The Clocks of Iraz

Chapter Four THE MASTER OF THE CLOCKS

CLAD IN HIS BAGGY NEW IRAZI TROUSERS, JORIAN STOOD IN the courtyard of the Tower of Kumashar and tipped his head back, squinting against the brightness of the sky.

"By Vaisus' brazen arse!" he said. "Those clocks must be thirty stories above us. Am I doomed to run up and down thirty flights of steps every day?"

"Nay, my son," said Karadur. "As the tower was originally built in the days of Shashtai the Third, men had to toil up all seventy-odd stories to bear fuel for the beacon. But so many workmen perished of heart failure that, when Hoshcha established the House of Learning, he commanded the savants to devise a method of hoisting men and materials up and down the tower. Come with me, and you shall see."

The twain approached the vast entrance on the north side, where the huge teakwood doors were flanked and surmounted by sculptured lions, dragons, and gryphons. The soldier leaning against the stone of the door frame straightened up, stepped in front of the door, and clicked his greaves together as he came to attention. He barked a challenge in Penembic.

Karadur peered nearsightedly. "Oh," he said, and replied in the same tongue. "Here!"

The old Mulvanian produced a scroll of parchment, which he handed to the soldier. The latter, needing both hands to unroll the stiff sheet, had to balance his halberd awkwardly in the crook of his arm as he read. He let the parchment roll up again with a snap and handed it back.

"Pass, sirs!" he said, bringing his fist up to his bronzen breastplate in salute. He turned the big brass door handle with a clank and pushed open one of the teakwood valves. The hinges squealed.

The interior was cavernous and dusty. After the brilliance of the sun outside, it seemed dark, although windows at every story let in light. The light was dimmed, however, by the dirt on the windowpanes.

To the right, the main staircase rose from the floor. It circled round and round the tower as it rose, with landings at every story to give access to the many small chambers built into the structure. The hollow shaft of the interior rose into dimness far above.

On the ground floor were pieces of apparatus: chains and ropes hanging down from above and, to one side, a horse mill. This comprised a vertical shaft with a horizontal crosspiece on top. From each end of the crosspiece dangled a set of straps and a horse collar. No animals now occupied the harness.

"What's that?" asked Jorian.

"When the clocks are running, the water that drives them must needs be daily pumped from the sump back up into the reservoir. A pair of mules, attached to yon mill, turns the shaft, which drives the pump by means of those chains and sprockets and things. You would understand them better than I. Since the clocks have stopped, howsomever, the mules have been put to other tasks. Hola, Saghol!"

A bundle of rags in a corner stirred and resolved itself into a sleeping workman. As the man rose, a grin split the brown face and showed an irregular row of yellow teeth.

"Ah, Doctor Karadur!" said the man and went on in Penembic. Jorian thought he said: "Do you wish to go up?"

"Aye," said Karadur and turned to Jorian. "How much do you weigh, my son?"

"A hundred and ninety the last time I weighed. When I get over two hundred, I begin to worry. Why?"

"Your weight must be counterbalanced." Karadur turned to the lift attendant. "Allow us three hundred and a quarter."

Saghol pulled one of the cords that hung from above, whence a bell tinkled faintly.

"Stand in this thing with me," said Karadur. The wizard stepped into a large, open-topped wooden box or tray, six feet on a side, with a handrail around it and a gantrylike structure arching over their heads. Attached to this structure was a chain, which extended upward out of sight.

Saghol grasped another cord and jerked it thirteen times, with a pause between jerks. Then he pulled the first cord again, twice. The bell tinkled.

"Whatever is he doing?" asked Jorian.

"He is signaling his colleagues above to set counterweights weighing three hundred and twenty-five pounds in the other car, to balance our weight. Hold tight!"

Jorian gripped the stanchion on his side of the box, which trembled and rose. "By Zevatas' golden whiskers!" he exclaimed as he peered over the edge.

"Make no sharp movements," said Karadur, "lest you set this car to swinging like a pendulum."

The stairs and chambers of the tower sank past as the lift rose. The walls came slowly closer, since the tower tapered upward. At the sixteenth story, the other car, laden with cast-iron weights, sank past them. The sounds of gearwheels and ratchets from above waxed louder.

The car stopped, and Karadur stepped briskly out. Jorian followed. A pair of brawny, sweating Irazis rested from turning a pair of large flywheels by means of crank handles.

The shaft bearing these wheels was united by gearing with a huge sprocket wheel mounted over the center of the hollow shaft of the tower. The lift car that had carried Jorian up hung from one end of the chain that passed over the sprocket, while the weighted car that had passed them hung from the other. A dog locked the gearing in place.

"Whew!" said Jorian, peering uneasily down the shaft. "That scared me worse than when the princess Yargali turned into a monster serpent whilst I was in bed with her."

"Now, now, my son!" said Karadur. "Do you still practise your old vice of self-deprecation?"

Jorian grinned weakly. "Not very often, Holy Father. Anyway, I misdoubt these fellows understand Novarian." He stepped to one of the windows. Beneath him, vast Iraz lay spread out, with broad, straight processional avenues cutting at various angles through the tangle of lesser streets and alleys. Amid the sea of red-tiled roofs, the metallic roof-plates of temples and other public buildings flashed blindingly in the sunlight, like gems scattered about a red-patterned counterpane.

"Oi!" said Jorian. "Karadur, tell me: is that the palace? And that the temple of Ughroluk? And that the House of Learning? Where lies our tenement?"

Karadur pointed out landmarks. Jorian said: "I wonder the king add not a few coppers to his treasury by letting the vulgus up the tower for a small fee, to enjoy the view."

"One of Ishbahar's predecessors did that; but so many young people, disappointed in love, ascended the tower to jump from the top that the privilege was rescinded. If you have seen enough, follow me."

The old man led Jorian up a narrow stair to the next level, cluttered by a mass of machinery. To one side rose another lift, like the one that had brought them halfway up the tower but smaller.

"That takes fuel up to the beacon," said Karadur. "There is Yiyim now."

A metallic tapping came from the clockwork. Then a small, gnomish man with a graying beard popped out of the gearing. In one hand he gripped a hammer, with which he had been tapping one of the huge brass gearwheels.

"O Yiyim," said Karadur, "this is Jorian the Kortolian, whom the king has commanded to repair the clocks. Jorian, I present Clockmaster Yiyim."

Yiyim stood glaring with fists on hips, silent but for the hiss of breath in his nostrils. Then he hurled his hammer to the floor with a clang.

"You cursed old pickthank!" he screeched. "Offspring of a demon and a sow! Incondite meddler!" He added several more epithets, for which Jorian's limited Penembic was inadequate. "So your plot finally came to a boil, eh? And you think I'll show this young mountebank how these clocks work, so that he can steal the credit for starting them and cozen me out of my post, eh? Well, not one word of help shall you have from me! If the twain of you get caught in the gears and ground to sausage, so much the better. May the gods piss on you!"

Yiyim vanished down the stairs. The sounds of the lift told of his departure.

"Something tells me I had better not stand at the base of the tower whilst that fellow's at the top," said Jorian, "where he could drop something on me."

"Oh, he is harmless. If you succeed, Ishbahar will pension him off; and he surely would not risk loss of his pension by fomenting trouble."

"Yes? Umm. I've seen what happened before when you trusted somebody to be upright and reasonable." Jorian picked up the hammer. "Here's one tool, anyway. There's a tool rack on yonder wall, but with nary a tool in it."

"They have all been mislaid or purloined over the years," said Karadur. "You needs must furnish your own."

"I shall, when I've looked over the works…"

For an hour, Karadur sat cross-legged on the floor, absorbed in meditation, while Jorian tapped and pried and fingered the clockwork. At last he said:

"I haven't worked on clocks for years, but it is plain as your whiskers why this machine won't run."

"What is the cause, my son?"

"Causes, you mean. For one thing, one of the pallets of the escapement is bent. For another, somebody must have struck this gear in the train a heavy blow and marred one of the teeth. For three, the oil in the bearings has been allowed to dry and get sticky, so the wheels wouldn't turn even if all the other faults were righted."

"Can you rectify these deficiencies?"

"I think so. But first I must order tools. Who would be the best man in Iraz for that?"

On the twenty-third of the Month of the Stag, a procession arrived at the courtyard of the Tower of Kumashar. First marched a musical band. Then came a company of the royal guard, consisting of one platoon each of pikemen, swordsmen, and arbalesters. Then came the royal litter, borne on the shoulders, not of slaves, but of the leading gentlemen of the court, half of them in kilts and half in trousers. A squadron of cavalry brought up the rear.

The courtiers set down the litter in front of the main entrance. As the curtains of the litter parted, the soldiers clanged to salute, while the civilians dropped to one knee.

An enormously fat man in a gold-embroidered white robe, with a curly wig on his head and a serpent crown on top of that, emerged slowly from the litter. The effort made him puff and wheeze.

When King Ishbahar had caught his breath, he made an upward gesture, so that the sun flashed on the huge ruby seal stone on the middle finger of his left hand. In a high, wheezy voice he said:

"Rise, good people! Ah, Doctor Karadur!"

The king waddled forward. In his path lay a puddle from yesterday's rain, but one of the gentlemen quickly threw his mantle over it.

Karadur bowed. The king said: "And is this your young—ah—Master—ah—"

"Jorian, Your Majesty," said Karadur.

"Master Jorian? A pleasure to know you, young sir, heh heh. Axe the clocks running?"

"Aye, O King," said Jorian. "Would you fain see the works?"

"Indeed we would. Is the lift working?"

"Aye, sire."

"We trust all its parts are sound and solid, for we are not exactly a sylph, heh heh! Let us go; let us go."

The king puffed his way through the portal. Inside, the ground floor of the tower had received a hasty sweeping and cleaning. A pair of mules walked the boom of the mill around, while a muleteer from time to time cut at one or the other with his whip. The gears and shafting grumbled. The king stepped aboard the lift.

"Doctor Karadur!" he said. "It were inconsiderate to ask one of your years to climb thirty flights, so you shall ride with us. You, too, Master Jorian, to answer technical questions."

"Your Majesty!" said one of the gentlemen—a tall, thin man with a pointed gray beard. "No offense to Messires Karadur and Jorian, but it were risky to entrust yourself to the car without a bodyguard."

"Well, heh heh, one stalwart soldier ought to suffice."

"If lift will bear weight, sire," said Jorian.

"What is its limit?"

"I know not for sure, but methinks we press it."

"Ah, well, we cannot diet down in time for this ride. Colonel Chuivir!"

"Aye, sire?" replied the most guttering soldier of all, a strikingly handsome man as tall as Jorian.

"Detail a squad of the guard to ascend the tower by the stairs, keeping on a level with us as the lift bears us aloft. Pick strong men with sound hearts! We would not have them collapse halfway up, heh heh."

Like the tower, Saghol, the ground-floor lift attendant, had been cleaned up for the occasion. He jerked his cords, and the lift rose, groaning. The squad of guardsmen clattered up the stairs, keeping pace with the lift.

At the top, the king got off the lift, which wobbled as his weight left it, and wheezed his way up to the clockwork floor. Jorian followed. The soldiers, red-faced, sweating, and gasping, filed into the clockwork chamber after him.

On the clockwork floor, the machinery was in full noisy operation. The shaft driven by the horse mill on the ground floor rotated, driving the pump that raised water from the sump to the reservoir above. Water ran from this reservoir through a pipe to a large wheel bearing a circle of buckets. As each bucket filled, the escapement released the wheel, allowing it to rotate just far enough to bring an empty bucket under the spout. At the bottom of their travel, the buckets tipped, spilling their water into the trough, whence it ran to the sump. The bucket wheel drove a gear train connected to the shafts of the four clocks on the four sides of the tower. Another mechanism struck a gong on the hour.

"We have not been up here in years, heh heh," said King Ishbahar, raising his voice to be heard above the clatter and splashing. "Pray explain this to me, good Master Jorian."

Jorian's Penembic was now fairly fluent if ungrammatical. With Karadur helping to translate when he got stuck, Jorian told the king about clockwork. While Jorian spoke, several gentlemen, having come up on the second trip of the lift, filed into the chamber.

"You should know Doctor Borai, O Jorian," said the King. "He is director of our House of Learning—at least for now."

Borai, potbellied, gray-bearded, and kilted, bowed to Jorian, mumbled something that Jorian could not hear, and shot a slit-eyed glare at Karadur.

"Pardon us a moment," said the king. "We would speak to him of plans for the city, and where better to discuss such things than this lofty eyrie, whence it is spread out below us like a map?"

The king waddled over to a window, where to Borai he pointed out various things below, talking animatedly. A plump, trousered man a little older than Jorian addressed him.

"Permit me, Master Jorian. I am Lord Vegh, stasiarch of the Pants. I see by your garb that you are a person of progressive ideas, like those of my honorable association. When you take out Penembic citizenship, perhaps you would care—"

"Soliciting a new member already, eh, Vegh?" said the tall, thin grandee with the pointed gray beard. "Not sporting, you know."

"First come, first served," said Vegh.

"Excuse me, my lords," said Jorian. "I be not up on Irazi politics. Explain, pray."

Vegh smiled. "This is Lord Amazluek, stasiarch of the Kilts. Naturally, he would prefer to enlist you in his—"

"Bah!" said Amazluek. "The poor fellow has but lately arrived in Iraz. How should he know the glories of our ancient traditions, which my association cherishes and upholds? Be advised, young sir, that if you would fain make your way amongst people of the better sort here, you ought to abandon those barbarous nether garments—"

"I believe I was conversing with Master Jorian, when you cut in,

Amazluek," said Vegh. "Will you kindly mind your business, whilst I—"

"It is my business!" cried Amazluek. "When I see three cozening an innocent young foreigner—"

"Cozening!" shouted Vegh. "Why, thou—"

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" said several courtiers, thrusting themselves between the angry stasiarchs.

"Anyway," said Amazluek, "none of my association has turned traitor and fled to the provinces to raise a rebellion!" He turned his back and stalked off.

"What he talk about?" said Jorian, looking innocent.

Vegh: "Oh, he alludes to that rascal Mazsan, leader of a dissident faction. He was a member of my honorable association ere we expelled him. There are always bloodthirsty extremists, and Mazsan is ours."

"Yes?"

"You see, Master Jorian, we—the Pants, that is—are the moderates of Iraz. We follow the middle way, in urging that the Royal Council be elected and given legislative powers. On one hand we have mossbacked conservatives, like Amazluek, who would hold back all progress. On the other, we have fanatics like Mazsan, who would abolish the monarchy altogether. We are the only sensible folk."

"What this about Mazsan disappearing?"

"He and some followers have dropped out of sight, and rumor says they fled the city when their attempt to unseat me failed. But none has seen them since. I suspect that some of Amazluek's rich young thugs caught the lot at a conspiratorial meeting, murdered them, and concocted the tale of their flight to discredit all the Pants. When—"

"Gentlemen!" wheezed the king. "We do believe we have seen enough for the nonce. Let us all return to the courtyard, where we shall have somewhat to say."

When they were drawn up in the courtyard in the middle of a hollow square of the Royal Guard, King Ishbahar said:

"It is our pleasure to announce that, in recognition of their services to our crown and state in repairing the clocks of the Tower of Kumashar, we hereby appoint Doctor Karadur of Mulvan director of the House of Learning, and Master Jorian of Kortoli our new clockmaster. In recognition of their many years of faithful service, Doctor Borai and Clockmaster Yiyim are retired on pension. Doctor Borai is hereby made honorary commissioner of city planning."

"Oi! Who said I wanted to be clockmaster?" Jorian whispered to Karadur.

"Do be quiet, my son. You needs must do something whilst I grapple with the problem of your wife, and the pay is fair."

"Oh, well. Borai doesn't seem to like being pensioned."

"That is not surprising, seeing that his income will be halved. The city-planning thing carries no salary."

"Then we have another enemy to watch out for."

"You are too suspicious—"

"And now, gentlemen," said the king, "we shall return to our humble home. Doctor Karadur and Master Jorian, it is our pleasure that you take lunch with us this noon."

On the way from the tower to the palace, Jorian and Karadur passed through a huge gate in the wall surrounding the palace grounds. From the top of the gate rose a row of iron spikes, one of which bore a human head.

"The Gate of Happiness," said Karadur.

"That wight up yonder doesn't look very happy," said Jorian, indicating the head.

"Oh, this is the traditional place where heads of malefactors are exhibited."

"A curious conceit, to attach such a name to such a place."

"You utter verities, my son. The present monarch, howsomever, is mild and merciful, so that there is seldom more than one head on exhibition at a time. The conservatives grumble that such lenity encourages evildoers."

In the palace, the gentleman litter-bearers were dismissed by the king. Jorian and Karadur were conducted to a private dining room, where they ate with the king, alone but for a pair of guardsmen standing in the corners, a secretary who scribbled notes, and the king's food taster.

After amenities, Jorian brought up his brush with the pirates of Algarth on his voyage south. "From what I hear," he said, "they wax ever more aggressive along these coasts. I daresay Your Majesty knows what actions to take against them."

Looking unhappy, King Ishbahar spoke to the secretary: "Remind me to pass the word to Admiral Kyar, O Herekit." Then to Jorian: "Ah, that we could persuade these rogues to earn honest livings, like other men! Do you know that the ungrateful knaves have had the insolence to demand an increase in our annual largesse?"

"Means Your Majesty that you pay them trib—unh!" Jorian broke off as Karadur kicked his shin beneath the table. "I mean—ah—that your government subsidizes these gentry?"

"One might put it thus. One might. I know there is an argument for a hard policy; we have gone over it many a time and oft in council meetings. But our great philosopher Rebbim held that such men should not be blamed for their acts. The Algarthian Archipelago is a congeries of barren, sea-beaten rocks, where little food can be raised. The folk of that grim land must, therefore, resort to piracy or face starvation. So a subsidy, in return for immunity to our ships, seemed but a humane and benevolent act.

"Besides which, the subsidy was at first but a fraction of the cost of putting our navy on a war footing. Know you that the stroke man of a bench of rowers now gets three coppers a day? Some people are never satisfied." The king shook his head, his jowls wobbling. "But let us to a pleasanter subject. Do try this rhinoceros liver with sauce of lamprey's brains. You will swear that you have tasted nought like it, heh hen."

Jorian tried it. "Your Majesty is right," he said, swallowing manfully. "Your servant has never tasted aught like it. But, whilst Your Majesty's wish is my command, I have come to point where I can still chew but not swallow. I am full."

"Oh, come! A big, lusty swain like you? What you have eaten would not keep a bird alive. Not a bird."

"That depends upon the kind of bird, sire. I have already eaten thrice my usual lunch. Is like story of King Fusinian and the Teeth of Grimnor, which I told you."

The king's jowls quivered with laughter. "Ah, Master Jorian! Would that, had the gods permitted us children, we had a son like you!"

Startled, Jorian looked up. "Your Majesty's flattery overwhelms me. But…" he raised an inquiring eyebrow.

Karadur said: "Master Jorian is new to Iraz, sire, and he has been working night and day on the clocks. He is therefore unfamiliar with your dynastic situation."

"Our dynastic situation, as the learned doctor delicately puts it, is simple. We have had several wives, of whom two survive; but with all of these available females, we have begotten but one child, who died in infancy. So now we face the prospect of passing our crown on to one of a pair of worthless nephews.

"But let us speak of more cheerful things. In three days comes the feast of Ughroluk, with the major races of the year. You two learned gentlemen shall occupy reserved seats in the Hippodrome, directly below the royal box. You will be safer there in case the factionists make a disturbance."

The king sighed as he looked at the still heaped plates before him. "Would we could spend the afternoon enjoying the harmless delights of the palate and interfering with none. But, alas, we must depart for our nap, after which we have a tedious matter of a lawsuit to decide. Ah, the rues of royalty!

"Know, Master Jorian, that in our youth we were deemed a bit of a scholar. In the libraries, you will still find our treatise on the pronunciation of Penembic in the days of Juktar the Great. But all that, alas, is far behind us. For the past year, we have endeavored to write our memoirs, but so implacably does public business nibble at our time that we have not yet reached the third chapter."

"I can sympathize," said Jorian. "I, too, have sometimes wished that I could have been a scholar, as Doctor Karadur is, in sooth. I did once study briefly at the Academy of Othomae; but the exigencies and contingencies of life have never let me abide in any one place long enough to get my teeth into a program of serious study."

"Now that you are living amongst us," said the king, "we are sure that this difficulty can be overcome. And now we must away once more. Fare you well, our friends."

Later, Jorian said: "He seems like an amiable old duck."

"Amiable, yes," said Karadur. "But he neglects public business to pamper his stomach, and he has no more spine than a bowlful of jelly. From a strictly moral point of view, I applaud his pacific outlook; but I fear it is impractical in this wicked world."

Jorian grinned. "You're the one who was always twitting me on my juvenile cynicism, as you called it, and now 'tis you who voice acerb views."

"I have probably caught some of your acrimonious outlook, like a contagious tisic. So long as the kingdom ride on an even keel, King Ishbahar may do well enough. But if a crisis arise—well, we shall see."

"Is this fellow Mazsan likely to overthrow him? So feeble a rule impresses me not as perdurable."

"Mazsan has dwelt in Novaria and returned full of lofty ideas for setting up a republic on the lines of Vindium. His following is formidable, since oppression and corruption are rife amongst Ishbahar's officials. Let us hope Mazsan never succeeds."

"Why so? The Vindines seem to do as well as the folk of any of the Twelve Cities, and things do not look good to me here."

"It is not Mazsan's ideas, which are not bad as such things go; it is the man himself. I know him. He is brilliant, energetic, and idealistic— but a hater, boiling with rancor and ferity. He has boasted that, when he attains power, there shall be displayed at the Gate of Happiness not one head but a thousand. There is a tale that he would even summon the wild nomads of Fedirun to help him to his goal."

" Tis too bad that we cannot somehow sunder the man from his ideas," said Jorian.

"Aye; but that is the rock whereon many noble political schemes have gone to wrack. Mazsan could proclaim the world's most enlightened constitution, but that would do the Irazis no good when he began decapitating them by the hundred, as he would the instant he had power."

"So then," said Jorian, "the choice between that kindly mass of wobbling royal jelly and the gifted but bloodthirsty Master Mazsan is like the choice between being hanged and beheaded."

"True, but that is the way of the world."