The Hostage of Zir (6 page)

“Oh, God!” said Reith, who had just counted his party. “Where’s Otto?”

Mélanie Jussac answered: “The Mr. Schwerin left before Mr. Considine acted the cowpusher. He said he had taken enough pictures here and will meet us at the ship.”

Reith pressed knuckles to his head. “If that idiot doesn’t get lost, wandering a strange city where he can’t speak the language—well, come on, folks, back to the ship. Keep together, now.”

Reith glanced back to see the next hunter trotting out on the field, and then his carriage carried him out of sight of the
shánenesb.
Nobody tried to stop them from leaving. The judge might fume, Reith thought, but the cops were probably glad to see the last of Reith’s party before one of these crazy extra-Krishnans touched off another disturbance.

###

Half a Krishnan hour later, at the pier, Reith’s people got down from their carriages and filed aboard the
Sárbez.
Reith was paying off the hackmen when another uproar erupted.

At the base of the pier appeared Otto Schwerin, running. After him came a tall, handsome Krishnan in a silvered breastplate, sword in hand. Behind the pursuer, at a distance, came other armed Krishnans.

Schwerin pounded out on the pier, his cameras swinging on their straps.
“Hilfe!”
he gasped, dodging behind Reith. “Save me!” He caught the back of Reith’s clothing.

“Out of my way!” yelled the armored Krishnan in English.

The swordsman tried to dodge around Reith to get at Schwerin. Schwerin kept circling, clinging to Reith’s back, so as to keep Reith between himself and the Krishnan. When a lunge by the Krishnan barely missed Reith’s ribs, Reith drew his own sword and knocked the Krishnan’s blade aside.

“Oh, you want to fight, too?” snarled the Krishnan.

He aimed a terrific backhanded cut at Reith’s neck. Reith parried with a clang. Handicapped as he was by Schwerin clinging to his back, he beat off, by a hair’s breadth, several thrusts and slashes.

The other pursuing Krishnans arrived. Two had swords, one a halberd, and one a crossbow. Faced by these odds, Reith backed until he found himself on a seaward corner of the pier. Thence he had no place to go but into the oily, debris-littered water.

The Krishnan in the silvery cuirass paused in his attack, breathing hard. The arbalester aimed his crossbow at Reith, shouting in Gozashtandou: “Drop that sword!”

Reith dropped the sword. Before the armored one could renew his assault, Reith cried: “Aren’t you Prince Ferrian?”

“What if I am?”

“Then, will Your Altitude kindly tell me what in hell this is about?”

“This earthman cowering behind you photographed my ship, although you people had been warned not to do so.”

“Is that so, Otto?” asked Reith.

“Vell—I—it vass just vun little picture—”

“Look here, Prince, will it satisfy you if he gives you the film? Then no harm will have been done.”

Ferrian took his time about answering, while the crossbowman kept his weapon trained on Reith’s midriff. At last the prince said: “I suppose it will, even though I suspect he’s a spy of those damned imperialists at Novorecife. But which of those cameras was he using? No, never mind asking. He would lie about it to save his picture of my ship, so he could sell it to Abreu. Take out the films of all of them.”

“Donnerwetter!
That vill shpoil all the pictures I have took in Reshr—”

“Sorry about that,” said Reith. “Let’s have ’em, or I’ll turn you over to these guys.”

Schwerin gave a wail. One by one, his three cameras were opened and the films ripped out. Prince Ferrian sheathed his jewel-hilted sword and held the films up to make sure that all had been thoroughly light-struck. He spoke to his minions, who roughly searched Schwerin. Ferrian explained to Reith: “He might have one of those little cameras no larger than a
ghalok
egg hidden about him.”

“Your Highness speaks excellent English for a Krishnan.”

Ferrian smiled grimly. “I have visited your planet. You fence well for an earthman.”

“Well enough to keep Your Highness from taking my head off. Heggstad at Novorecife beat me black and blue teaching me.”

“My apologies, Mr.—ah—”

“Reith, Fergus Reith.”

“Well then, Mr. Reith, please excuse my incivility. Legal redress is so slow and uncertain here that, when I suffer a wrong, I am often tempted to right it by self-help. How are they at Novo these days?”

Reith shrugged. “Well enough, as far as I can see.”

Ferrian spoke to the other Krishnans, handed them the ruined strips of film, and turned back to Reith. “Your little man seems innocent of more equipment, so I shall let him go. You should keep your people under tighter control.”

Reith sighed. “My authority is limited.”

Ferrian laughed shortly. “That may do on earth, but not here. Were I a tourist guide, I’d have a stout sergeant-at-arms and an assistant to keep them in order. If any disobeyed, I would have him flogged.”

“A lovely idea, sir.”

“You earthlings will learn. Again, my apologies.” Ferrian gave a stiff little bow. “When some of my projects are further advanced, I shall open Sotaspé to parties like yours.
Adeus!”

###

Reith went aboard the
Sárbez
and sought his cabin. He poured a drink of kvad, telling himself that for once he had earned it. He had taken only the first sip when a heavy knock on his door resounded.

“Come forth, O Senhor Reith!” growled Captain Denaikh. “A man from the government demands your presence.”

The Krishnan was the inspector who had greeted them on their arrival. After Khorsh had been found to translate, the inspector said: “I have the honor to bear a message from His supreme Altitude, Penjird the Second, Dour of Zamba. It has come to the notice of our high and mighty potentate that twice in one day has the presence of your churlish barbarians led to public broils and affrays. It is therefore ordained and commanded that all of you shall, on pain of doom most dire, remain upon your ship during the residue of your stay in port. Here is your copy of the order. What is your reply?”

“I don’t know. What am I supposed to say?”

“That you humbly beg the pardon of His gracious Altitude for the misconduct of your folk and thank him for his compassionate leniency in not having you all haled ashore to suffer punishment condign.”

“Consider it said, sir.”

The inspector turned to go. Captain Denaikh spoke angrily to the inspector, who replied in kind. From the occasional Gozashtandou word he caught, Reith inferred that the captain was protesting having his passengers aboard all next day because they would get in the way of his loading. The inspector, adamant, soon departed leaving Denaikh to stamp and bellow curses. He ripped out a sentence at Reith. Khorsh explained: “He says, my son, that this is the second time this has happened. If it occur but once more, he will put the lot of you ashore, wherever he be, and sail off without you.”

###

Reith went back to his cabin and took a big drink. He examined the scroll the official had given him but could make nothing of the fishhooks.

A quarter-hour later, Reith, with more kvad inside him than he usually allowed himself, went around the deck, banging on his tourists’ cabin doors. When he had them gathered in the bow of the
Sárbez,
he told them of Prince Ferrian and the governmental order.

Reith expected them to take his side against the two malefactors, Considine and Schwerin, as they had against Silvester Pride. Instead, they capriciously swung round and blamed Reith for the latest imbroglio. They cried: “You mean we’ve got to stay aboard all tomorrow?” “We can’t see the temples and things?” “The king won’t receive us?” “Why didn’t you figure this out, Fearless?” “What’s the matter with you?” “Damned if I won’t go ashore whenever I want to!” “This petty little king can’t bully me!” “It’s an outrage!” “I’ll demand my money back!”

Pride said: “Hey, that means I can’t buy another pair of shoes to take the place of those I lost!”

Only old Mrs. Scott and the Jussacs took Reith’s part, and the chorus of complaints drowned them out. Reith guessed that his people were irritable as a result of the long, fatiguing stand at the race track. At last, drunk enough to be reckless, he banged the deck with his scabbard and roared:

“All right, shut up! I’ve got a thing to say. Twice, you’ve almost gotten me killed by your damn foolishness.

“Now you’ll have to make up your minds, if ‘minds’ is the word I want. If you wish to quit now and go back to Novorecife, to wait there for the next ship out, that’s okay with me.”

“How would you get us back?” said Considine. “They won’t let us off this tub, and she’s bound for Baianch.”

“Never mind; I’ll make the arrangements. If you prefer to complete the tour, you’ll have to agree to obey my orders.”

“Thinks he’s one of these Krishnan kings,” muttered Considine.

Reith mastered an impulse to haul out his sword and give Considine the flat. “And furthermore, if you decide to continue the tour, and if you then cause any more riots, we’ll stop right there and start back to Novorecife. Do you all understand?”

After more sullen mutterings, Reith polled his tourists. “Professor Mulroy, do you vote to go on or return?”

All voted to go on despite grumblings about Reith’s “dictatorship.” Reith snapped: “If you don’t like it, anyone who wants to beat his way back to Novo on his own is welcome to try.”

“That’s not fair,” said Turner. “You can talk to these gooks and we can’t.”

“That’s your problem, laddie. Any takers? No? Okay, we go on. Meeting dismissed.”

V

THE WRONG DOOR

As the
Sárbez
was slowly warped against her pier in Baianch harbor, Reith and his dozen tourists lined the shoreward rail. They were a bedraggled, woebegone-looking lot. Several days of storm at sea had afflicted most of them with excruciating seasickness.

With the nearing of solid ground, however, they began to revive. Some pointed to the cliff that rose above the lower town. Along the brow of this cliff, a massive gray fortification frowned down, with the onion-domed towers of a royal palace projecting above the curtain wall. Behind the fortress, the upper town stretched away towards the base of the promontory on which Baianch was built. Now, save for the tops of temple spires, the upper town was hidden by the loom of the cliff. To right and left of the cape, the darkly forested hills of Dur rolled away.

“It reminds me of Quebec,” said Aimé Jussac.

“Look at the soldiers!” said Pilar Guzmán-Vidal. “Are they going to arrest us, Fearless?”

On the pier, a platoon of uniformed Duruma were drawn up in two ranks, one of crossbowmen and one of pikemen. They wore winged helms, and hauberks of black chain mail over scarlet tunics. Among them stood a group in Duro civilian costume. These folks wore real trousers instead of diapers, and their garments were trimmed with fur. Their complexions were lighter than those of Krishnans of the more southerly nations.

“Don’t worry,” said Reith. “This looks like a fancy reception. The Regent wants to give us a good time, so more tourists will spend their money here.”

As the gangplank slammed into place, a bugle sounded. The soldiers snapped to attention and presented their pikes and crossbows. Led by a very large Krishnan in black, the civilians marched briskly up the gangplank. The leader, who bore a heraldic yeki embroidered in scarlet on the breast of his tunic, strode to the group of tourists and said in Durou: “Which of you is leader?”

Khorsh translated, pointing to Reith. The huge, black-clad one clicked boot heels, bowed slightly, and shot a hand out to Reith. “Tashian bag-Gárin, at your service.”

Trying to remember the differences between Durou and Gozashtandou, Reith replied: “I—ah—Fergus Reith, Your Excellence. We are—ah—honor your greeting by.” He noted with surprise that the Regent’s black suit, far from reflecting the splendor of his position, was old and threadbare, with visible mends.

“Excellent!” said the Regent. “We have provided you with quarters in the Old Palace, for our inns are not suitable. This even, we would fain offer a formal reception and banquet, if you be not overmuch fatigued by your journey. How say you?”

Reith shot questions at his tourists, then turned back and bowed. “We shall are delight and honored.”

A string of carriages furnished by the Regent bore the party up the slope of narrow, twisting streets, between grim gray battlemented walls, to the Upper City. Beggars, some crippled or mutilated, trotted whining after them.

“Good lord!” said Shirley Waterford. “These people could do with some social justice.”

An hour later, they were installed in the crumbly Old Palace, across the street from the New. The towers of the latter they had seen from the ship. The Old Palace was used as an annex to the governmental offices in the New Palace. Their apartments showed signs of having been hastily reconverted from offices into dwellings. Reith could imagine the governmental clerks, grumbling at being ousted, with their files and records, to make room for the foreigners. There had also been some hasty painting and plastering to cover the signs of age.

###

The New Palace, like the Regent’s garb, proved surprisingly shabby. In the reception room, in mid-afternoon, Reith was introduced to the Douri, Vázni bad-Dushta’en. “Douri” could be translated either as “queen” or as “princess,” since the customs of most Varasto nations did not permit a female to exercise actual rule.

The nominal head of state of Dur was young, well-shaped, and plump for a Krishnan, with a glittering tiara on her blue-green hair. She wore a gauzy violet gown and had tinted her feathery antennae to match.

Having been instructed in advance, Reith dropped to one knee and kissed the hand she extended. Vázni giggled.

“Rise,” she said. “You, fair sir, shall have the first dance with me. How like you my habiliments?”

“Is beautiful—beautiful,” said Reith.

“Oh, fiddle-faddle! ’Tis last year’s—a poor thing but mine own, as says the hero in Saqqiz’s
Queen Dejanai.
But flattery, they say, will get you everywhere. Forget not the first dance!”

Reith cast a stricken look at the Regent. He was at best a poor dancer. What with the riding, fencing, and language study that had occupied him at Novorecife, the idea of learning Krishnan dances as well had never occurred to him. In a dazed way, he introduced his tourists, all tricked out in Krishnan finery.

“Master Reese,” said Tashian, “if you will have the kindness to stand there, with your people in line behind you, I shall present you and yours. Are we ready? This is our Minister of Mines and Forests, hight Sálegu bam-Morgh . . .”

The Regent had lined up all his upper bureaucrats—at least two hundred, plus the mates of most—to greet the visitors. The crowd smelled mightily of perfumery.

Reith took a few seconds off from handshaking to ask Khorsh to get a chair for Mrs. Scott. When he turned back, he was startled to see that the next handshaker was another earthman. This was a man of about Reith’s age and height, impressively muscled, with light-brown hair and an attractive grin.

Reith missed the name, which the Regent spoke with a strong accent. The Terran wrung Reith’s hand in a crushing grip, saying: “I’m Kenneth Strachan, Mr. Reith. I must see you later about the rail trip.”

“Are you Scottish?” asked Reith, noting a slight accent.

“Aye. And you’re American, despite a good Scot’s name, eh?”

“My parents came from Scotland, and I belong to the St. Andrews Society at home—”

“Later,” said Strachan. “The chief of police of Baianch is ahint me, eager to shake your hand and get back to chasing malefactors.”

Reith met more officials, whose names he had given up trying to remember. Then came a black earthman, tall, lean, and frizz-haired. Unlike the other human beings present, he wore Terran clothes.

“I’m Percy Mjipa,” he said in a crisp, precise manner. “I’m here to arrange a Terran consulate in Baianch. So far, Dur has been spared many visitors from earth; but if they are to have more, there’ll be need for a permanent W.F. representative.”

Reith said: “Glad to know you, Mr. Mjipa. If I may ask, what part of our planet did you come from?”

“Botswana, in southern Africa. I’m a Bamangwato. Try to keep your people up to standard, old boy. Mustn’t let the side down in front of non-humans, you know. Many Terrans we get here are mere riff-raff, who do our image no good.”

Mjipa passed on. The end of the line approached. A bar opened for business, and a four-piece orchestra began to thump and tweetle.

“Master Reese,” said a voice, “you promised me the first dance.” Vázni stood at Reith’s elbow.

Reith had not done anything of the sort. Tashian had set him to work greeting bureaucrats before he had had time to answer the princess’ initiative. With a mighty effort, he put together a reply in broken Durou: “I am charmed, Douri. But I not know how Krishnans do dance. You teach, please.”

She giggled again. “This were simple, good my sir. Give me your hand. Now you stand
thus
and step
thus,
and then we separate and bow,
thus.
Behold the envoy from Ulvanagh, yonder, with his wife!”

The minuetlike dance turned out less complicated than Reith had feared. Soon he and Vázni were stepping hither and thither, circling, and bowing. Still, Reith was relieved when the dance ended before he had trodden on somebody’s toe and caused an interplanetary incident.

Reith had been so busy struggling on one hand with the dance and on the other with Durou and he was hardly aware of Vázni as a person. Still, when he relinquished her, he felt a pang of jealousy as Maurice Considine stepped up and said in English: “May I have the next, Your Majesty?”

Vázni laughed at the strange sounds but evidently understood. Soon she and Considine were twirling about on the floor, the latter as if he had done it all his life.

Reith went to the bar, where the Jussacs were going over the refreshments like a pair of vacuum cleaners, and obtained a drink of kvad. Here he got into converse with an elderly Duru who spoke a little Portuguese. The Duru, chief of the Bureau of Resources, explained: “The Regent is eager to make his kingdom the planet’s foremost tourist attraction. We cannot let little powers like Majbur and Sotaspé outdistance us. You as an expert can advise us.”

“I shall be glad to give what small help I can,” said Reith.

He would have liked to urge flush toilets upon the Krishnans but knew that he could not because of the Saint-Rémy treatment, to which he and his tourists had been subjected. The treatment would tongue-tie them any time they tried to impart technical knowledge to extraterrestrials. He said: “The main things are to see that the visitors have places to sleep without vermin, and food not too different from what they are used to . . .”

The dancers left the floor, and servitors carried out chairs and tables. The tables were set in a long U-shaped row. Reith found himself seated at Vázni’s left, at the curve of the U, while the Regent sat on her right. The tourists were scattered among the Krishnans, in what Tashian evidently hoped would be a chummy arrangement. Lack of any common speech with their neighbors, however, caused them to eat in rather glum silence. As usual on Krishna, the Terrans found some items on the menu inedible. The Duruma politely pretended not to notice.

“Master Reese,” said Vázni, “you shall tell me of the strange customs of your native world. I am told that amongst you creatures, the young are born alive, like the young of the aya and the yeki here, instead of being hatched from eggs as with us and other four-limbed living things.”

“That quite true, Your Majesty.”

“Then how do the young get started in the first place? Does the male go in unto the female to implant his seed, as with us?”

“Well—ah—Your Majesty—ah—yes. That are true.”

“Then tell me just how this is done. They say that copulation betwixt an
Ertsu
and a Krishnan is quite possible, even pleasurable. If true, that means their organs must be similar. I am curious; I have never seen an earthman’s—why, Master Fergus, are you unwell? Wherefore turns your face so red?”

Despite the strenuous introduction to the pleasures of sex that he had received from Valerie Mulroy, Reith had never fully escaped from the early training of his neo-Puritan parents. He stammered: “Majesty please excuse me. With—with my bad Durou, might gave wrong information. When I were longer in Dur—”

“Pester not the young earthman, Vázni,” growled Tashian.

“Too young are you, with such arcane matters to concern yourself.”

“Oh, you are ever lecturing me on keeping my innocence and preserving the purity of our blood line,” said Vázni. “I am fully grown and should long since have had a stalwart mate—one who would not make me wear last year’s gown to formal functions.”

Tashian leaned forward and spoke to Reith past the Douri. “Heed her not, Master Reese. She blames me because I, steadfastly bent on getting her a worthy husband, have rejected some fribbling suitors, wights of neither rank nor wit nor heroism. The future prince consort shall be none but the best!”

“At this rate, I shall perish of eld ere you find him,” said Vázni. “Nor would this hero ardently press his suit, once he’s seen me in the hideous remnants wherein you clothe me.”

Tashian continued: “Master Reese, Strachan tells me he must needs return to Zir, the third day hence. Will your people be prepared to go with him? My astrologer avers that ’tis a day auspicious.”

“As far as I know, we are ready,” said Reith. “What is position of Master Strachan?”

“Assistant engineer on the railroad I’m building to Zir. Sigvard Lund is chief engineer. Master Strachan is in Baianch to order more supplies. I trust you can occupy your people’s time for the next two days?”

“I am sure, Excellence. Is enough things here to kept us busy a long time.”

“Good. I shall arrange the
Sárbez
’s sailing for some days after your return from Zir. Thus will you take in such local sights as you fail to see this time.”

“Your Excellence is very considerate.”

As usual in a world without electric light, dinner had begun well before sunset. Before full dark had fallen, the guests began to rise, come to the head of the table, compliment the Regent and the Douri, and be excused.

Kenneth Strachan came up and spoke to the rulers. Then he said to Reith: “When you’ve stashed your trippers, laddie, come back here. You’ll find me in the game room.”

###

The game room was small, with a fireplace and five tables for Krishnan board games. At one of these sat Strachan with a goblet of kvad before him. The tables were otherwise unoccupied.

“Sit ye down, Fergus ma lad,” he said to Reith. He snapped a finger to the hovering servitor and said in Durou: “A drink for my friend here, and feed the fire a bit.” He turned back to Reith. “Old King Dushta’en was a great one for games, but his nephew’s too sober by half. All he thinks of is augmenting the might and modernizing the technics of Dur, as well as squeezing every kard until the god on the coin yells for help. You might call him a would-be Krishnan Peter the Great. The rumor is that’s why he dilly-dallies about letting the Douri marry. If she hatches a boy, he’s king when he reaches majority, and awa goes Tashy’s power to remake his country.

“So, anyway, the game room’s nocht but a little private barroom, where few but masell ever come. You’re taking your trippers out to the end of the line, at the borders of Zir?”

Strachan had a habit which Reith found disconcerting. Most of the time, he spoke a colorless standard English, much like Reith’s own, but every now and then he would slip into broad Scots for a word or a phrase. Reith listed his tourists, told something of their individual peculiarities and requirements, and added: “It’s a long way from Scotland, Mr. Strachan. How did you come to land here?”