The Tritonian Ring and Other Pasudian Tales

by L. Sprague De Camp

  With a quick look around Vakar drew the murder-dagger from his shirt. He clamped his teeth upon the sheath, drew the blade, and pricked the pig's rump with the point to a depth of a quarter-inch. Then he released the animal, which raced across the court. Half-way across it began to slow down. Before it reached the far side its legs gave way under it, and it lay twitching for a few seconds before it died.

  Vakar stared thoughtfully at the dagger as he sheathed it and hid it in his shirt. If the venom worked so fast upon a beast notoriously resistant to poison, there was no doubt of what it would do to a man. He started to return to his chambers, then paused as another thought struck him. It would not do to have this poisoned porker fed to the castle's dogs, or even more so to have it unknowingly fried up for the royal breakfast. Vakar walked over to the pig, picked it up, and carried it to the outer gate. There the usual pair of guards leaned on their zaghnals or dagger-halberds: pole-arms with knife-like triangular bronze blades.

  "Which of you is junior?" he said. When that question had been answered he handed the shoat to the startled young man, saying:

  "Get a shovel from the tool-house and take this pig outside the city and bury it: deeply, so no dog or hyena shall dig it up. And don't take it home for your wife to cook unless you wish a sudden death."

  At that instant Drozo, King Zhabutir's treasurer, appeared at the gate on his way to work. Vakar went with him to pick up a supply of trade-metal. Drozo gave him gold rings and silver tores and copper slugs shaped like little ax-heads, then handed him a semicircular piece of bronze, saying:

  "If you get to Kernê and are pressed for funds, go to Senator Amastan with this. It's half a broken medallion whereof he has the other half, and will therefore identify you."

  Vakar went back to his room. Bili called from the bedchamber:

  "Aren't you coming back to bed, Vakar? It's early—"

  "No," said Vakar shortly, and began rummaging through his possessions.

  He took down one dagger for which he had rigged a harness of two narrow strips so that the sheath was positioned in front of his chest. He switched this harness to the sheath that now housed the poisoned dagger, took off his fine linen shirt, strapped the harness around his torso, and donned the shirt again.

  Then he began collecting garments and weapons. He assembled his winged helmet of solid gold with the lining of purple cloth; his jazerine cuirass of gold-washed bronzen scales; his cloak of the finest white wool with a collar of sable. He looked over his collection of bronze swords: slender rapiers, heavy cut-and-thrust longswords, short leaf-shaped barbarian broadswords, and a double-curved sapara from far Thamuzeira, where screaming men and women were flayed on the altars of Miluk. He picked the best rapier, the one with the gold-inlaid blade, the hilt of sharkskin and silver with a ruby pommel, and the scabbard of embossed leather with a golden chape at the end ...

  At this point it occurred to Vakar that while he would no doubt make a glittering spectacle in all this gaudery, it would be useless to pretend that he was but a simple traveller of no consequence. In fact he would need a bodyguard to keep the first robber lord who saw him from swooping down with his troop to seize this finery.

  One by one he returned the pieces to their chests and pegs and assembled a quite different outfit. As the rapier would be too light to be effective against armor he chose a plain but serviceable longsword; a plain bronze helm with a lining of sponge; a simple jack of stiff-tanned cowhide with bronze reinforcings; and his stout bronze buckler with the repousse pattern of lunes: work of the black Tartarean smiths. Nobody in Lorsk could duplicate it.

  He was pulling on a pair of piebald boots of shaggy winter horsehide when Fual, his personal slave, came in. Fual was an Aremorian of Kerys who had been seized by Foworian slavers and sold in Gadaira. He was a slender man, more so even than Vakar, with the tight skin of the more northerly peoples and a touch of red in his hair that suggested the blood of the barbarous Galatha. He looked at Vakar from large melancholy eyes and clucked.

  "... and why didn't you call me, sir? It isn't proper for one of your rank to work for himself."

  "Like Lord Naz in the poem," grinned Vakar:

  "Slavishly swinking, weary and worn ...

  "If it makes you unhappy you may complete the job."

  They were stuffing extra clothing into a goatskin bag when Bili, scantily wrapped in a deerskin blanket, appeared in the doorway, looking at Vakar from brown bovine eyes. She said:

  "My lord, as this will be the last time—"

  "Don't bother me now!" said Vakar.

  He finished packing and told Fual: "Get your gear too."

  "Are you taking me, sir?"

  "And why not? Get along with you. But remember: You shall steal nothing except on my direct order!"

  Fual, who had been a professional thief before his enslavement, departed looking thoughtful. It now occurred to Vakar that once they touched the mainland Fual could easily run away. He must try to learn more of what went on the mercurial Aremorian's mind; Fual's attitude towards him might make the difference between life and death.

  A snuffling from the bedroom attracted Vakar's attention. Bili huddled sobbing under the blankets.

  "Now, now," he said, patting her awkwardly. "You'll find another lover."

  "But I don't wish—"

  "You'd better, because there's no knowing when I shall return."

  "At least you might ..." She rolled over, throwing off her blankets, and slid her plump hands up his arms. "Oh, well," sighed Prince Vakar.

  -

  They paused as they topped the pass to look out over the irrigated plain on which stood sunny Amferé. The spires of the city shone distantly in the afternoon sun on the edge of the blue Sirenian Sea. The capital of Zhysk was laid out as a miniature of mighty Torrutseish, with the same circular outer wall, the same sea-canal running diametrically through it, and the same circular harbor of concentric rings of land and water at the center.

  Vakar twisted on his saddle-pad to look back at his convoy of two chariots, one carrying Fual and the interpreter Sret, the other the baggage. They were all splashed with mud from fording streams swollen by the melting of the snow on the higher peaks. Vakar rode horseback instead of in a chariot because, in a day when equitation was a daring novelty, it was also one of the few physical activities wherein he excelled. This was not entirely to his own credit, but was due in some measure to the fact that the average Pusadian, standing six to six-and-a-half feet, was too heavy for the small horses of the age. Though Vakar was small for a Lorskan, his boots cleared the ground by a scant two feet.

  "Shall we be there by sundown?" he said to the nearest charioteer, who replied:

  "Whatever your highness pleases."

  Vakar started down the slope, slowly, for without stirrups not even an accomplished rider can gallop downhill without the risk of being tossed over his mount's head. Behind him the bronze tires of the vehicles ground through the gravel and squished in the mud. Vakar smiled wryly at the reply, reflecting that if he asked them if the tide would obey him they would no doubt say the same thing.

  They drew up to the walls of Amferé at sunset, to wait in line behind an ox-cart piled with farm produce for the last-minute rush before the gates were closed. The people were tighter in coloring than those of Lorsk, lending support to the legend that a party of Atlanteans had settled Zhysk some centuries back.

  When Vakar identified himself, showing his seal-ring, the guard waved him through, for there was peace at the moment between Zhysk and Lorsk. Vakar rode for the citadel at the center of the city, meaning to sponge on the King of Zhysk. The citadel comprised an island surrounded by a broad ring of water. The palace and other-public buildings stood on the island, and the outer boundary of the ring formed the harbor, instead of three concentric rings as in Torrutseish.

  When Vakar arrived at the bridge across the oversized moat (a bridge that had been the wonder of all Poseidonis when built, as the continent had never seen a bridge longer t
han the length of a single log) he found that the guards had already stretched a chain across the approach for the night. A guard told him in broad Zhyskan dialect:

  "King Shvo's not here. He's gone to Azaret with all his people for the summer. Who's calling?"

  "Prince Vakar of Lorsk."

  The guard seemed unimpressed, and Vakar got the impression that the fellow judged him a liar. He tugged his mustache in thought, then asked:

  "Is his minister Peshas here?"

  "Why, didn't ye know? Peshas lost his head for conspiracy two months gone. Eh, ye could see it on its spike from here, rotting away day by day, but they've taken it down to make room for another."

  "Who is the minister then?"

  "Himself has a new one, Lord Mir, but he's gone home for the night."

  Under these circumstances it would be more trouble than it was worth to try to talk his way in. Vakar asked:

  "Where's the best inn?"

  "Try Nyeron's. Three blocks north, turn right, go till ye see a little alley but don't go in there; bear left..."

  After some wandering Vakar found Nyeron's inn. Nyeron, speaking with a strong Hesperian accent, said that he could put up Vakar and his party for six ounces of copper a night.

  "Very well," said Vakar and dug into his scrip for a fistful of copper, wondering why Nyeron had looked surprised for a flicker of an eyelid.

  After the usual period of weighing and checking they found a small celt of just over six ounces.

  "Take it and never mind the change," said Vakar, then turned to one of the charioteers. "Take this and buy a meal for all of us for Nyeron to cook, and also fodder. Fual, help with the horses. Sret ..."

  He paused to notice that Sret was speaking in Hesperian to Nyeron, who replied with a flood of that tongue, in the dialect of Meropia. It seemed that Sret, a small man with a long ape-like upper tip, had onced lived in Meropia and that he and Nyeron had acquaintances in common. Although he had never visited the Hesperides, Vakar had a fair acquaintance with their language by virtue of having had an Ogugian nurse: However, being tired from his day's ride, he said impatiently in his own tongue:

  "Sret! Haul in the baggage and see that nobody steals it until we're ready to eat. And not then, either."

  Sret went out to obey while Nyeron shouted for his daughter to fetch a wash-basin and a towel. A handsome wench appeared lugging a wooden bowl and a ewer, in one door and out another that led into the dormitory. Vakar followed her with an appreciative eye. Nyeron remarked:

  "A fine piece of flesh, no? If the gentleman wishes, she shall be at his disposal ..."

  "I've had all the riding I can manage in the last ten days," said Vakar. "Perhaps when I've rested ..."

  He went back to the dormitory for the first turn at the wash-basin and found Fual beside him. Vakar, scrubbing the grime off his hands with a brush of pigskin with the brisdes on, said:

  "How are we doing, Fual?"

  "Oh, very fine, sir. Except ..."

  "Except what?"

  "You know it's unusual for one of your rank to stop at a vulgar inn?"

  "I know, but fortune compels. What else?"

  "Perhaps my lord will excuse my saying he hasn't had much experience with inns?"

  "That I haven't. What have I done wrong?"

  "You could have got lodging for three ounces a night, or at most four, if you'd bargained sharply."

  "Why the boar-begotten thief! Am I a dog? HI knock his teeth—"

  "My lord! It wouldn't become your dignity, not to mention that the magistrates would take a poor view of the act, this being not your own demesne. Next time let me haggle, for my dignity doesn't matter."

  "Very well; with your background I can see you'd make a perfect merchant."

  Vakar handed over the washing-facilities. By the time the last of the party had washed, the water and towel were foul indeed. They ate from wooden bowls with the dispatch and silence of tired and hungry men, washing down great masses of roast pork and barley-bread with gulps of the green wine of Zhysk and paying no heed to a noisy party of merchants clustered at the other end of the long table.

  When they turned in, however, Vakar found that the chatter of the merchants kept him awake. They seemed to be making an all-night party of it, with a flute-girl and all the trimmings. When the flute-girl was not tweetling the men were engaged in some game of chance with loud boasts, threats, and accusations.

  Vakar stood it for a couple of hours until his slow temper reached a boil. Then he climbed out of bed and knocked aside the curtain separating the dormitory from the front chamber of the inn.

  "Stop that racket!" he roared, "before I beat your heads in!"

  The noise stopped as four pairs of eyes turned upon him. The stoutest merchant said:

  "And who are you, my good man?"

  "I'm Prince Vakar of Lorsk, and when I say shut up—"

  "And I'm the Queen of Ogugia. If you foreigners don't like it here, go back—"

  "Swine!" yelled Vakar, looking for something to throw, but Nyeron, cudgel in hand, intervened:

  "No fighting here! If you must brawl, go outside."

  "Gladly," said Vakar. "Wait while I fetch my sword—"

  "Oh, it's to be swords?" said the stout merchant. "Then you must wait while I send home for mine. As it's drunk the blood of several Gorgonian pirates it shouldn't find a Lorskan popinjay—"

  "What's that?" said Vakar. "Who are you, really?" His initial burst of rage had subsided enough for his ever-lively curiosity to come into play, and he realized that he was making himself look foolish.

  "I'm Mateng of Po, owner of three ships, as you'd know if you weren't an ignorant—"

  "Wait," said Vakar. "Are any of your ships leaving shortly for the mainland?"

  "Yes. The Dyra sails for Gadaira tomorrow if the wind holds."

  "Isn't Gadaira the nearest mainland port to Torrutseish?"

  "It is."

  "How much—" Vakar started to say, then checked himself. He stuck his head back into the dormitory and called: "Fual! Wake up; come out and haggle for me!"

  -

  Next morning Vakar was collecting his crew to ride to the docks when he found that Sret was missing. Back in the inn he found the interpreter chatting with Nyeron.

  "Come along!" said Vakar.

  "Yes sir," said Sret, and as he started out called back over his shoulder in Hesperian: "Farewell; I shall see you again sooner than you think!"

  Then he came. They rattled down to the harbor where Vakar stopped at the temple of Lyr to sacrifice a lamb to the sea-god. While he did not take his gods too seriously (as they never visited him) he thought it just as well to be on the safe side. Then by questioning all and sundry he located the Dyra. Mateng was ordering the stowing of a cargo of copper ingots, bison-hides, and mammoth-ivory.

  "Waste no time in getting home!" Vakar told the charioteers, who clattered off leading the horse he had ridden. Vakar sauntered up to the edge of the quay and stepped aboard the ship, trying not to show his excitement. Fual and Sret staggered after under their loads of gear and food for the trip.

  Mateng called: "Ruaz! Here's your passenger! He's all paid up, so take good care of him."

  "A prince, eh?" said Captain Ruaz, laughing through his beard. "Well, keep out of the way, your sublime highness, if you don't want an ingot dropped on your toe."

  He bustled about directing his men until, after a long wait, they got the last goods stowed and the hatches closed and cast off. The crew manned four sweeps which they worked standing up, maneuvering the ship out from its qual. They plodded around the annular harbor to the main canal, Vakar craning his neck this way and that to see all he could of Amferé from the water.

  As they entered the canal they picked up speed, for a slight current added its impetus to the force of the oars. Soon they passed through the outer city wall, where a great bronze gate stood ready to swing shut across the channel to keep out hostile ships. Then down the canal half a mile to the sea.

 
At the first roll of the Dyra in the oceanic swell, Sret curled up in the scuppers with a groan. "What ails him?" said Vakar.

  "Seasickness, sir," said Fual. "If you don't suffer a touch also you'll be lucky."

  "Like what happened to Zormé in the poem?

  "With eyeballs aching and hurting head,

  Sunk in the scuppers the hero huddled

  Loathing life and desiring death?

  "I'm not so badly off as that yet."

  Fual turned away with a knowing look. After a few minutes of tossing, Vakar did experience a slight headache and queasiness of stomach, but not wishing to lose face he stood proudly at the rail as if nothing was wrong. The four sailors hauled in the oars, lowered the steering-paddles until they dipped into the water, and hoisted the single square scarlet-and-white striped sail. The west wind sent the Dyra plunging toward the Hesperides. Vakar now saw the reason for the high stern, as wave after wave loomed up behind and seemed about to swamp them, only to boast them forward and up and slide harmlessly underneath.