Juvain, “if you prefer to put it off a few days…”
“No, most mighty potentate,” said Borel, thinking of the Shurgez menace. “The sooner the better for you, me, and the Order.”
Thus it happened that the next morning, after breakfast, Felix Borel found himself on the platform of the main auditorium of the citadel, facing several thousand knights of the Order of Qarar. Beside him on a small table stood his gleaming new brass model of the perpetual-motion wheel. A feature of the wheel not obvious to the audience was a little pulley on the shaft, around which was wound a fine but strong thread made of hairs from the tails of shomals, which led from the wheel off into the wings where Zerdai stood hidden from view. It had taken all Borel’s blandishments to get her to play this role.
He launched into his speech: “… what is the purpose and function of our noble Order? Power! And what is the basis of power? First, our own strong right arms; second, the wealth of the Order, which in turn is derived from the wealth of the commons. So anything that enriches the commons increases our power, does it not? Let me give you an example. There’s a railroad, I hear, from Majbur to Jazmurian along the coast, worked by bishtars pulling little strings of cars. Now, mount one of my wheels on a car and connect it by a belt or chain to the wheels. Start the wheel revolving, and what happens? The car with its wheel will pull far more cars than a bishtar, and likewise it never grows old and dies as an animal does, never runs amok and smashes property, and when not in use stands quietly in its shed without needing to be fed. We could build a railroad from Mishe to Majbur and another from Mishe to Jazmurian, and carry goods faster between the coastal cities than it is now carried by the direct route. There’s a source of infinite wealth, of which the Order would of course secure its due share.
“Then there is the matter of weapons. I cannot go into details because many of these are confidential, but I have positive assurance that there are those who would trade the mighty weapons of the Interplanetary Council for the secret of this little wheel. You know what that would mean. Think it over.
“Now I will show you how it actually works. This model you see is not a true working wheel, but a mere toy, an imitation to give you an idea of the finished wheel, which would be much larger. This little wheel will not give enough power to be very useful. Why? Friction. The mysterious sciences of my native planet found centuries ago that friction is proportionately larger in small machines than in large ones. Therefore the fact that this little wheel won’t give useful power is proof that a larger one would. However, the little wheel still gives enough power to run itself without outside help.
“Are you watching, brothers? Observe: I release the brake that prevents the wheel from turning. Hold your breaths, sirs—ah, it moves! It turns! The secret of the ages comes to life before you!”
He had signalled Zerdai, who had begun to pull on the thread, reeling in one end of it while paying out the other. The wheel turned slowly, the little brass legs going click-click-click as they reached the trip at the top.
“Behold!” yelled Borel. “It works! The Order is all-rich and all-powerful!”
After letting the wheel spin for a minute or so, Borel resumed: “Brothers, what must we do to realize on this wonderful invention? One, we need funds to build a number of large wheels to try out various applications: to power ships and rail cars, to run grist mills, and to turn the shafts of machines in workshops. No machine is ever perfect when first completed; there are always details to be improved. Second, we need an organization to exploit the wheel: to make treaties with other states to lease wheels from us and to give us the exclusive right to exploit wheels within their borders; and to negotiate with the powers that be to exchange the secret of the wheel for—I need go no further!
“On Earth we have a type of organization called a corporation for such purposes…” And he launched into the account he had previously given Kubanan and Juvain.
“Now,” he said, “what do we need for this corporation? The officers of the Order and I have agreed that to start, the treasury shall advance the sum of 245,000 karda, for which the Order shall receive forty-nine percent of the stock of the company. The remaining fifty-one percent will naturally remain with the promoter and director of the company; that’s the arrangement we’ve found most successful on Earth. However, before such a large sum can be invested in this great enterprise, we must in accordance with the constitution let you vote on the question. First I had better stop our little wheel here, lest the noise distract you.”
The clicking stopped as Borel put his hand against the wheel. Zerdai broke the thread with a quick jerk, gathered it all in, and slipped away from her hiding place.
Borel continued: “I therefore turn the meeting back to our friend, guide, counsellor, and leader, Grand Master Sir Juvain.”
The Grand Master put the vote, and the appropriation passed by a large majority. As the knights cheered, Kubanan led a line of pages staggering under bags of coins to the stage, where the bags were ranged in a row on the boards.
Borel, when he could get silence again, said: “I thank you one and all. If any would care to examine my little wheel, they shall see for themselves that no trickery is involved.”
The Garma Qararuma climbed up en masse to congratulate Borel. The adventurer, trying not to seem to gloat over the money, was telling himself that once he got away with this bit of swag he would sell it for World Federation dollars, go back to Earth, invest his fortune conservatively, and never have to worry about money again. Of course he had promised himself the same thing on several previous occasions, but somehow the money always seemed to dissipate before he got around to investing it.
V.
Sir Volhaj was pushing through the crowd, saying: “Sir Felix, may I speak to you aside?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“How feel you?”
“Fine. Never better.”
“That’s good, for Shurgez has returned to Mishe with his mission accomplished.”
“What’s that?” said Kubanan. “Shurgez back, and my spies haven’t told me?”
“Right, my lord.”
“Oh-oh,” said the treasurer. “If he challenges you, Sir Felix, you will, as a knight, have to give him instant satisfaction. What arms own you besides that sword?”
“Gluk,” said Borel. “N-none. Doesn’t the challenged party have a choice of weapons?” he asked with some vague idea of specifying boxing gloves.
“According to the rules of the Order,” said Volhaj, “each fighter may use what weapons he pleases. Shurgez will indubitably employ the full panoply: lance, sword, and a mace or ax in reserve, and will enter the lists in full armor. As for you—well, since you and I are much of a size, feel free to borrow aught that you need.”
Before Borel could say anything more, a murmur and a head-turning apprised him of the approach of some interest. As the crowd parted, a squat, immensely muscular, and very Mongoloid-looking knight came forward. “Are you he whom they call Sir Felix the Red?” asked the newcomer.
“Y-yes,” said Borel, icicles of fear running through his viscera.
“I am Sir Shurgez. It has been revealed to me that in my absence you’ve taken the Lady Zerdai as your companion. Therefore I name you a vile traitor, scurvy knave, villainous rascal, base mechanic, and foul foreigner, and shall be at the tournament grounds immediately after lunch to prove my assertions upon your diseased and ugly body. Here, you thing of no account!” And Sir Shurgez, who had been peeling off his glove, threw it lightly in Borel’s face.
“I’ll fight you!” shouted Borel in a sudden surge of temper. “Baghan! Zeft!” He added a few more Gozashtandou obscenities and threw the glove back at Shurgez, who caught it, laughed shortly, and turned his back.
“That’s that,” said Kubanan as Shurgez marched off. “Sure am I that so bold and experienced a knight as yourself will make mincemeat of yon braggart. Shall I have my pages convey the gold to your chamber while we lunch?”
Borel felt like saying: “I don’t want any lunch,” but judged it impolitic. His wits, after the first moment of terror-stricken paralysis, had begun to work again. First he felt sorry for himself. What had he done to deserve this? Why had he joined this crummy club, where instead of swindling each other like gentlemen, the members settled differences by the cruel and barbarous methods of physical combat? All he’d done was to keep Zerdai happy while this blug was away…
Then he pulled himself together and tried to think his way out of the predicament. Should he simply refuse to fight? That meant skinning alive. Could he sprain an ankle? Maybe, but with all these people standing around… Why hadn’t he told that well-meaning sap Volhaj that he was sick unto death?
And now how could he get away with the gold? It was probably too heavy for the buggy; he would need a big two-aya carriage, which could not be obtained in a matter of minutes. How could he make his getaway at all before the fight? With his dear damned friends clustering round…
They were filling him with good advice: “I knew a man who’d begin a charge with lance level, then whirl it around his head as ‘twere a club…”; “When Sir Vardao slew that wight from Gozashtand, he dropped his lance altogether and snatched his mace…”; “If you can get him around the neck with one arm, go for his crotch with your dagger…”
What he really wanted was advice on how to sneak out of the acropolis and make tracks for Novorecife with a third of the Order’s treasury. When he had gulped the last tasteless morsel, he said: “Good sirs, please excuse me. I have things to say to those near to me.”
Zerdai was crying on her bed. He picked her up and kissed her. She responded avidly; this was a Terran custom on which the Krishnans had eagerly seized.
“Come,” he said, “it’s not that bad.”
She clung to him frantically. “But I love only you! I couldn’t live without you! And I’ve been counting so on going with you to far planets…”
Borel’s vestigial conscience stirred, and in a rare burst of frankness he said: “Look, Zerdai, it’ll be small loss no matter how the fight comes out. I’m not the shining hero you think I am; in fact some people consider me an unmitigated heel.”
“No! No! You’re kind and good…”
“… and even if I get through this alive I may have to run for it without you.”
“I’ll die! I could never companion with that brute Shurgez again • • “
Borel thought of giving her some of the gold, since he couldn’t hope to get it all away himself. But then with the Guardians’ communistic principles she couldn’t keep it, and the Order would seize all he left in any case. Finally he unpinned several of his more glittery decorations and handed them to her, saying:
“At least you’ll have these to remember me by.” That seemed to break her down completely.
He found Yerevats in his own room and said: “If the fight doesn’t go my way, take as much of this gold as you can carry, and the buggy, and get out of town fast.”
“Oh, wonderful master must win fight!”
“That’s as the stars decide. Hope for the best but expect the worst.”
“But master, how shall pull buggy?”
“Keep the aya too. Volhaj is lending me his oversized one for the scrap. Tell you what: when we go out to the field, bring one of those bags inside your clothes.”
An hour later, Yerevats buckled the last strap of Borel’s borrowed harness. The suit was a composite, chain mail over the joints and plate armor elsewhere. Borel found that it hampered him less than he expected, considering how heavy it had seemed when he hefted before putting it on.
He stepped out of the tent at his end of the field. Volhaj was holding the big aya, which turned and looked at him suspiciously from under its horns. At the far end, Shurgez already sat his mount. Borel, although outwardly calm, was reviling himself for not having thought of this and that: he should have hinted that his weapon would be a gun; he should have bought a bishtar £nd sat high up on its elephantine back, out of reach of Shurgez, while he potted his enemy with his crossbow…
Yerevats, bustling about the animal’s saddle, secured the bag he had brought with him. Although he tried to do so secretly, the jingle of coin attracted the attention of Volhaj, who asked: “A bag of gold on your saddle? Why do you that, friend?”
“Luck,” said Borel, feeling for the stirrup. His first effort to swing his leg over his mount failed because of the extra weight he was carrying, and they had to give him a boost. Yerevats handed him up his spiked helmet, which he carefully wiggled down onto his head. At once the outside noises acquired a muffled quality as the sound was filtered through the steel and the padding. Borel buckled his chin strap.
A horn blew. As he had seen the other knights do the day of the previous battle, Borel kicked the animal into motion and rode slowly down the field towards his opponent, who advanced to meet him. Thank the Lord he knew how to ride a Terr an horse! This was not much different, save that the fact that the saddle was directly over the aya’s intermediate pair of legs caused its rider to be jarred unpleasantly in the trot.
Borel could hardly recognize Shurgez behind the nasal of his helmet, and he supposed that his own features were equally hidden. Without a word they wheeled towards the side of the field where the Grand Master sat in his booth. They walked their animals over to the stand and listened side by side while Sir Juvain droned the rules of the contest at them. Borel thought it an awful lot of words to say that, for all practical purposes, anything went.
Beside the Grand Master sat Kubanan, stony-faced except at the last, when he tipped Borel a wink. Borel also caught a glimpse of Zerdai in the stands; catching his eye, she waved frantically.
