The Undesired Princess

by L. Sprague DeCamp

  The quick-thinking part of Hobart’s mind labored to convince the rest of it that these men were out to kill him; that they could actually do it—kill him, a real person—as his fingers fumbled belatedly for his lighter. He dropped the standard, cocked his piece, lit and blew the match, and swung the barrel to cover the horsemen just before they arrived. Theiax gave a terrible roar that echoed among the mesas, and crouched.

  At the last minute the charge split; the men as they pounded past leaned over the far sides of their horses to keep the animals’ bodies between them and the musket. Hobart yelled: “Pick up the standard, Theiax!”

  The charge came to a skidding, dust-kicking halt. Hobart found himself surrounded by men who bent bows or pointed lances at him, or idly twirled swords. He twisted back and forth in the saddle, swinging the musket, but he obviously could not menace every point of the compass at once. If one of them actually took a swipe at him he would have to fire, and the rest would cut him down in a fiftieth of the time necessary to reload. The only scant comfort was the thought that flight would probably not have worked either.

  “Envoy!” shouted Hobart. Then: “What’s the matter, don’t you understand Engl—Logaian?”

  The men wore tall hats of black fleece, from under which brassy yellow hair descended to their shoulders. Long loose pants and soft leather shoes completed their costume. Instead of answering him, they began to laugh, loudly and yet more loudly. They were looking at Theiax.

  The social lion was sitting up on his haunches, holding the standard upright with his forepaws. He rolled a disgusted eye up at Hobart. “What is this, trick?” he inquired. “This is no time for tricks. I am made fool of.”

  Hobart reached down and took the standard. “Well?” he snapped.

  A couple of the men exchanged comments, but in a language Hobart did not understand. Theiax emitted a few low growls. Hobart faced away from the lion, swinging the musket slowly, the butt tucked under his right arm. He took time for a quick blow on the match, at which it brightened.

  One of the men spoke unintelligibly to him, and answered in the same tongue his statement that he was the ambassador of King Gordius and demanded to be taken to their big shot. After several repetitions and much pointing at the standard, the barbarians seemed to get the idea. They motioned to Hobart and began to move off the way they had come, still surrounding him.

  ###

  Khurav, the Sham of the Parathai, was a fine-looking man; a jeweled baldric slanted across his broad bare chest and supported a prodigious sword. He was now putting a question in his own language to Hobart’s escort. The engineer could not understand the replies, but he guessed that they ran something like: “O Sham, we found this stranger near the border of Logaia, and this tame lion with him. We would have slain them, but the stranger claimed to be an ambassador . . .” Probably the escort did not add that Theiax’s growls and his cocked musket had helped to dissuade them from their intention of carving him into little bits.

  Khurav now addressed Hobart directly, in slow and carefully enunciated Logaian—or English: “Do-you-seek-audience-with-me?”

  “Yes,” said Hobart. “You’re the Sham of the Parathai, aren’t you?”

  Khurav frowned. “Do-you-want-to-deny-it?”

  “Not at all; just asked.” Hobart identified himself, whereat Khurav frowned some more.

  “My men say,” remarked the barbarian, “when they found you, this tame lion was holding the standard. How do I know he is not the ambassador?”

  Theiax looked bewildered; then he opened his mouth and gave a peculiar roar that started shrill and cascaded down the scale. He repeated this sound several times, and finally rolled over on his back, waving his paws. “I laugh!” he coughed. “I am ambassador! This is funny trick! I laugh some more!” Wherewith he repeated his sliding grunt.

  “He means,” said Hobart, “that he is not the ambassador.”

  “So I hear,” said Khurav. “But I do not like to be laughed at. Am I being insulted?”

  “No, no!” cried Hobart. This fellow was going to be difficult. He remembered King Gordius’ last caution: “Watch out for Khurav, son; he’s said to be a proud sort of barbarian.”

  As if the sham had not sufficiently displayed his pride already, he now bent a hostile glare on Hobart’s musket.

  He said: “You threaten me with a lighted gun, Prince Rollin. Is it that you wish to challenge me to a duel?”

  Hobart wearily pinched out the glowing end of the match. He apologized for the gun, for Theiax’s behavior, and for having been born. He finally dampened down Khurav’s suspicions to the point where the sham invited him into his huge felt tent. Khurav paused inside the threshold and gestured expansively.

  “You are my guest, Prince Rollin. All this is yours. All that is mine is yours.”

  “You’re much too kind,” said Hobart, assuming that this was just a formula.

  “No, I am not. We Parathai are hospitable. Therefore I am hospitable. Of course,” he continued, “it is likewise true that all that is yours is also mine. For instance, I should like the gold chain on that strange-colored garment you wear.”

  Hobart, mastering his resentment, unsnapped his watch-chain and handed it over. He managed to do it without exposing the actual watch, for fear that Khurav should take a fancy to that, too.

  “Sit,” said the chieftain, doing so, “and tell me why you come.”

  “Several reasons,” said Hobart, wondering how to begin. “First, I’d like to extradite a fugitive from Logaian justice, one Laus, formerly the court wizard.”

  “Is he the one who flew over this country three days ago?”

  “Guess he is. How about it?”

  “He is not in my territory. He continued beyond the border; perhaps he landed in the country of the Marathai.”

  “Your neighbors?” queried Hobart, who had not yet gotten all the barbarian tribes straight.

  “Our immemorial enemies,” corrected Khurav. “So I do not see how you can get your wizard.”

  Hobart mused: “I could visit the chief of the Marathai.”

  “No,” said Khurav flatly.

  “Why not?”

  “They are our enemies. You are our friend. Therefore you are their enemy. It is obvious. If you were their friend, you would be our enemy and I should have to kill you.”

  Hobart sighed; no matter how carefully you handled the sham, the conversation was apt to turn dangerous. Wait, there was a possibility—“Are you at war with the Marathai at present?”

  “We are, but there is no fighting.”

  “How so?”

  “They have guns. We warned them long ago that if they ever adopted such an unfair method of warfare, we should refuse to fight with them any longer. They have chosen to disregard our ultimatum.”

  “Haven’t you any guns?”

  “One or two, as curiosities. I am much too proud to make use of them.”

  Hobart began to feel excitement despite himself. He leaned forward and asked: “Any idea where they got these guns?”

  “It is believed that they were sent from Logaia, though I do not know why King Gordius should be so stupid as to arm his enemies.”

  Hobart almost blurted that Gordius’ stupidity had been of another order before he remembered that a diplomat should never give anything away without getting something much better in return. He suggested: “Strong as Logaia is, there’s no doubt that we’d welcome help from such tough fighters as the Parathai. If you’d like to help us against the Marathai, we could make it worth your while . . .”

  But the sham was leaning forward with a hostile glitter. “Prince Rollin, are you insulting me? Do you not know that I am much too proud to serve as a hired mercenary?”

  “N-no—no offense, Sham—”

  “Of course,” said Khurav relaxing a little, “if King Gordius chose to send me a gift, I should have to repay it; in services, if desired. Though how we could resume normal hostilities with such faithless ones as the—”


  “Fine, fine,” interrupted Hobart quickly. “Consider it settled; I’ll take the matter up with Gordius first thing. By the way, have you heard anything of our runaway general, Valangas?”

  “Do you mean the son of the sham of the Marathai, Baramyash? He but recently returned to his ancestral home.”

  “Sounds like the same one.”

  “It could be; he would have Logaianized his name while among you. But come, it is dinnertime.” And Khurav rose abruptly and led the way to another compartment of the tent.

  The first course consisted of lamb, roasted. It was served by a pair of husky, good-looking blond wenches in beaded finery and things that jangled when they moved. Khurav, mouth full of mutton, waved at the girls. “My wives,” he said, and took an enormous gulp of wine. “Which will you have?”

  “Uh—what?”

  “Which will you have? You did not think I lied when I said that all of mine was yours, did you? That would be an insult to my hospitality!”

  “I—uh—could I decide later, please?”

  “If you wish. You may have both if you insist, but I pray you will leave me one, for I am fond of them.”

  The next course was lamb, boiled. Hobart had thought he was in a complex predicament when he had learned of the Xerophi family’s plans for him. That was all he had known about complex predicaments! The fearfully perfect Argimanda would have been trial enough, but a she-barbarian—who according to the rules of this world would be one hundred-percent barbarous . . . Let’s see. He couldn’t protest that he was already married, or about to be; Khurav evidently saw nothing out of the way about polygyny. If he refused the gift, the sham would be offended and carve him. If he claimed he was . . .

  The third course was lamb, fricasseed. Khurav talked ponderously of his people’s herds, of the troubles of keeping the wolves from the sheep and the lions from the camels. Hobart foresaw the end of his capacity for lamb; he did not dare stop completely, so diddled with his food. He took a sip of Khurav’s excellent wine for every gulp on the part of the sham.

  Khurav crammed the last pound of lamb into his mouth with both hands, and washed it down with a whole goblet. Then he leaned toward Hobart—they were sitting cross-legged on mats—and belched, horrendously.

  Hobart, though not normally squeamish, flinched. Khurav looked pleased for the first time since Hobart had met him. “Thad was goode wan,” he drawled. “You do battair, Preence!” He suddenly acquired a thick accent, and Hobart was alarmed to see that his host had become quite drunk.

  Hobart opened his mouth and stretched his esophagus, but no belch came.

  “Cawm,” reiterated the sham. “Like thees!” The rugged face opened again, and out came another colossal burp.

  Hobart tried again, with no more result.

  Khurav frowned. “Id is rude, not to belch. You do, queeck, now!”

  Hobart tried desperately to conform to barbarian etiquette. “I can’t!” he cried finally.

  Khurav’s scowl became Stygian. His lip lifted in a snarl. “So! You insuld my hospitality! You want to fighd, yez? Cawm on!” The chieftain bounded to his feet—he was evidently one of those whose physical reflexes were not disorganized by intoxication. He snatched out his sword. “Ub!” he shouted. When Hobart hesitated, Khurav reached down and yanked him to his feet.

  “Theiax!” yelled Hobart as he was marched out the entrance of the big tent.

  Khurav jerked him around and stared at his face.

  “Thad lion, yez? Ho, ho!” He raised his voice to a bellow: “Adshar! Fruz! Yezdeg!”

  “Thu, Sham! Thu, Sham!” answered the darkness, and men materialized into the torchlight. Khurav snarled a question at them; they answered. Some ran off. There was a rattle of chains and a startled roar from a freshly awakened Theiax. The roars rose to frenzied volume and the chains clanked, but the Parathai must have trussed him well.

  Khurav faced Hobart, who was still protesting innocence of wrong intent. The chief rasped: “You have no shield? Then I nod use either. Draw!” He put his left arm behind him like a German Sabel fencer and stamped his feet. His eyes reflected little yellow torch flames.

  “But—” screamed Hobart.

  Swish! The huge blade clipped a lock of hair from Hobart’s head. “Draw,” bawled Khurav, “or I keel you anyway!”

  Rollin Hobart drew. He would probably be dead in a matter of minutes, but by God one howling barbarian would know he’d been in a fight!

  There was little science on either side. Hobart sprang in with a full-armed slash. The blades clanged, and Hobart backed and parried the sham’s ferocious downright cut. The blow nearly disarmed the engineer, and twisted the blade in his hand. Then his eye fixed itself on a patch of bare skin: Kurav’s sword hand, protected by no more than a crossbar on the hilt. Hobart swept his blade up and then down in a backhand slash; felt it smack.

  Khurav’s sword dropped to the sand, and the big man stared at his right hand. It had a weal across the back, but that was all, and Hobart realized in a flash that he had struck it with the flat. Time was wasting, though. The unwilling duelist brought his blade down hard, flat-wise on Khurav’s skull, thump!

  Khurav reeled under the blow and sat down. He looked up, blinking; tried thickly to speak. Then he dragged himself slowly up. When he was drawn painfully to his full height, he folded his arms, facing Rollin Hobart.

  “Kill me,” he said shortly.

  “Why? I don’t want to!”

  “Kill me, I say. I am much too proud to live after you have humbled me.”

  “Aw, don’t be silly, Khurav! That was just an accident; shouldn’t have been any fight in the first place!”

  “You will not? Very well.” The sham shrugged and turned to one of the circle of spectators. Words passed; the man took out a sword. Khurav knelt in front of him and bowed his head and pushed his hair forward from his thick neck.

  Hobart stared in horrified fascination. The Parathaian spit on his hands, took a careful stance, and swung his sword up—and down. Hobart shut his eyes just before blade met neck; he could not, unfortunately, shut his ears. Chug, thump!

  A strange sound rose from the circle of watchers, and grew: the sound of men sobbing. The tears were running down into the beards of the barbarians as they reassembled the corpse of the late Khurav and reverently removed it.

  And now, wondered Hobart, what would they do with—or to—him? Probably kill him, though for several minutes they had let him stand unmolested with sword in hand. Their attention was on the group carrying off the corpse. Maybe he could slip away in the darkness . . . Wait, he’d have to release Theiax first. Of course it had been Theiax’s own idea to come, but still one couldn’t walk out on . . .

  He began to pick his way toward the direction from which the social lion’s roars had come, and were still coming, muted to a continuous snarl. He had taken no more than ten steps among the tents when horny hands grabbed him from behind and hustled him back into the torchlight.

  They were all around, shouting and waving lethal weapons. One of them stuck a whiskered face practically against Hobart’s own, screaming: “Fez parethvi ush lokh sham! Ush Sham Parathen!” All were howling, “Ush Sham Parathen!” No doubt they were telling him what was to be done to him for causing the death of the Sham of the Parathai . . .

  A hawk-nosed oldster in a tall felt hat with earflaps was trying to hush them. When this had been accomplished, he addressed Hobart in very broken Logaian: “They—say—you—new—sham.”

  “I—what?”

  “You new sham; Sham of Parathai.”

  “But—but I don’t want to be the new sham! All I want—”

  “Too bad you not like,” said the old man complacently, “But too late. You beat Khurav; you sham anyway. Now we—uh—yavzi—you know—elevate you!”

  Which they did with rough enthusiasm, hoisting Hobart to a sitting position on a shield carried on stalwart shoulders. For at least an hour they paraded around the camp, the men singing while the women screeche
d and waved torches and the children bawled.

  Hobart’s protests and requests to let him unhitch Theiax went unheard and unheeded. The old man was the only barbarian he had met besides Khurav with whom he could communicate, and the elder was lost in the torch-splashed shuffle. He rematerialized when the shield-bearers finally put Hobart down in front of his tent, saying: “You not go yet; Parathai must swear loyalty!”

  The old boy took his place at the head of the line that was rapidly forming. He seized and wrung Hobart’s hand vigorously and rattled off a sentence in Parathaian. He moved on, and the next man repeated the performance. And the next and the next. By the time he had shaken a hundred hands, Hobart’s own hand began to ache. At two hundred it was swollen and red, and his feet were bothering him. At three hundred his eyes were glassy and he was swaying with fatigue. At five hundred . . .

  He never know how he stuck it out, with each handclasp shooting pains up to his elbow. At last, wonder of wonders, the end of the line drew near. Hobart touched the last man’s hand briefly, snatching it away before a squeeze could be applied, and thanking God that the women didn’t have to swear fealty, too.

  He turned dead eyes on the oldster. “May I go now?” The man nodded; Hobart added: “What’s your name?”

  “Sanyesh, chief of hundred families.”

  “Okay, Sanyesh; I’ll want to see you first thing in the morning.”

  Hobart slouched into the tent—and his arms were seized from the two sides. Hobart gave one more convulsive start—assassins?—and there was feminine laughter and the jingle of ornaments.

  Behind him came the reedy voice of Sanyesh: “These your wives, Sham. Thought you like know, yes?”

  “But I don’t want—”

  “Too bad, but you beat Khurav, so they yours. Is all done. They nice girls, so you not disappoint them, no? Goodnight.”