The Queen of Zamba

X.

Feeling hands trying to turn him over, Victor Has-selborg 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 Has-selborg'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 Jam, 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 Pichide 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 Haste'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 Haste was congratulating him in more restrained style, when a rough-looking individual said: "Master Kavir, may I have a word? I'm Ferzao bad-Qe, 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 irregu-larly. 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 Haste 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 Jam'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 Haste'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 Haste'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 Haste.

The priest raised his antennae. "Why are you interested, my son? I should think that, having received your fee for Antane's portrait, your curiosity would be satisfied."

"Oh, well—I just wondered how Antane 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 Haste'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 Antane."

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 Antane and his queen sail from Zamba for Majbur any day."

Hasselborg sat up sharply. "What for?"

"That I know not, nor my informant. Antane 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 Haste, 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 Jam'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 ilrst place, Jam'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 Jam'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 Hassel-borg 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 Haste'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 Pichide 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.

During this complicated process, the ship lost almost as much distance drifting down-wind as she had previously gained by running close-hauled. Hasselborg thought: Why doesn't one of our people show them how to rig a proper fore-and-aft sail?. . and then remembered the Interplanetary Council rule.

A Krishnan objected loudly when Hasselborg's aya snaffled one of the fruits he was bringing into Majbur. Hasselborg had to buy a whole basketful to pacify the man.

Gorbovast, the resident commissioner, was helpful in such essentials as recommending places for Hasselborg to stay and to amuse himself. While the commissioner did not actually say so, Hasselborg got the impression that some of the amusements of this famous seaport were distinctly on the rugged side, like those of Shanghai and Marseilles on Earth.

Unfortunately, Hasselborg could not very well ask the fellow outright about the expected visit of the King of Zamba. He was no longer supposed to be interested in such matters, and the commissioner would report any unseemly curiosity back to his boss.

Since the Krishnans, unlike most intelligent extraterrestrials, had a highly developed system of public eating and drinking houses, there was nothing for it but to brace himself for the ordeal of a waterfront pub-crawl. He'd done it before—you go into the first grog-shop, order one, strike up a conversation with the first fellow-customer who looks as if he had one brain cell to rub against another, and get him talking. If he proves an empty sack, you go on to the next. Hasselborg had nearly always, at least in the smaller cities, been able to get a line on what he wanted to know by this method, though it sometimes took days and was hard on his delicately conditioned stomach. Furthermore, it always filled him with morbid fears of picking up an infection.

Thus evening found him halfway down Majbur's waterfront, feeling poorly both in the head and in the digestive system, about to pump his twenty-second sucker. Some of the tougher characters had looked at him speculatively, but so far the combination of his powerful build and conspicuous sword had discouraged hostilities.

His present victim, a sailor from the far island of Sotaspe with the quaint name of Morbid, bade fair to prove an empty sack. The man was one who could take but little liquor, and he had already had that and wanted to sing the songs of his childhood. He sang in a dialect that Hasselborg could follow only half the time and remembered these songs in quantity and detail that would have done credit to a psychoanalytical treatment. Hasselborg began to cast about for means of escape.

The other end of the bench held another pair in close converse. One, facing Hasselborg, was a rustic-looking character talking slowly and with great emphasis to a bulky fellow with his back to Hasselborg.

The bulky fellow looked around to see what had become of the servitor, and Hasselborg spilled a drop of his kvad with surprise. It was Chuen Liao-dz.