Alaxius, grumbling at the delay, lit his own taper. Another musket lay in the dust of the road twenty feet down the road the stranger had taken. Beyond, on the rim of the dark, they could see another.
“Who,” said Hobart, “would be running a wagon-load of guns this way at this time of night?”
“I suppose Valturus,” said Alaxius, “and to the barbarians. He’s not supposed to, but that is all I can think of.”
“No wonder he looked so cheerful the other night! Does that mean trouble for Logaia?”
“It should. The barbarians with guns and us with nothing—you can guess the rest.”
Hobart thought. “I suppose you’ll go back and warn your father?”
“Now that I think of it, I don’t believe I will,” said Alaxius. “If Logaia is to be conquered, I prefer to be somewhere else. I’ll go to Psythoris, where my cousin rules . . .”
“But then who—”
“I don’t know; it’s no concern of mine. If you’re interested, why do you not go?”
“I will,” snapped Hobart, “and you’re going with me!”
“But why . . .” bleated Alaxius.
“Corroboration. Think I want your old man to get the idea I murdered you and then cooked up a yarn to hide it? Come on!”
Alaxius looked startled, glanced about wildly, and suddenly blew out his taper. But while he was still turning to run, Hobart pounced on him and caught his robe. They scuffled; Alaxius kicked Hobart in the shin, and Hobart cuffed the prince’s face. Alaxius suddenly gave in, crying: “Don’t hit me! Don’t hit me!”
“Shut up,” growled Hobart. He tied the trembling aesthete’s hands behind his back, and heaved him aboard his horse. Then the engineer picked up his musket, mounted his own horse, and lit the match with his lighter.
“Now,” he said, “one break and you’ll learn some more about being shot at by ear. March!”
Alaxius got under way, complaining: “I do not see why you must concern yourself in the fate of Logaia. But a few minutes ago you were trying to escape from it!”
“No good reason,” agreed Hobart. “It’s just that I’m not as consistent a heel as you are. Hmm, guess we’d better have a story for Gordius, about how we suspected this gun runner and followed him out of town.”
“Why should I agree to your lies? Suppose I tell Father about your real plans?”
“Okay, then I’ll tell him how you helped me.” Alaxius got the point.
8
Hobart was warned by Prince Alaxius that it would take more than the threat of a barbarian invasion to divert the easy-going king from his after-breakfast pipe and paper. So the young men waited, Hobart impatiently and Alaxius in resignation, until the coast was clear. Then they descended on His Altitude in the royal study.
At Hobart’s somewhat elliptical account of the night’s experiences, the king said worriedly: “Dear, dear, mercy me! You are no doubt right about there being a plot. But who would want to plot against me? I’ve been the mildest of monarchs—”
“Looks like your gunsmith, Valturus, ought to be in on it,” said Hobart.
“Yes, yes, I suppose so. But who else? I’ll call Charion at once . . .”
“I wouldn’t, yet,” said Hobart sharply.
“Why not, pray?”
“How do you know he’s not in on it?”
“My chancellor? Absurd, my boy, absurd!”
“Not so sure. What’s the financial history of his administration?”
“I don’t see that it matters . . . But when he came in, five years ago, we had a surplus of forty-three thousand talents. Charion convinced me the kingdom needed a big public-works program, to occupy the people and give us prestige abroad. His arguments were entirely logical, I assure you. Then when the surplus was all spent, the kingdom in fact had acquired a large funded debt—a perfectly normal, healthy condition, Charion explained to me—he said we should have to cut our rate of expenditure before it became too difficult to borrow more money. So Charion made it clear that if we disbanded the army, our neighbors would be so ingratiated by our noble example that they would do likewise, and war would be banished from the earth.”
“How far has your disarmament program gone?”
“Those regiments you saw disbanded yesterday were the last; there remain only the palace sentries and the town watch. Dear, dear, so, I hope this action was not premature . . .”
Hobart rasped: “If I wanted to steal your kingdom, and knew I could persuade you to give up your army, I’d do just what Charion did. Then I’d have a gang of tough guys waiting over the border for me.”
Gordius wagged his head. “I am all confused, Rollin. Charion’s arguments still appear logical to me, but if things are as you say . . . Look, it could not be that Charion plans to lead barbarians into Logaia; he has no quality of leadership. They would not follow him.”
“Didn’t say he was. Just said you want to be careful.”
“Yes, yes, I suppose so. I’ll tell Valangas to make a search for evidence, and to begin re-enlisting troops . . .”
“What makes you so sure of Valangas?”
“Oh, he is a soldier, my boy, and we can rely on his word.”
“Seems to me he acted damned cheerful yesterday, just the way Valturus did.”
“O my Nois! You’re a most suspicious young man, Rollin. But—very well, then, instead of Valangas I’ll put the matter up to Laus—”
“Yeah? What makes you so sure—”
“Rollin!” cried the king. “You’re being insufferable! I have to trust somebody. What logical reason can you give for suspecting Laus?”
“No logical reason; I was just suggesting that you don’t trust anybody until you know better where you stand.” He stood up. “Anyway, it’s your baby, King. Handle it the way you think best. I’m leaving.”
“Leaving? I don’t understand!”
“You will.” Hobart headed for the door. This time he was going to try the simplest method: to go to his room, get his baggage, and walk out the front door in plain daylight. They could make what they liked of it.
“Rollin, I demand an explanation! You cannot desert me at such a time for no reason at all!”
“Okay,” said Hobart. “I’m leaving because—”
He stopped in mid-sentence as Theiax strolled into the room. It would not do to state bluntly, as he had intended, that he simply would not let them make a prince and a king’s son-in-law of him—not in front of the social lion, unless he wanted to commit suicide.
“Skip it,” he said. “I’ll stay. But if you want my advice you’d better take it. First off, better round up the royal family; they’re all in the same boat, so you should be able to trust them. Then collect some really trustworthy palace guards and servants—”
A voice announced through the speaking tube: “Your Altitude, his Superiority the Chancellor of Logaia!”
“Send him away!” hissed Hobart.
“Send—” began the king. But then the door opened without a knock, and Charion stood in the entrance, with a long black cloak over his blue skin-suit.
The king stammered: “I—uh—c-c-cannot see you now, Charion . . .”
The chancellor frowned. “Is Your Altitude ill?”
“No, but—”
“Then, in my official capacity, I have precedence over Prince Rollin,” snapped the chancellor.
“But—”
“Either I am chancellor, and have precedence, or I am not and don’t. Which shall it be?”
The king almost wept. “Please, good Charion, later . . .”
Charion glared at Hobart, who returned the look stonily. The chancellor turned on his heel and went out, slamming the door behind him.
“Now,” said Hobart, “let’s see a list of the people and weapons available in the palace. When we know where we stand . . .”
Thirty minutes later the Xerophi family had been assembled in the study, together with a few hastily collected weapons such as the king’s ornamental but still
usable swords of state, and a crossbow with which His Altitude had once shot a singularly ferocious wild beast and which had been kept in a glass case ever since. A couple of trusted sentries had been posted in the hall leading to the study with instructions to let nobody by.
The king said: “Won’t it be time for lunch soon, Rollin?”
“To hell with lunch. If Charion has half a brain he’ll be organizing a palace revolution right this minute. This has been coming up for some time; evidently my arrival forced their hand, as witness that attempt to murder you on the hunt . . . Hello, what’s that?”
There were footsteps in the corridor, then voices, louder and louder. Boom!
Running steps approached; one of the sentries, Averoves, hurled himself into the study. “They shot Seivus when he stopped them!” he cried.
Queen Vasalina began to weep. Tramp, tramp, and down the hall came a group of men, led by General Valangas with a smoking pistol in his hand. After him came Charion, the Wizard of Wall Street, and three tough-looking parties with swords.
“Come out quietly,” roared the general, “or we’ll come in and get you!”
There was a blur of movement past Hobart; Averoves the sentry had hurled his spear at Valangas. It struck the brass holder of the plume that towered up from his helmet, knocking the helmet off.
“There’s your assassin,” said Hobart. Under the helmet Valangas’ scalp was smoothly shaven.
The king cried: “A black wig—he must have worn it to hide the fact that he was a blond barbarian—”
He was cut off by a thunderous snarl from Theiax, who slunk into the doorway with his ears laid flat and crouched to spring.
Laus whipped a wand from his robe, pointed it at the lion, and began:
“Beilavor gofarser
“Norpoto wemoilou . . .”
“Where the hell—” breathed Hobart anxiously; then he spotted the crossbow in Prince Alaxius’ nerveless fingers; snatched it and discharged it at the wizard. At the twang of the bow, Laus screeched and tumbled backwards, though Hobart could not see where the bolt had gone. He reached past Theiax and slammed the heavy door, bolted it, and with Averoves’ help shoved a couch in front of it. A terrific thump told that the attack on the door had begun.
“Alaxius!” cried Hobart. “Take a sword—”
“I c-cannot—I’m afraid—”
“Oh hell, then you barricade the other door before they start coming in that way. A gun, a gun, my kingdom for a gun. Hey, what’s that?” He pointed at one of the little cannon that had been turned into a plant holder. Without waiting for an answer he tore the plant out by the roots and dropped it; upended the gun and brought it down on the floor to shake the rest of the dirt out, ignoring a bleat of “My rug!” from the queen.
“Can I do something, sir?” queried Prince Aites, eyes full of worship.
“Maybe—say, that pile of your old junk! Firecrackers?”
“Yes, sir—”
“That’s luck! Get ’em out; break ’em open and pour the powder down this little darling!”
“I have some old iron shot, too—”
“Better and better!” They worked frantically; a double handful of iron balls followed the powder into the gun’s maw. The door began to bulge and crack from the battering, and there were voices through the other door, too.
“What’ll we mount it on?” mused Hobart. “Got any string?” The king produced a ball of twine from his desk; Hobart lashed the cannon to a chair.
“That string won’t hold,” said Averoves dubiously.
“Doesn’t matter; we’ll only fire it once. Look, everybody: Aites, take the crossbow. Argimanda, you and the queen haul that sofa away and open the door—not now, when I tell you to. I’ll fire the gun; Aites, shoot the crossbow at the same time. Then the king and Averoves and I will go after them with our swords—you, too, Theiax. All set?”
He poured the rest of the powder into the touch-hole, twisted up a morning paper, and lighted one end of it with his cigarette lighter. “Stand clear of the gun, everybody!”
The door opened just as the rebels swung back their improvised battering ram for another blow. They stood uncertainly for two ticks of the clock; then Valangas started to stoop for his pistol. Hobart lowered his torch.
Wham! The room shook to the concussion; gun and chair flew backwards and whanged against the far wall. Hobart and his party charged through the smoke. Hobart struck once, half-blindly; his blade clanged against a brass breastplate; then they were out in the hall pounding after a couple of running figures. They got to the front entrance to see Valangas and two other men vault into saddles and gallop out, bending over their mounts’ necks.
“Let ’em go,” said Hobart. “There may be some more.”
They retraced their steps, passing the sentry Valangas had shot. Between this point and the study door lay three men: Charion and two of the tough strangers. Theiax crouched over one of the latter and crunched.
“Where’s Laus?” asked Hobart. Just then a shriek came from the study. They clanked back to it, to find a trembling Alaxius and a fluttering, hysterical queen.
“The Wizard!” screamed Vasalina. “He took her! Through the window!”
Theiax bounded to the embrasure and reared against it, foaming and filling the room with deafening roars. When conversation was again possible, it was explained that Laus, in the form of a giant pig, had burst open the side-door and scattered Alaxius’ barricade; had resumed his proper shape and seized Argimanda. Then his robe developed a pair of wings with which he flew out the window and away.
Queen Vasalina became incoherent at this point. King Gordius said: “Rollin, my son, you must lose no time: while Laus holds my daughter as a hostage, Valangas will be gathering the barbarians!”
“Me?” said Hobart stupidly.
“Of course, it is you who will rescue her! I am too old, and Alaxius thinks of nothing but his own safety. When you have done so, I shall have to give you the other half of the kingdom. So you will be King of Logaia!”
“Oh my God,” muttered Hobart through clenched teeth. He turned on the king. “Hadn’t you better put off this king business for a while, sir? I haven’t any experience—”
“Nonsense, my boy! After all you’ve done for us; saved my life twice so far—”
“That was just dumb luck—”
“Modesty, son, modesty; anyway the deed transferring my rights to you is all made out, and Argimanda’s husband must have a position commensurate . . .”
Hobart clenched his fists to keep from screaming, “I don’t want your daughter, or your kingdom, or anything to do with you! I’m an engineer and a bachelor, and all I want is to get back . . .” He would have defied the old boy, at that, but for the sight of Theiax moaning in the corner. If he once agreed to try to rescue Argimanda again, he’d go through with it, he knew. If he could stall off this horrible marriage long enough, maybe he’d find another chance to escape. But if they sewed him up on a life contract, he’d be really trapped: his confounded silly scruples would keep him from walking out on his bride, even with a good excuse. He might even get to like it, to pile horror on horror . . .
Theiax stood before him, head cocked anxiously. “We go now?” rumbled the lion. “I go with you. You save me from shrinking to pussy-cat size: I do anything you say.”
When Hobart withheld his answer, Theiax’s tail swung gently right-left. It seemed likely that Theiax would follow the feline rather than the canine tradition as to the meaning of tail wag.
“All right,” groaned Hobart.
###
With every step in his campaign, its futility seemed more and more patent to Rollin Hobart. He was supposed to (a) rescue Argimanda, and (b) either enlist a force of barbarian mercenaries to defend Logaia, or, failing that, create dissention among the barbarian tribes a la Col. Lawrence, in order to gum up the invasion long enough to permit the threatened kingdom to re-arm.
But he had said he would, damn it all, and he’d have to
go through with it . . .
The first step, which the Logaians would have never, apparently, have thought of taking for all their pride in their logic, was to learn which way Laus had gone with his captive. A number of the citizens of Oroloia, it transpired, had seen the Wizard of Wall Street fly from the palace grounds. By plotting these observations on a map of the city, Hobart got a very good idea of the direction the kidnapper had taken. Comparison of the street map with one of all Logaia showed that the line of flight, prolonged, led straight to the country of the Parathai, one of the barbarian tribes that was worrying King Gordius.
Of course, thought Hobart, gloomily hefting his sword while waiting for the grooms to bring his horse and other accessories, Laus might change his direction—circle or zigzag to throw possible pursuers off . . . But he would have to chance that. And it was not too unlikely that the wizard would have flown in a beeline for his hideout, if he had a hideout. The people of this world were as utterly unsubtle as they very well could be.
He swished the sword about. Damn nonsense, he thought; give me a tommy-gun any day. He didn’t know a thing about sword play and was not anxious to learn. But since the only firearms available were matchlocks that took minutes to reload, he might have to fall back on the fool snickersnee yet.
Finally, having endured the tearful embraces of the elder Xerophi, Rollin Hobart mounted his horse with a clank and set out for Barbaria—probably, he reflected ruefully, the most unwilling knight-errant that this world of noble heroes and dastardly villains had ever seen.
9
In the second day of Rollin Hobart’s entry into Barbaria, he was winding among the cylindrical mesas that rose on all sides when Theiax growled.
Hobart pulled up. The lion stood with spread feet, yellow eyes fixed and tail twitching.
“Men come,” he muttered.
Well, that was all right: he would hoist the Logaian standard—a miniature of King Gordius’ own, complete to the word RAIT—and they would understand that he was an ambassador and that his person was inviolate.
Hooves drummed softly on the sand, and a troop of armed horsemen trotted around a mesa. At the sight of Hobart and his companion they broke into shrill barking cries and a gallop. Hobart raised the standard: the men came on the faster. Wait a minute; maybe these guys knew about inviolate ambassadors and then again—an arrow whistled overhead, and another. Theiax snarled: “We run or fight, Prince?”
The Undesired Princess Page 7
