The Clocks of Iraz

by L. Sprague DeCamp

  "Well, heh heh, one stalwart soldier ought to suffice."

  "If lift will bear weight, sire," said Jorian.

  "What is its limit?"

  "I know not for sure, but methinks we press it."

  "Ah, well, we cannot diet down in time for this ride. Colonel Chuivir!"

  "Aye, sire?" replied the most guttering soldier of all, a strikingly handsome man as tall as Jorian.

  "Detail a squad of the guard to ascend the tower by the stairs, keeping on a level with us as the lift bears us aloft. Pick strong men with sound hearts! We would not have them collapse halfway up, heh heh."

  Like the tower, Saghol, the ground-floor lift attendant, had been cleaned up for the occasion. He jerked his cords, and the lift rose, groaning. The squad of guardsmen clattered up the stairs, keeping pace with the lift.

  At the top, the king got off the lift, which wobbled as his weight left it, and wheezed his way up to the clockwork floor. Jorian followed. The soldiers, red-faced, sweating, and gasping, filed into the clockwork chamber after him.

  On the clockwork floor, the machinery was in full noisy operation. The shaft driven by the horse mill on the ground floor rotated, driving the pump that raised water from the sump to the reservoir above. Water ran from this reservoir through a pipe to a large wheel bearing a circle of buckets. As each bucket filled, the escapement released the wheel, allowing it to rotate just far enough to bring an empty bucket under the spout. At the bottom of their travel, the buckets tipped, spilling their water into the trough, whence it ran to the sump. The bucket wheel drove a gear train connected to the shafts of the four clocks on the four sides of the tower. Another mechanism struck a gong on the hour.

  "We have not been up here in years, heh heh," said King Ishbahar, raising his voice to be heard above the clatter and splashing. "Pray explain this to me, good Master Jorian."

  Jorian's Penembic was now fairly fluent if ungrammatical. With Karadur helping to translate when he got stuck, Jorian told the king about clockwork. While Jorian spoke, several gentlemen, having come up on the second trip of the lift, filed into the chamber.

  "You should know Doctor Borai, O Jorian," said the King. "He is director of our House of Learning—at least for now."

  Borai, potbellied, gray-bearded, and kilted, bowed to Jorian, mumbled something that Jorian could not hear, and shot a slit-eyed glare at Karadur.

  "Pardon us a moment," said the king. "We would speak to him of plans for the city, and where better to discuss such things than this lofty eyrie, whence it is spread out below us like a map?"

  The king waddled over to a window, where to Borai he pointed out various things below, talking animatedly. A plump, trousered man a little older than Jorian addressed him.

  "Permit me, Master Jorian. I am Lord Vegh, stasiarch of the Pants. I see by your garb that you are a person of progressive ideas, like those of my honorable association. When you take out Penembic citizenship, perhaps you would care—"

  "Soliciting a new member already, eh, Vegh?" said the tall, thin grandee with the pointed gray beard. "Not sporting, you know."

  "First come, first served," said Vegh.

  "Excuse me, my lords," said Jorian. "I be not up on Irazi politics. Explain, pray."

  Vegh smiled. "This is Lord Amazluek, stasiarch of the Kilts. Naturally, he would prefer to enlist you in his—"

  "Bah!" said Amazluek. "The poor fellow has but lately arrived in Iraz. How should he know the glories of our ancient traditions, which my association cherishes and upholds? Be advised, young sir, that if you would fain make your way amongst people of the better sort here, you ought to abandon those barbarous nether garments—"

  "I believe I was conversing with Master Jorian, when you cut in,

  Amazluek," said Vegh. "Will you kindly mind your business, whilst I—"

  "It is my business!" cried Amazluek. "When I see three cozening an innocent young foreigner—"

  "Cozening!" shouted Vegh. "Why, thou—"

  "Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" said several courtiers, thrusting themselves between the angry stasiarchs.

  "Anyway," said Amazluek, "none of my association has turned traitor and fled to the provinces to raise a rebellion!" He turned his back and stalked off.

  "What he talk about?" said Jorian, looking innocent.

  Vegh: "Oh, he alludes to that rascal Mazsan, leader of a dissident faction. He was a member of my honorable association ere we expelled him. There are always bloodthirsty extremists, and Mazsan is ours."

  "Yes?"

  "You see, Master Jorian, we—the Pants, that is—are the moderates of Iraz. We follow the middle way, in urging that the Royal Council be elected and given legislative powers. On one hand we have mossbacked conservatives, like Amazluek, who would hold back all progress. On the other, we have fanatics like Mazsan, who would abolish the monarchy altogether. We are the only sensible folk."

  "What this about Mazsan disappearing?"

  "He and some followers have dropped out of sight, and rumor says they fled the city when their attempt to unseat me failed. But none has seen them since. I suspect that some of Amazluek's rich young thugs caught the lot at a conspiratorial meeting, murdered them, and concocted the tale of their flight to discredit all the Pants. When—"

  "Gentlemen!" wheezed the king. "We do believe we have seen enough for the nonce. Let us all return to the courtyard, where we shall have somewhat to say."

  When they were drawn up in the courtyard in the middle of a hollow square of the Royal Guard, King Ishbahar said:

  "It is our pleasure to announce that, in recognition of their services to our crown and state in repairing the clocks of the Tower of Kumashar, we hereby appoint Doctor Karadur of Mulvan director of the House of Learning, and Master Jorian of Kortoli our new clockmaster. In recognition of their many years of faithful service, Doctor Borai and Clockmaster Yiyim are retired on pension. Doctor Borai is hereby made honorary commissioner of city planning."

  "Oi! Who said I wanted to be clockmaster?" Jorian whispered to Karadur.

  "Do be quiet, my son. You needs must do something whilst I grapple with the problem of your wife, and the pay is fair."

  "Oh, well. Borai doesn't seem to like being pensioned."

  "That is not surprising, seeing that his income will be halved. The city-planning thing carries no salary."

  "Then we have another enemy to watch out for."

  "You are too suspicious—"

  "And now, gentlemen," said the king, "we shall return to our humble home. Doctor Karadur and Master Jorian, it is our pleasure that you take lunch with us this noon."

  On the way from the tower to the palace, Jorian and Karadur passed through a huge gate in the wall surrounding the palace grounds. From the top of the gate rose a row of iron spikes, one of which bore a human head.

  "The Gate of Happiness," said Karadur.

  "That wight up yonder doesn't look very happy," said Jorian, indicating the head.

  "Oh, this is the traditional place where heads of malefactors are exhibited."

  "A curious conceit, to attach such a name to such a place."

  "You utter verities, my son. The present monarch, howsomever, is mild and merciful, so that there is seldom more than one head on exhibition at a time. The conservatives grumble that such lenity encourages evildoers."

  In the palace, the gentleman litter-bearers were dismissed by the king. Jorian and Karadur were conducted to a private dining room, where they ate with the king, alone but for a pair of guardsmen standing in the corners, a secretary who scribbled notes, and the king's food taster.

  After amenities, Jorian brought up his brush with the pirates of Algarth on his voyage south. "From what I hear," he said, "they wax ever more aggressive along these coasts. I daresay Your Majesty knows what actions to take against them."

  Looking unhappy, King Ishbahar spoke to the secretary: "Remind me to pass the word to Admiral Kyar, O Herekit." Then to Jorian: "Ah, that we could persuade these rogues to earn honest liv
ings, like other men! Do you know that the ungrateful knaves have had the insolence to demand an increase in our annual largesse?"

  "Means Your Majesty that you pay them trib—unh!" Jorian broke off as Karadur kicked his shin beneath the table. "I mean—ah—that your government subsidizes these gentry?"

  "One might put it thus. One might. I know there is an argument for a hard policy; we have gone over it many a time and oft in council meetings. But our great philosopher Rebbim held that such men should not be blamed for their acts. The Algarthian Archipelago is a congeries of barren, sea-beaten rocks, where little food can be raised. The folk of that grim land must, therefore, resort to piracy or face starvation. So a subsidy, in return for immunity to our ships, seemed but a humane and benevolent act.

  "Besides which, the subsidy was at first but a fraction of the cost of putting our navy on a war footing. Know you that the stroke man of a bench of rowers now gets three coppers a day? Some people are never satisfied." The king shook his head, his jowls wobbling. "But let us to a pleasanter subject. Do try this rhinoceros liver with sauce of lamprey's brains. You will swear that you have tasted nought like it, heh hen."

  Jorian tried it. "Your Majesty is right," he said, swallowing manfully. "Your servant has never tasted aught like it. But, whilst Your Majesty's wish is my command, I have come to point where I can still chew but not swallow. I am full."

  "Oh, come! A big, lusty swain like you? What you have eaten would not keep a bird alive. Not a bird."

  "That depends upon the kind of bird, sire. I have already eaten thrice my usual lunch. Is like story of King Fusinian and the Teeth of Grimnor, which I told you."

  The king's jowls quivered with laughter. "Ah, Master Jorian! Would that, had the gods permitted us children, we had a son like you!"

  Startled, Jorian looked up. "Your Majesty's flattery overwhelms me. But…" he raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  Karadur said: "Master Jorian is new to Iraz, sire, and he has been working night and day on the clocks. He is therefore unfamiliar with your dynastic situation."

  "Our dynastic situation, as the learned doctor delicately puts it, is simple. We have had several wives, of whom two survive; but with all of these available females, we have begotten but one child, who died in infancy. So now we face the prospect of passing our crown on to one of a pair of worthless nephews.

  "But let us speak of more cheerful things. In three days comes the feast of Ughroluk, with the major races of the year. You two learned gentlemen shall occupy reserved seats in the Hippodrome, directly below the royal box. You will be safer there in case the factionists make a disturbance."

  The king sighed as he looked at the still heaped plates before him. "Would we could spend the afternoon enjoying the harmless delights of the palate and interfering with none. But, alas, we must depart for our nap, after which we have a tedious matter of a lawsuit to decide. Ah, the rues of royalty!

  "Know, Master Jorian, that in our youth we were deemed a bit of a scholar. In the libraries, you will still find our treatise on the pronunciation of Penembic in the days of Juktar the Great. But all that, alas, is far behind us. For the past year, we have endeavored to write our memoirs, but so implacably does public business nibble at our time that we have not yet reached the third chapter."

  "I can sympathize," said Jorian. "I, too, have sometimes wished that I could have been a scholar, as Doctor Karadur is, in sooth. I did once study briefly at the Academy of Othomae; but the exigencies and contingencies of life have never let me abide in any one place long enough to get my teeth into a program of serious study."

  "Now that you are living amongst us," said the king, "we are sure that this difficulty can be overcome. And now we must away once more. Fare you well, our friends."

  Later, Jorian said: "He seems like an amiable old duck."

  "Amiable, yes," said Karadur. "But he neglects public business to pamper his stomach, and he has no more spine than a bowlful of jelly. From a strictly moral point of view, I applaud his pacific outlook; but I fear it is impractical in this wicked world."

  Jorian grinned. "You're the one who was always twitting me on my juvenile cynicism, as you called it, and now 'tis you who voice acerb views."

  "I have probably caught some of your acrimonious outlook, like a contagious tisic. So long as the kingdom ride on an even keel, King Ishbahar may do well enough. But if a crisis arise—well, we shall see."

  "Is this fellow Mazsan likely to overthrow him? So feeble a rule impresses me not as perdurable."

  "Mazsan has dwelt in Novaria and returned full of lofty ideas for setting up a republic on the lines of Vindium. His following is formidable, since oppression and corruption are rife amongst Ishbahar's officials. Let us hope Mazsan never succeeds."

  "Why so? The Vindines seem to do as well as the folk of any of the Twelve Cities, and things do not look good to me here."

  "It is not Mazsan's ideas, which are not bad as such things go; it is the man himself. I know him. He is brilliant, energetic, and idealistic— but a hater, boiling with rancor and ferity. He has boasted that, when he attains power, there shall be displayed at the Gate of Happiness not one head but a thousand. There is a tale that he would even summon the wild nomads of Fedirun to help him to his goal."

  " Tis too bad that we cannot somehow sunder the man from his ideas," said Jorian.

  "Aye; but that is the rock whereon many noble political schemes have gone to wrack. Mazsan could proclaim the world's most enlightened constitution, but that would do the Irazis no good when he began decapitating them by the hundred, as he would the instant he had power."

  "So then," said Jorian, "the choice between that kindly mass of wobbling royal jelly and the gifted but bloodthirsty Master Mazsan is like the choice between being hanged and beheaded."

  "True, but that is the way of the world."

  Chapter Five

  THE TUNNEL OF HOSHCHA

  THE MORNING OF THE TWENTY-SIXTH WAS OVERCAST, PREsaging another autumnal rain. The mouth of the Lyap was covered with small craft, plying back and forth like a swarm of water insects as they conveyed thousands of Irazis across the river to Zaktan.

  Jorian and Karadur strolled up the street that led from the Zaktanian waterfront. The street ended at the edge of the temenos of the temple of Nubalyaga. Following the flow of the crowd, Jorian and Karadur proceeded around the temple grounds to the right. This brought them to the temple entrance at the eastern end of the temenos.

  The temple was a huge structure of domes and spires. The silver plating of its tiles glowed softly under the gray sky. Flanking the entrance were two thirty-foot statues of Nubalyaga in the form of a beautiful naked woman. One statue showed her as bending a huge bow; the other, pouring water from a jar.

  "The one on the left is chasing away the eclipse," said Karadur, "whilst the other controls the tides."

  Jorian stopped to look. "That's funny," he said. "Last night I dreamt that a woman just like that sculptor's model appeared unto me."

  "Oh? What did she?"

  "She said something like: 'Beware the second crown, my son.' Since the dame was clad as you see those statues, and since I have been unwontedly virtuous since you and I parted in Metouro, I sought to make love to her; but she turned to smoke and vanished. Since I thought the dream but a manifestation of my bridled lusts, and since the words did not seem to make sense, I paid no special heed and have now forgotten the rest of the vision."

  "Hm. One needs must be alert to such things, because the gods—ah —really do appear to mortals thus, as you well know."

  "If the advice of this goddess be no better than that of that little green god, Tvasha, who advised us in Shven, I can do without it."

  Since the temple stood on an elevation, the street leading eastwards from it sloped downwards. Down this street flowed a river of folk: Irazis, the men in kilts or trousers and their women in enveloping robes; foreigners from Fedirun and Novaria and even—sweating in their furs and heavy woolens—blond barbaria
ns from distant Shven. Among the Irazi men, kilt-wearing partisans sported the red and white colors of their faction, while adherents of the Pants wore blue and gold.

  "It gratifies me to hear that you are subduing the lusts of the flesh," said Karadur. "It is the requisite preliminary step towards moral perfection and spiritual enlightenment. Have you, then, adhered to some ascetic philosophy or cultus?"

  "Nay; I merely felt that Estrildis would mislike it if she knew I'd been dipping my wick. That's love for you. If I ever get her back, I'll make up for lost time."

  They came to the outer wall of the Hippodrome, where rows of stone arches, one atop another, supported the tiers of seats. The crowd divided and flowed around the structure to the entrances. Jorian said:

  "Our passes admit us through Entrance Four. Which is that?"

  'To the right," replied Karadur.

  Hawkers of flags, toy chariots, handwritten programs, and food and drink mingled with the crowd, crying their wares. Jorian and Karadur found Entrance Four and were swept in with the tide. An usher saluted as he saw the royal passes and directed their holders to seats below the royal box, at the halfway mark on one side of the long, elliptical course.

  Jorian and Karadur settled in their seats and opened their lunch. On their left, where seats were reserved for active members of the Pants, the stands were a mass of blue and gold. On their right, red and white likewise filled the stands in the bloc composed of Kilts. Members of the two blocs scowled at each other across the intervening strip reserved for noblemen and officials, where sat Jorian and Karadur. Now and then, an epithet was shouted above the general din.

  Jorian was finishing his beer when a fanfare announced the king. All in the stands arose as Ishbahar waddled into his box and lowered himself into the gilded throne. When the audience had sat again, the king motioned to his crier, who produced a speaking trumpet. The king held up a sheet of reed paper and a reading glass. He began to read in his wheezy squeak, pausing between sentences so that the crier could bellow his words.