Queen of Zamba, page 12
part #1 of Viagens Series
"Stand back to back," said the marshal. "Now walk to the ends of the court: one—two—one—two—"
"Are you ready?"
Hasselborg stood facing the stone wall, gooseflesh on his back, into which back he more than half expected Jám to send an iron bolt any second. He was finding a formal duel harder on his nerve than he expected. A fight was one thing; he'd been in several on Earth that had resulted fatally for his antagonist. The first time it had given him the bleeps, but after that he'd taken it as a matter of course. Now the shivery feeling of his first lethal fight had come back. This standing up like a fool and deliberately risking—
The whistle blew piercingly. Hasselborg, tensed for action, dropped the nose of his crossbow to the ground, stuck his toe into the stirrup on the end, and heaved on the string. It came back with a faint sound into the notch. He snatched a bolt from his felt, whirled, and threw himself prone on his elbow pads, placed the bolt in its groove, and sighted on his target.
Jám bad-Koné was just sighting along his cocked crossbow as Hasselborg brought the heads of the pins into line with the shiniest of the medals on the chest of the dasht. Jám seemed to hesitate; raised his head for a second to look at the antagonist who had fallen down without waiting to be hit, then squinted down the stock of His weapon again.
Hasselborg squeezed the trigger. The stock kicked sharply and the bolt flashed away with a hum, rising and falling a few centimeters in its flat trajectory.
Then something exploded in Hasselborg's head, and the light went out.
-
Chapter X
Feeling hands trying to turn him over, Victor Hasselborg opened his eyes. His head ached frightfully.
"He lives yet," said one.
"Which can't be said for the other," said somebody else. Their general chatter made a dull roar in Hasselborg's head.
With great effort he pulled himself into a sitting position and felt of his pate. At least there did not seem to be any fragments of skull grinding together like ice floes in an Arctic storm, though his hand came away bloody. The dasht's bolt must have grazed his scalp and carried away his hat, which lay on the stones between him and the wall.
"I'm okay," he said. "Just let me alone a minute." He wanted no Krishnan fingers exploring around the roots of his dyed hair or his glued-on antennae.
"Look!" said a voice, "a new method of sighting a bow, by the stars! Had we such at the battle of Meozid—"
"... by Qondyor, not knightly; he should have warned Jám, so that—"
"... has the new dasht reached his majority?"
Hasselborg realized that the king was looking down at him. He got up, staggered a little, and finally found his balance.
"Yes, sire?" he said.
The king replied: "Master painter, you've riven me of a good vassal, a good stout fellow. Though since it had to be one or the other of you, I'm not altogether displeased 'twas he. While a strong and loyal right arm, there's no denying he was difficult. Yes, difficult. Kidnaping gentlewoman. Get you to the surgeon and have your crown patched, and then let's to the painting again. It had better be good, now. I suppose I shall have to attend his funeral; barbaric things, funerals."
"I thank Your Awesomeness, but with my head feeling the way it does, I'm afraid the picture would look pretty gruesome. Can't we put off the next sitting for a day at least?"
"No, varlet! When I say I wish it today—but then, perhaps you're right. I shouldn't wish my nose in the picture to wander over my face like the Pichidé River over the Gozashtando Plain, merely because my artist can't see straight. Get you patched and rested, and resume your work as soon as may be thereafter: Stray you not from the city, however."
"I don't suppose I need these guards any more, do I?"
"No, no, they're dismissed."
"And d'you mind if—"
"If what? If what?"
"Nothing, Your Supremacy. You've done me enough favors already."
He managed a teetery bow, and the king minced off. Hasselborg had been about to ask to be allowed to move back to Hasté's palace, where the service was better organized, when it occurred to him that he would be encouraging Fouri to think up some scheme to lure or coerce him into marrying her.
Fouri was gushing over his survival and Hasté was congratulating him in more restrained style, when a rough-looking individual said: "Master Kavir, may I have a word? I'm Ferzao bad-Qé, captain of the late dasht's personal guard."
When he got Hasselborg aside, the man continued: "Now that the death of the dasht has canceled our oaths to him, the lads and I wonder what next, d'ye see? The late dasht was a good fellow, albeit careless with his coin, so that our pay came somewhat irregularly. Now he's gone, his eldest inherits, but is not yet of age, wherefore his widow's regent. A sour wench, as thrifty as the dasht was liberal, and will no doubt start by letting half of us go and cutting the pay of the rest.
"So we wondered if, in accordance with the old custom, ye'd like to take us on as your men. We're stout fighters, none fiercer, and if ye but give us the word we'll seize an isle in the Sadabao Sea and make you a sea king, like that fellow on Zamba. What say ye?"
This was a new problem. "How much did the dasht pay you?" asked Hasselborg.
"Oh, as to that, the amount varied with rank, length of service, and the like. The total came to mayhap forty karda a ten-night."
Not bad for an armed gang, thought Hasselborg, though no doubt he'd find he'd let himself in for a lot of extras as well. Maybe these birds would come in handy, and the money Hasté had given him would pay them for some time even without his sending to Novorecife.
"I'll do it," he said.
As things turned out, not all of Jám's men wanted service under Hasselborg; only twenty-nine of them did when all were counted. Some of the others said they might consider it after they'd returned to Rosid for their former master's funeral. Tant mieux; the money would last even longer.
Hasselborg shut himself up in his room, applied his pills to his headache, and tried to examine his wound. Unfortunately the latter was on the extreme top of his head where he could not see it with a single mirror. After half an hour's experimenting, he rigged up a second mirror so that he could look down on himself.
The gash had stopped bleeding, and the hair around it was thick with dried blood. He washed some of the blood out, cut off some of the hair next to the scalp with the little scissors from his sewing kit, applied disinfectant, and closed the wound with a small piece of adhesive tape. Not a professional job, but it would have to do.
In the process he noticed that his hair was beginning to show brown at the roots. Therefore, with a small brush, he applied the dye that the barber at Novorecife had sold him, around the edges where it showed. The antennae seemed still secure; however, one of the pointed tips of his ears was coming adrift and had to be re-glued.
He spent most of the day napping. Then he set out for dinner at Hasté's palace, having promised the high priest with some misgivings that he would eat with them that night to celebrate his survival. This time, however, he had a legitimate excuse to turn down Hasté's cocktails, saying his head ached still. He had noticed with alarm that he was actually getting to like these drinks.
"Tell me about Zamba and its new dour," he asked Hasté.
The priest raised his antennae. "Why are you interested, my son? I should think that, having received your fee for Antané's portrait, your curiosity would be satisfied."
"Oh, well—I just wondered how Antané got so far in such a short time. He never impressed me that much when I knew him. And what's he going to do next, now that he has his kingdom?"
"As to that, that's as the stars—yes?"
A younger priest, the one Hasselborg had seen on previous occasions, had just come in to whisper in Hasté's ear. The high priest said: " Tis as bad as being a physician. I must go to check the heliacal setting of Rayord. Tell the cook to hold dinner a few moments, will you, Fouri?"
When her uncle had gone, Fouri leaned towards Hasselborg and looked at him out of her fathomless green slanting eyes. "I could tell you news of Zamba. My gossips at the dour's palace fill my ears with it."
"What is it?"
She smiled. "I but said I could tell, not that I would."
"What d'you mean?" Of course he knew well enough. Oh boy, here we go again!
"I could be a valuable helpmeet to one like yourself but see no point in throwing away my favor to one who'll merely say 'thank you' and ride off and think no more of Fouri."
"How do I know your gossip's as valuable as all that?" he said.
"Trust my word. I have news of import about King Antané."
Hasselborg shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't make a trade for any secret sight unseen." Seeing her look of pain, he added: "Of course I am fond of you in a way, and if your news were important it might help me to make up my mind about other things."
"Cha! Let's not spar with wooden swords any longer. Will you promise, if it does in truth prove important, to wed me instanter, by the rites of the Established Church?"
"No."
"Oh, you wretched man! So I'm to give you all I know and mayhap you'll consider what to do next, as if that were a great kindness! Am I so ugly? Am I so cold?"
"No."
"What then?"
"Matter of principle."
"Principle! Curse your principles!" She strode up and down in agitation, storming: "I should hire a bravo to put steel through your gullet, to see if you'd bleed or merely run ink from the wound! Never have I known such a man! One would think you—"
Hasselborg found himself disliking this scene more and more. He fought down a temptation either to break off their equivocal relationship finally, or else to accept her offer.
"Well?" she said.
"What I've told you. I'd love to hear your news, and the more you help me the more grateful I'll be. But I absolutely won't promise to marry you. Not at this stage, anyway."
She stood breathing hard. "Look you. I'll tell you what I hear. Then do as you like—go where you will, cast me aside, revile and beat me if you will. I'll ask nought of you, save that you believe that I truly love you and wish you well."
"Okay, I'll believe that. And I won't say I mightn't feel the same—some day. But what's the news?"
"This—King Antané and his queen sail from Zamba for Majbur any day."
Hasselborg sat up sharply. "What for?"
"That I know not, nor my informant. Antané comes betimes to Majbur to buy, both for himself and for his kingdom, or to talk trade with the syndics of the Free City. For aught I know, his present visit's of that kind. But see you not the true weight of what I've told you?"
"How?"
"Why, if you'd accost this sea king with whatever mysterious business you have with him, and him unwilling, you'd have to pick a time when he's ashore. On his island you could never draw nigh without his leave, for his galleys command the seas thereabouts. Now see you?"
"I do, and thanks a lot. The next problem is, how am I to get away from Hershid without having King Eqrar get sore and send his army after me?"
Fouri thought an instant and said: "Perhaps I could persuade him. The old baghan likes me well, though he cares not overmuch for my uncle. I know not if he'd listen or no. Could I prevail upon him, would you change your mind?"
Hasselborg grinned. "No, darling. You're a most persistent young person, aren't you?"
"No joking matter! See you not that you're tearing my liver in shreds? Oh, Kavir, I always dreamed of a man like you—" And she began to weep.
Hasselborg comforted her as best he could, then said: "Pull yourself together. I think I hear your uncle coming back."
In an instant she was the solemnly courteous hostess again. Hasselborg thought, whatever Krishnan finally joins his lot with hers will certainly never have a dull moment.
-
Next morning, Hasselborg went to the king saying: "May it please Your Awesomeness, my headache's gone—"
"So? Good! Excellent! Then we'll resume the sittings at once. I have an hour this afternoon—"
"Just a minute, sire! I was about to say that, while my headache's gone, I find that my artistic temperament has been so shaken by this duel that I couldn't possibly do good work until my nerves quiet down."
"And when will that be?"
"I don't know for sure; it was my first duel, you know."
"Forsooth? You handled yourself well."
"Thanks. But as I was saying, I'd guess I'll be ready to paint again in less than a ten-night."
"Hm-m-m. Well, well, if that's the way of it, I suppose I shall have to let you hang around ogling the ladies until you make up your mind, or whatever an artist has in lieu of a mind. Most unsatisfactory people, artists. Most unsatisfactory. Can't depend on them. You're like old Hasté, always promising but never delivering."
"I'm sorry if I make Your Awesomeness impatient, but we're dealing with one of those divine gifts that can't be forced. Anyway, aren't you leaving soon for Jám's funeral?"
"That is true; I shall be out of Hershid for some days."
"All right then. In the meantime I'd like permission to take a little vacation away from Hershid, too."
"Where away from Hershid?" said Eqrar with a suspicious look.
"Well—I was thinking of running down to Majbur for a day or two. Change of scene, you know."
"No, I know not! You painters are really intolerable! Here I give you a good fat commission, and anybody would agree that a good subject am I, and the prestige of having painted me alone would be worth your time. I don't even bring a charge of homicide against you when you slay one of my retainers in a fight. And what do you? Excuses, procrastinations, evasions! I'll not have it! Sirrah, consider yourself ... no, wait. Why come you not to Rosid with me? We might get some painting done on the route."
"Oh, sire! In the first place, Jám's funeral would shatter my nerves utterly; and in the second, I hardly think his people would consider me a welcome guest."
"True, true. Well, if I let you go to Majbur, how know I 'tis not an excuse to get out of my jurisdiction and flee, leaving me with nought but a charcoal sketch for my trouble?"
"That's easy, sir. I'm leaving a good-sized sum of money here, and also that gang of Jám's men who signed up to work for me. There's also the little matter of my bill for this painting I'm working on now. You don't think I'd abandon valuable assets like that, do you?"
"I suppose not. Go on your silly trip, then, and may the gods help you if you come not back as promised!"
"Could you give me an introduction to somebody there? Your ambassador, say?"
"I have a resident commissioner in the Free City. Naen, write this worthless artist a note to Gorbovast, will you? I'll sign it here and now."
This time Hasselborg took pains to stand in front of the secretary's desk as the latter wrote, and to try to read the letter upside down. If written Gozashtandou was hard to read right side up, it was worse inverted. Still, the message seemed straightforward enough, with no deadly words like "spy."
The Krishnan noon therefore found Victor Hasselborg trotting his buggy briskly down the road towards the Free City of Majbur. He had not even said good-by to Fouri; had sent one of his men to Hasté's palace with a message instead, not wanting another scene or demand that he take her along.
He had also been strongly tempted to take one of these burly ruffians with him but had given up the idea. Traveling with a Krishnan would almost certainly result in the native's learning that Hasselborg was an Earthman.
He passed the usual road traffic; overtook and passed the daily train from Hershid to Qadr. It comprised five little cars, three passenger and two freight, pulled along by a bishtar shuffling between the rails. A couple of young Krishnans in one of the passenger cars waved at him, just as children did on Earth. He waved back, feeling, for the first time since his arrival, homesick. Dearest Alexandra— He got out her handkerchief for a quick look at it.
-
He arrived at the village of Qadr the evening of his second day on the road. As the last ferryboat for Majbur had already left, he spent the night without incident in Qadr and took the first boat across next morning. It was a big barge, rowed by a dozen oarsmen manning long sweeps and helped along by two triangular lateen sails bellying in the westerly breeze that came down the river on their starboard beam. To port, the low shores of the mouth of the Pichidé fell away to nothing, leaving the Sadabao Sea sparkling in the rising sun.
A war galley with catapults in its bows went past, oars thumping in their oarlocks, and off to port a fat merchantman was trying to beat into the harbor against the wind. The latter was having a hard time because at the end of reach the ship wore round like a square-rigger instead of tacking, meanwhile dipping the high ends of the lateen yards and raising the low ends to reverse the set of the yellow sails.
