Rogue Queen

by L. Sprague De Camp

Next day Antis said: “We’ll get you a cloak the same way I got mine. Come along.”

  They hiked back toward Elham. After some hours Antis motioned for caution as they neared the cultivated fields.

  “Down there,” he whispered.

  “Down there” a small group of workers was mowing a field of tarhail—the very field, in fact, they had fled through the previous afternoon. Evidently the agricultural officer was determined not to wait for any more of her crop to be trampled.

  At one side of the field a worker stood guard over the cloaks, food, water, and other gear. The guard was armed with spear, shield, and helmet, but no body armor, as this was normally not a hazardous job.

  “What do we do now?” said Iroedh.

  “Wait.”

  “How long?”

  “All day if need be. You have no idea of the patience required to be a successful thief.”

  And wait for hours they did, lying on their bellies under the shrubs at the crest of the hill. At long last the guard yawned and sat down with her back to a tree.

  Antis grinned. “It’s the boredom that gets them. Now watch.”

  For another hour they watched. The guard chewed a grass stem, yawned some more, and turned over a stone to look at the creeping things under it.

  “There she goes,” said Antis.

  The guard slid down further and pulled the helmet over her face. From where Iroedh lay the guard looked like some bifurcated pink vegetable with a nutshell covering one end.

  Antis rose to a crouch, beckoned, and stole down the game trail to the border of the field. On the way he picked up a dead branch as long as himself. This he maneuvered with exquisite care among the trees. When they got to where Iroedh could again see the red of the guard’s skin through the green of the foliage, Antis held up a hand to halt her. He slid behind a big tree and reached around it with the stick, holding it out like a spear at full lunge. Gently he poked the point of the stick under the collar of one of the cloaks.

  The guard stirred and muttered in her sleep.

  Antis froze, then moved again. He raised the cloak off the branch stub that served as a peg, then drew back branch and cloak. He leaned the branch against his big tree, rolled up the cloak, and flashed a grin at Iroedh.

  Iroedh glanced around to pick the route of retreat, and, as she did so, something caught her eye. Something bulky hanging from a tree.

  With a vaguely reassuring motion to Antis she stepped lightly around the intervening trunks. The object proved to be a big bag, hanging like the cloaks from the stub of a branch. She lifted it down. Inside was a mass of biscuit flour and a sheet of vakhwil bark with writing on it.

  She stalked back to where she had left Antis, holding the bag, and together they stole away from the clearing, When they were safely over the hill he said:

  “What’s that?”

  Iroedh dug in and brought out the sheet. On it was a note reading:

  From one who stays behind to one who has gone away:

  Here, dearest, is something that may come in handy in the strenuous days to come, as you will have trouble finding proper nourishment among the meat-eating rogues. Think kindly of one who loves and admires you. I still think you would have made a wonderful foreign officer. And whether the old gods exist or not, I pray to them to watch over you. If you get downhearted, remember what the Oracle of Ledhwid said about the two-headed queen riding the blue vakhnag.

  “Vardh!” said Iroedh. “The dear child!”

  Though the note was unsigned she had no difficulty guessing the identity of the sender. Her throat closed up and she gave a slight sob.

  Antis said: “There’s no luck like a true friend, as the Oracle once said. Now we’re fixed for the journey.”

  Hand in hand they started off for the cave of Umwys, Gliid, and Ledhwid, with Iroedh whistling the Song of Geyliad.

  VII. The Rogue Drones

  As they neared the Paris, five days later, Antis showed increasing signs of unease.

  “Are you sure?” he said, “these creatures won’t eat us, or the sky ship won’t fall over and crush us? It looks very unstable.”

  “Quite sure,” said Iroedh. “What’s the matter with my hero, my second Idhios, who has so lightly eluded the search parties from Elham, and who has driven off a prowling noag with a piece of firewood? Has your courage all oozed away?”

  “Avtiny workers and noags I know about,” he retorted in a sharp tone, “but only fools rush into unknown dangers.”

  While he spoke, Iroedh had been preparing a second and sharper gibe, but withheld it rather than foment a quarrel. Certainly he had shown enough courage and force of character during their perilous journey afoot to Gliid for three normal drones. In fact, she found herself depending upon him instead of the other way round, as an Avtin would normally expect.

  Presently they came upon the clearing around the Paris. Iroedh was surprised to see a row of chariots parked in the place where Rhodh’s party had camped, and a herd of uegs of about equal numbers tethered nearby. A man was feeding the beasts.

  Iroedh, followed by a hesitant Antis, went up to the man and asked in English: “Where is Dr. Bloch to be found, please?” As her lisping Avtiny accent made the sentence into “Hwerydh Daktablak tubi thaund, pliidh?” it took her some time to make herself clear.

  “Over there, on the other side of the ship,” said the man.

  They continued on until they found Bloch, with Barbe Dulac and another man, working on the ground beyond the ship. The Terrans had spread a dead leipag out on the ground and taken the beast thoroughly apart. The hide had already come off and was stretched out, with the inside up, while the other man did mysterious things to it. Meanwhile Bloch was removing all the muscles and organs from the skeleton, which had by now been nearly freed of them. Every few seconds he stopped to dictate notes to Barbe, or to tell her to draw a sketch or point a camera at the remains, or he would pop an organ into a jar full of some colorless but strong-smelling liquid. The male men were covered with blood and stank.

  After Iroedh had watched for a while, Bloch looked up and said: “Hello. It is—it’s Iroedh of Elham, is it not?”

  “Certainly,” said Iroedh, a little surprised that he should have trouble remembering her. “This is Antis, also of Elham.”

  “Excuse my not shaking hands,” said Bloch, twiddling his gory fingers. “But—”

  “What does he mean?” said Antis.

  “Our form of greeting,” continued Bloch, his Avtinyk more fluent than on the previous visit. “And what is a drone doing so far from his dronery? Oh, I know! You’re one of the drones we hoisted out of the prison cell! What happened after that?”

  “I owe you more than thanks,” said Antis with dignity. “Any time I can do you a good turn, speak up.”

  When Iroedh had finished her story she said: “And so we are bound for Ledhwid and the Oracle. Have you thought of going there? I’m sure it would interest you.”

  “Now that,” said Bloch, “is a remarkable—how would you say ‘coincidence’? For only yesterday a worker named Yaedh of Yeym arrived here, saying she came from this Oracle and inviting us to call.”

  Iroedh said: “She’d be one of the Oracle’s priestesses. Yeym was destroyed by the Arsuuni, and she would also be one of the few left alive from that Community. Do you plan to go?”

  “Yes. We haven’t obtained access to a single Community yet, and we cannot remain here much longer—”

  “Why not? Where are you going?”

  “The Paris is going to sample every continent on your planet, which means ten or twelve stops. As I was saying, Barbe would like a—how would you say ‘honeymoon trip’?”

  After some explanation, Iroedh said: “Oh, you’re now her official drone! I should like to ask some questions about that—”

  “Not just now, please,” said Bloch. “So, since she’s accustomed to roughing it also, we thought that would make an agreeable one. The only difficulty is we cannot spare enough men from the Paris to
make up a party of safe size. Hence your coming is very convenient, and I suppose you would rather ride than walk, wouldn’t you?”

  “Certainly,” said Iroedh. “Is this Yaedh of Yeym here at Gliid, and is she coming with us?”

  “Yes. She’s around somewhere.”

  “Have any other Avtini visited your sky ship since our departure?”

  “Several. A delegation arrived from Khwiem to request us to arbitrate some dispute with a neighboring Community. We had to turn them down—”

  “Turn them down? You mean throw them down? Why—”

  “No; I meant refuse their request. A couple of others put in an appearance just to see what they could observe. And then a great tall creature, one of the Arshuul—you call them Arsuuni, don’t you?—came with a warning from Queen Omförs of Tvaar (which I take it is your Omvyr of Tvaarm) that if we dared to interfere in their program of conquest they would fill us full of spears.”

  Bloch seemed amused by this threat, which fact puzzled Iroedh (who had a healthy fear of the Arsuuni) until she remembered the awesome powers of the men. If she could only somehow arrange for the Arsuuni to attack the Terran expedition…

  She asked: “How are you going to Ledhwid?”

  “The same way you travel—in ueg chariots. Didn’t you see those we have bought from Thidhem?”

  “Why should you go that way when you can fly there in a few hours?”

  “Two reasons: We don’t know if there is a proper landing place for the helicopter at Ledhwid, and we can see much more of the planet by crawling around on its surface than by flying over it. Moreover, if we go in the chariots we can get acquainted with the people, whereas if they see us flying they’re likely to run for cover and stay hidden until we’ve gone. We’ve been through all this on other planets.”

  “What if you get into some serious danger or difficulty?”

  “We shall keep in communication with the Paris so that if necessary Kang can fly out and rescue us.”

  Iroedh asked: “How can you talk with the ship when you’re sixteens of borbi away?”

  Bloch smiled. “Terran magic. By the way, do you know who or what the Oracle is? Yaedh won’t tell.”

  “No. It’s a living creature, but aside from that I don’t know if it’s queen, worker, or drone; or even whether it’s Avtin or Arsuun. It never meets its clients face to face. When do we start?”

  “Tomorrow morning, now that you’re here. Can Antis drive one of these things?”

  Iroedh exchanged looks with Antis, who said: “I’m not really good, since drones aren’t normally expected to learn that art, but Iroedh has taught me enough to manage. If you don’t fear the results, I don’t.”

  Next morning they hitched up five of the uegs before sunrise.

  Yaedh of Yeym had shown up the previous evening with a bagful of fungi of kinds that the uegs particularly liked, and which she had been out gathering when Iroedh arrived. As a result of Yaedh’s pampering the beasts adored her and obeyed her every command. She was a lean and elderly worker with wrinkles on her face and her crest faded from scarlet to pale pink, who said but little.

  The road ran down the floor of the valley toward the outlet, winding among the great boulders scattered around the defile at the northern or lower end. The day was uneventful. They stopped and set up camp toward sunset. Bloch took a thing like a little flat box out of his pocket, twisted some knobs, and spoke into it.

  Iroedh asked: “What on Niond are you doing, Daktablak?”

  “Reporting to the Paris.”

  “You can actually talk to the sky ship with that little thing?”

  “Certainly. Would you care to say hello to Subbarau?”

  Iroedh looked doubtfully at the little box. “Hail, Captain Subbarau,” she said in a weak voice.

  “How are you, Madame Iroedh?” came back Subbarau’s nasal tones.

  Iroedh hastily handed the box back to Bloch. After they had eaten and Bloch was puffing on his pipe and Antis practicing with his telh, Iroedh said to Barbe:

  “Bardylak dear, I should like to ask some questions about you and Daktablak. First—”

  “Hey!” said Bloch when he heard the first question. “That’s a Kinsey.”

  “What’s a kyndhi?”

  “A type of interrogation named for a man who invented it long ago. You can’t ask just anybody that; it’s against our customs.”

  “Then how do you learn what you must know in order to—”

  “You may ask me the questions in private.”

  Barbe spoke up: “Not to change the subject or anything, but what became of that book I gave you, Iroedh?”

  “I read more than halfway through before I had to flee. That’s one reason I wish to get back into the Community.”

  “How far did you get?”

  “To where the two females, Elnora and Edith, each wants the drone Philip to fertilize her. At least I think that’s what it means, though it’s hard to be sure, because in matters of propagation Terrans never say anything right out, but use subtle hints.”

  “I can tell you—” began Barbe, but Iroedh cut her off:

  “Oh, please don’t! I still hope to recover the book some day.”

  Bloch asked; “What book is this?” and when told, exploded: “My God! With Tolstoy and Lewis and Balzac, and Conrad and Silberstein and Hemingway and McNaughton and a hundred other good novelists to choose from, you introduce her to the glories of Terran literature with one of the worst pieces of sentimental slush ever written!”

  “It is not!” said Barbe. “It’s just that you’re such an introvert, you, that you don’t appreciate how other human beings—”

  “What is ‘slush’?” said Iroedh.

  Nobody heeded her. Barbe, getting excited, switched to French, which left Iroedh completely at a loss, especially since Bloch replied in the same language. The men waved their arms and blabbered at a furious rate, and ended up apologizing and hugging each other and making that curious mouth-touching gesture. They returned to English, in which Iroedh caught frequent use of the word “love.”

  “This love of yours,” she said, “seems to play a large part in Barbe’s book. From all I gather, love of individuals is more important among you than love of your Community. If that’s the case, how can your Communities be well run?”

  “Mostly they aren’t,” said Bloch, relighting his pipe. “But we have a lot of fun.”

  “Oh, come now,” said Barbe, “we love our Communities too. Besides Winston I also love my home city of Genève, me, and my country of Helvetia…”

  “That’s not the same sort of thing,” said Bloch. “It’s a matter of the language. Barbe’s language has only one word, aimer, to represent all grades of affection. In English we confine ‘love’ to the more profound emotion, like that which Barbe and I feel for each other, and use ‘like’ for the milder and more superficial—”

  Barbe interrupted: “Now don’t tell me you only like your country and your home region! I have heard your rhapsodies on the United States of America and on Bucks County, Pennsylvania, in particular—”

  “Oh, all right, I suppose I do,” said Bloch, puffing. “What we really require, I suppose, is about six words to represent all grades of love. At the top we should put love for one’s mate, then love for one’s parents and children, then for other close friends and relatives, then for one’s locale and one’s work, and so on.”

  Barbe said: “Do not claim you merely like your work either, Winston darling! I often think you love it better than me—”

  “Not the same sort of thing at all,” said Bloch. “Iroedh, I suppose that with you the Community comes at the top?”

  “Normally, yes.”

  Bloch said: “We once had a sect or cult on Terra called Communists, who believed as you do that love of the Community should take precedence over all others. But their collectivistic love seemed to involve such fanatical hatred of everybody else and such implacable determination to impose their system on the world
that we had to exterminate them. However, I suppose you are a somewhat special case because of your estrangement from your Community.”

  “Yes,” said Iroedh. “I’m so confused I don’t know if I love my Community or Antis the better.”

  Antis spoke up: “I have no doubts at all; I love Iroedh the best of anything, and say a plague upon the Community! Since leaving it I’ve been a real person instead of a mere stud animal.”

  “Thank you, Antis,” said Iroedh. “Of course I don’t think we could ever have a love in the strongest sense in which the men use the term, because that seems to be connected with sex.”

  “And it is impossible for you, that there?” said Barbe.

  “Certainly. I’m a neuter. But even if I never go back to Elham, I shall manage, so long as I can love Antis and perhaps my antiquities.”

  Bloch said: “You must love your antiques in the same way I love my work.” He asked Antis: “Did you never feel this most violent grade of love for the queen when you—ah—”

  “When I tupped her? By Eunmar, that was just work! Though I won’t say I disliked old Intar, who was not a bad sort. When she—” The drone stopped. “Anyhow, it is perhaps just as well that the question of sex cannot arise between Iroedh and myself. The more I hear of you men, the more I think our love will be better without that element.”

  “That’s what you think,” said Barbe. “Me, I can tell you a different story; but since you are of another species it would not mean anything to you.” She turned to Yaedh. “You have said nothing, sister. What or whom do you love, and why?”

  Yaedh drew patterns in the dirt. “Like any normal worker, I loved my Community,” she said, throwing a severe glance toward Iroedh. “When that was destroyed I had nothing left. Nothing. All I can love now is animals; that’s why I feed delicacies to the uegs and keep a neinog at Ledhwid.”

  “How about your fellow priestesses?” asked Iroedh.

  Yaedh shrugged. “They are from many Communities, but do not themselves constitute a Community. While I like most of them well enough, there is no comparison with one’s feeling for one’s own Community. It’s the difference between those Terran words ‘like’ and ‘love’ Daktablak was telling us about.”