Queen of Zamba, page 18
part #1 of Viagens Series
When Borel opened his eyes, the man in the front of the boat was no longer whirling the grapnel. Instead he was looking back towards the stern, where the man who had sat at the tiller had slumped down. The rowers were resting on their oars and jabbering excitedly.
"Great master hit robber captain!" said Yerevats. "Better cock bow again."
Borel stood up to do so. Evidently he had missed the man he aimed at and instead hit the man in the stern. He said nothing, however, to disillusion his servant about his marksmanship.
The boat had reorganized and was coming on again, another robber having taken the place of the one at the tiller. This time there were two Krishnans in front, one with the grapnel and the other with a longbow.
"Keep your heads down," said Borel, and shot at the archer; the bolt flew far over the man's head. Borel started to get up to reload, then realized that he would be making a fine target. Could you cock these damned things sitting down? The archer let fly his shaft, which passed Borel's head with a frightening whisht. Borel hastily found that he could cock his crossbow in a sitting position, albeit a little awkwardly. Another arrow thudded into the baggage.
Borel shed his military-style cap as too tempting a target and sighted on the boat again. Another miss, and the boat came closer. The archer was letting off three arrows to every one of Borel's bolts, though Borel surmised that he was doing so to cover their approach rather than with hope of hitting anybody.
Borel shot again; this time the bolt banged into the planking of the boat. The man with the grapnel was whirling it once more, and another arrow screeched past.
"Hey," said Borel to one of the raftmen, "you with the hatchet! When the grapnel comes aboard, jump out and cut the rope. You other two, get ready to push the boat off with your poles."
"But the arrows—" bleated the first man spoken to.
"I'll take care of that," said Borel with more confidence than he felt.
The archer had nocked another arrow but was holding it steady instead of releasing it. As the boat came within range of the grapnel, the man whirling it let go. It landed on the raft with a thump. Then the man who had thrown it began to pull it in hand over hand until one of the flukes caught in a log.
Borel looked around frantically for some way of the tempting the archer to shoot, since otherwise the first to stand up on the raft would be a sitting duck. He seized his cap and raised it above the edge of the barricade. Snap! and another arrow hissed by.
"Go to it!" shrieked Borel, and sighted on the archer. His crew hesitated. The archer reached back to his quiver for another arrow, and Borel, forcing himself to be calm, drew a bead on the man's body and squeezed.
The man gave a loud animal cry, between a grunt and a scream, and doubled over.
"Go on!" yelled Borel again, raising the crossbow as if to beat the raftmen over the head with it. They sprang into life. One severed the rope with a chop of his hatchet, while the other two poked at the boat with their poles.
The remaining man in the front of the boat dropped his rope, shouted something to the rowers, and bent to pick up a boathook. Borel shot at him, but let himself get excited and missed, though it was practically spitting distance. When the boathook caught in the logs, the man hauled the bow of the boat closer, while a few of the forward rowers stopped rowing to cluster around him with weapons ready.
In desperation Borel dropped his crossbow, grabbed the end of the boathook, wrenched it out of the wood, and jerked it towards himself. The man on the other end held on a second too long and toppled into the water, still gripping the shaft. Borel pulled on it with some idea of wrenching it away and reversing it to spear the man in the water. The latter held on, however, and was hauled to the edge of the raft, where he made as though to climb aboard. Meanwhile the raftmen had again pushed the boat away with their poles, so that those who had been gathering themselves to jump across thought better of the idea.
Thump! Yerevats brought his mace down on the head of the man in the water, and the mop of green hair sank beneath the surface.
The raftmen were now yelling triumphantly in their own dialect. A robber, however, had picked up the longbow from the bottom of the boat and was fumbling with an arrow. Borel, recovering his crossbow, took pains with his next shot and made a hit just as the new archer let fly. The arrow went wild and the archer disappeared, to bob up again a second later cursing and holding his shoulder.
Borel cocked his crossbow again and aimed at the man in the boat. This time, however, instead of shooting, he simply pointed it at one man after another. Each man in turn tried to duck down behind the thwarts, so that organized rowing became impossible.
"Had enough?" called Borel.
The robbers were arguing again, until finally one called out: "All right, don't shoot; we'll let you go." The oars resumed their regular rhythm, and the boat swung away towards the swamp. When it was safely out of range, some of the robbers yelled back threats and insults, which Borel could not understand at the distance.
The raftmen were slapping each other's backs, shouting: "We're good! Said I not we could lick a hundred robbers?" Yerevats babbled about his wonderful master.
Borel felt suddenly weak and shaky. If a mouse, or whatever they had on Krishna that corresponded to a mouse, were to climb aboard and squeak at him, he was sure he would leap into the muddy Pichidé in sheer terror. However, it would not do to show that. With trembling hands, he inserted a cigarette into his long jewelled holder and lit it. Then he said:
"Yerevats, my damned boots seem to have gotten scuffed. Give them a shine, will you?"
-
Chapter II
They tied up at Qou that evening to spend the night. Felix Borel paid off the raftmen, whom he overheard before he retired telling the innkeeper how they had (with some help from the Earthman) beaten off a hundred river pirates and slain scores. Next morning he bade them goodby, as they pushed off down the river for Majbur at the mouth of the Pichidé, where they meant to sell their logs and catch a towboat back home.
Four long Krishnan days later, Borel was pacing the roof of his inn in Mishé. The capital of the Republic of Mikardand had proved a bigger city than he had expected. In the middle rose a sharp-edged, mesa-like hill surmounted by the great citadel of the Order of Qarar. The citadel frowned down upon Borel, who frowned right back as he cast and rejected one plan after another for penetrating not only the citadel but also the ruling caste whose stronghold it was.
He called: "Yerevats!"
"Yes, master?"
"The Garma Qararuma toil not, neither do they spin, do they?"
"Guardians work? No sir! Run country, protect common people from enemies and from each other. That enough, not?"
"Maybe, but that's not what I'm after. How are these Guardians supported?"
"Collect taxes from common people."
"I thought so. Who collects these taxes?"
"Squires of Order. Work for treasurer of Order."
"Who's he?" asked Borel.
"Is most noble garm Kubanan."
"Where could I find the most noble Sir Kubanan?"
"If he in citadel, no can see. If in treasury office, can."
"Where's the treasury office?"
Yerevats waved vaguely. "That way. Master want go?"
"Right. Get out the buggy, will you?"
Yerevats disappeared, and presently they were rattling over the cobblestone towards the treasury office in the light one-aya four-wheeled carriage Borel had bought in Qou. It had occurred to him at the time that one pictured a gallant knight as pricking o'er the plain on his foaming steed rather than sitting comfortably behind the steed in a buggy. However, since the latter procedure promised to be pleasanter, and Yerevats knew how to drive, Borel had taken a chance on the Mikardanders' prejudices.
The treasury office was in one of the big, graceless rough-stone buildings that the Qararuma used as their official architectural style. The doorway was flanked by a pair of rampant stone yekis: the dominant carnivores of this part of the planet, something like a six-legged mink blown up to tiger size. Borel had had the wits scared out of him by hearing the roar of one on his drive down from Qou.
Borel gathered up his sword, got down from the buggy, assumed his loftiest expression, and asked the doorman: "Where do I find the receiver of taxes, my good man?"
In accordance with the doorman's directions, he followed a hall in the building until he discovered a window in the side of the hall, behind which sat a man in the drab dress of the commoners of Mikardand.
Borel said: "I wish to see whether I owe the Republic any taxes. I don't wish to discuss it with you, though; fetch your superior."
The clerk scuttled off with a look compounded of fright and resentment. Presently another face and torso appeared at the window. The torso was clad in the gay coat of a member of the Order of Qarar, but judging from the smallness of the dragonlike emblem on the chest, the man was only a squire or whatever you'd call the grade below the true garma.
"Oh, not you," said Borel. "The head of the department."
The squire frowned so that the antennae sprouting from between his brows crossed. "Who are you, anyhow?" he said. "The receiver of taxes am I. If you have anything to pay—"
"My dear fellow," said Borel, "I'm not criticizing you, but as a past Grand Master of an earthly order and a member of several others, I'm not accustomed to dealing with underlings. You will kindly tell the head of your department that the garm Felix Borel is here."
The man went off shaking his head in a baffled manner. Presently another man with a knight's insignia stepped through a door into the corridor and advanced with hand outstretched.
"My dear sir!" he said. "Will you step into my chamber? Tis a pleasure extraordinary to meet a true knight from Earth. I knew not that such lived there; the Ertsuma who have come to Mikardand speak strange subversive doctrines of liberty and equality for the commonality—even those who claim the rank, like that Sir Erik Koskelainen. One can tell you're a man of true quality."
"Thank you," said Borel. "I knew that one of the Garma Qararuma would know me as spiritually one of themselves, even though I belong to another race."
The knight bowed. "And now what's this about your wishing to pay taxes? When I first heard it I believed it not; in all the history of the Republic, no man has ever offered to pay taxes of his own will."
Borel smiled. "I didn't say I actually wanted to pay them. But I'm new here and wanted to know my rights and obligations. That's all. Better to get them straightened out at the start, don't you think?"
"Yes—but—are you he who came hither from Quo but now?"
"Yes."
"He who slew Ushyarian the river pirate and his lieutenant in battle on the Pichidé?"
Borel waved a deprecating hand. "That was nothing. One can't let such rogues run loose, you know. I'd have wiped out the lot, but one can't chase malefactors with a timber raft."
The Qararu jumped up. "Then the reward is due you!"
"Reward?"
"Why, knew you not? A reward of ten thousand karda has lain on the head of Ushyarian for years! I must see about the verification of your claim ..."
Borel, thinking quickly, said: "Don't bother. I don't really want it."
"You don't wish it?" The man stared blankly.
"No. I only did a gentleman's duty, and I don't need it."
"But—the money's here—it's been appropriated—"
"Well, give it to some worthy cause. Don't you have charities in Mishé?"
The knight finally pulled himself together. "Extraordinary. You must meet the treasurer himself. As for taxes—let me see—there is a residence tax on metics, while on the other hand we have treaties with Gozashtand and some of the other states to exempt each other's gentlefolk. I know not how that would affect you—but concern yourself not, in view of your action in the matter of the reward. I'll put it up to the treasurer. Can you wait?"
"Sure. Mind if I smoke?"
"Not at all. Have one of these." The knight dug a bunch of Krishnan cigars out of a desk drawer.
After a few minutes, the official returned and asked Borel to come to the treasurer's office, where he introduced the Earthman to the treasurer of the Order. Sir Kubanan was that rarity among Krishnans, a stout man, looking a little like a beardless Santa Claus.
The previous conversation more or less repeated itself, except that the treasurer proved a garrulous old party with a tendency to ramble. He seemed fascinated by Borel's medals.
"This?" said Borel, indicating the basketball medal. "Oh, that's the second degree of the Secret Order of Spooks. Very secret and very powerful; only admits men who've been acquitted of a murder charge ..."
"Wonderful, wonderful," said Kubanan at last. "My dear sir, we will find a way around this tax matter, fear not. Perish the thought that one so chivalrous as yourself should be taxed like a vulgar commoner, even though the Order be sore pressed for funds."
This was the opening Borel had been waiting for. He pounced. "The Order would like additional sources of revenue?"
"Why, yes. Of course we're all sworn to poverty and obedience," (he contemplated his glittering assortment of rings) "and hold all in common, even our women and children. Nevertheless, the defense of the Republic puts a heavy burden upon us."
"Have you thought of a state lottery?"
"What might that be?"
Borel explained, rattling through the details as fast as his fair command of the language allowed.
"Wonderful," said Kubanan. "I fear I could not follow your description at all times, though; you do speak with an accent. Could you put it in writing for us?"
"Sure. In fact I can do better than that."
"How mean you?"
"Well, to give you an example, it's much easier to tell how to ride an aya than to do it, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Just so, it's easy to tell you how a lottery works—but it takes practical experience to run one."
"How can we surmount that difficulty?"
"I could organize and run your first lottery."
"Sir Felix, you quite take my breath away. Could you write down the amounts involved in this scheme?"
Borel wrote down a rough estimate of the sums he might expect to take in and pay out in a city of this size. Kubanan, frowning, said: "What's this ten percent for the director?"
"That's the incentive. If you're going to run this thing in a businesslike manner after I've left, we'd better set it up right. And one must have an incentive. The first time I'd be the director, naturally."
"I see. That's not unreasonable. But since members of the Order aren't allowed private funds beyond mere pocket money, how would the commission act as incentive?"
Borel shrugged. "You'd have to figure that one out. Maybe you'd better hire a commoner to run the show. I suppose there are merchants and bankers among them, aren't there?"
"True. Amazing. We must discuss this further. Won't you come to my chambers this evening to sup? I'll pass you into the citadel."
Borel tried to hid his grin of triumph as he said: "It's my turn to be overwhelmed, Your Excellency!" The Borel luck!
-
At the appointed hour, Borel, having presented his pass at the gate of the citadel, was taken in tow by a uniformed guide. Inside Mishé's Kremlin stood a lot of huge plain stone buildings wherein the Guardians led their antlike existence. Borel walked past playgrounds and exercise grounds, and identified other buildings as apartment houses, armories, office buildings, and an auditorium. It was just as well to memorize such details in case a slip-up should require a hasty retreat. Borel had once spent six months as a guest of the French Republic in consequence of failing to observe this precaution. He passed hundreds of gorgeously arrayed garma of both sexes. Some looked at him sharply, but none offered interference.
For the quarters of one sworn to poverty, the treasurer's apartment was certainly sumptuous. Kubanan cordially introduced Borel to a young female Mikardandu who quite took his breath away. If one didn't mind green hair, feathery antennae, and a somewhat flat-featured Oriental look, she was easily the most beautiful thing he'd seen since Earth, especially since the Mikardando evening dress began at the midriff.
"Sir Felix, my confidential secretary, the Lady Zerdai." Kubanan lowered his voice in mock-confidence. "I think she's my own daughter, though naturally one can never know for sure."
"Then family feeling does exist among the Guardians?" said Borel.
"Yes, I fear me it does. A shameful weakness, but natheless a most pleasant one. Heigh-ho, at times I envy the commoners. Why, Zerdai herself has somehow bribed the women in charge of the incubator to show her which is her own authentic egg."
