The Unbeheaded King

by L. Sprague DeCamp

  "Good my sir," persisted Jorian, "we are quite respectable folk, despite appearances. I have served in the Grand Bastard's Foot Guards and studied at the Academy. If you will ask Doctor Gwiderius—"

  "You waste your breath, poacher," said the ranger. "If you shut not your gob, 'twill be the worse for you."

  After a further wait, three rangers on horses cantered out from between the trees. After talk between them and the one on the elephant, the latter spoke to his mahout, and the elephant started off into the forest. Jorian could hear the ranger's voice, fading with distance:

  "… the unicorn is an animal of solitary habits, keeping company with another of its kind only at the mating season…"

  Of the three newly arrived rangers, two bore crossbows. The third, who appeared to be in command, said: "Come down now, poachers. But think not to run off through the woods, unless you crave a bolt in the brisket."

  "May we gather our belongings, pray?" said Jorian, reaching the ground.

  "Aye, but be quick about it!"

  Half an hour later, Jorian and Karadur arrived at the park entrance. Some of their belongings, such as Jorian's set of small cooking utensils, had been smashed beyond repair. The rest were rolled up in blankets, which they bore on their backs like refugees.

  Another elephant was being prepared for a sightseeing trip. It lay on its belly, and the next batch of sightseers was climbing a ladder placed against its side to take their places on its back. Several more of the animals were tethered to stakes in a row, rhythmically swaying and stuffing greenery into their mouths.

  The two travelers were surrounded by rangers, disarmed, and hustled into a small detention room. "Here you shall wait, poachers," a ranger said, "until Ranger Ferrex returns from his tour."

  The door was slammed and bolted on the outside. A bench was the only furniture; the only light came from a little window high up, about a handspan square.

  "Now I know how your King Fusinian felt when none would listen to his rational explanation," said Karadur. "Could you open the door with your picklocks?"

  "If it were closed by a proper lock, yea; but my little teasers were useless against bolts."

  During the wait, Jorian relieved his boredom by composing a poem on their latest misadventure. The first stanza ran:

  "Two gallant adventurers, hardy and bold,

  To Othomae endeavored to fly;

  But their demon gave out o'er the Grand Ducal wold,

  So now in the lockup they cry!"

  Jorian had reached the fifth stanza when the door opened. Ranger Ferrex beckoned. "Come, poachers!"

  They were handcuffed together, taken to a wagon with seats, and loaded aboard with their gear. Ranger Ferrex got in and sat facing them. The driver whipped up the horses. The wagon rattled over the dirt road for an hour, passing fields and villages, until Othomae City appeared on the horizon.

  On the way, Jorian and Karadur conversed in Mulvanian. This made Ferrex scowl, but he did not try to stop them. They agreed that Jorian might as well give his true name, since he wanted to get in touch with people he knew.

  At the jailhouse, the ranger told his story to the magistrate, Judge Flollo, and Jorian repeated the tale he had told the ranger. The magistrate said:

  "I cannot let you out on bail, since as foreigners you have no local ties to assure your appearance for trial. You profess to have used sorcery to come hither; but if you be sorcerers, you could summon another demon or work a spell with your sorcerous implements and escape."

  "But Your Honor!" protested Jorian. "If we be sorcerers, then our tale is proven true. Hence we cannot be poachers."

  "Nought hinders a sorcerer from trying his hand at poaching, if that be his bent." The magistrate hefted Jorian's purse and poured out its load of coins. "A veritable fortune! Whence got you this money? Have you robbed a royal treasury?"

  "Not robbed, Your Honor. It's a long story. As you see, the coins are of the Kingdom of Penembei, where I was employed to repair the clocks in the tower—"

  "Never mind. The money shall be sequestered and returned to you, minus the cost of your prison victuals, when and if you are acquitted of the charge of poaching."

  "But, Your Honor, if I be so well provided, I had no need to sit out in the rain all night in hope of snaring a hare. Let me tell you how—"

  "I cannot take time to hear your tale, prisoner; I have many more cases to decide. Your presence unescorted in the park is prima facie evidence of wrongdoing; so whether your story be true or false will be for the trial judge to decide. Take them away, bailiff."

  "Come, you two," said a heavyset, scar-faced man in a shabby black uniform. Jorian and Karadur were led down a corridor to another cell. This, Jorian found, had a single, heavily barred window, high up. As the bailiff closed the door, he said: "Did I hear you give your name as Jorian of Ardamai?"

  "Aye. What about it?"

  "Do ye not recall a fellow soldier named Malgo?"

  "Yea, now that you mention it." Jorian looked sharply at the bailiff. "By Imbal's iron yard, methinks I see my old comrade-in-arms!"

  "Comrade, hell!" snorted Malgo. "Ye be the bastard who gave me a beating. And now I have you where I want you! Ye'll be sorry ye ever laid a finger on me!"

  "But that was seven years ago—" began Jorian. Malgo walked heavily away, paying no attention.

  "What was all that?" asked Karadur.

  "When Malgo and I were recruits in the Grand Bastard's army, Malgo was the company bully. He made life especially hard for one lad who, whatever he was good for, was not cut out for a soldier. He was a spindly little whelp and awkward, forever stepping off on the wrong foot or dropping his pike. So Malgo took delight in tormenting him.

  "One day I found the lad backed into a corner, while Malgo poked, pinched, and otherwise mistreated him, all the while telling him how worthless he was. I suspected that Malgo had made certain demands of the youth and had been denied. Thinking it time for Malgo to receive a dose of his own physic, I hauled him round and gave him a drubbing. I got a bloody nose and a black eye, but you should have seen him!"

  "All very gallant," said Karadur, "but it redounds not to our advantage now. Would we had used one of your pseudonyms, such as—what did you call yourself when you first fled hither from Xylar?"

  "Nikko of Kortoli. You may be right, but it's too late now."

  During the following days, Bailiff Malgo, while careful to keep out of Jorian's reach, found ingenious ways to torment the prisoners. He made sure that their food ration was but half that of the other prisoners, and consisted of the least edible parts of the day's serving. The food was delivered by Malgo's assistant, a huge, half-witted youth with a vacant smile.

  When Jorian demanded to see the magistrate to complain, Malgo said he would carry the message. Soon he came back, saying that the magistrate refused. Jorian suspected that the message had never been delivered.

  When Jorian asked for water, Malgo fetched a cup, then poured it on the floor outside the cell, laughing.

  Jorian asked for writing materials, to send a note to Doctor Gwiderius and another to the wizardess Goania. Malgo furnished paper and pen. When Jorian had written the notes and handed them through the bars, Malgo tore them up, laughing.

  Malgo refused to let his helper take out and empty the commode, so that the cell came to stink. The stench attracted swarms of flies. Malgo sometimes stood in the hall outside, laughing at the prisoners' efforts to slap the pests. "Let's hope this lasts not till next summer's heat," grumbled Jorian.

  At last Jorian said: "Holy Father, can't you work up a spell to get us out of here?" •

  "Nay, my son. The little spells I could perform without my paraphernalia would accomplish nought. Besides, I sense that a contraspell has already been laid about this edifice, so that none of my spells would succeed. How about your picklocks? The locks on these cells, meseems, are of the sort for which they are suited."

  "Aye, but my little ticklers are in my wallet, which is in the magistrate's
custody."

  "He also has my magical accessories in his charge."

  "This is ridiculous!" growled Jorian. "Here we are, two harmless travelers with local friends of influence and repute, locked up through a series of mischances, and we cannot even communicate with anyone who could help us!"

  "If we shouted our message through yonder window, belike we could persuade someone to carry a message."

  Jorian clapped a hand to his forehead. "Why didn't I think of this sooner? I'm a stupid clod. We've wasted a quarter-moon in this stinking cell. If I stand on one of the stools…"

  The stool brought Jorian's face up to the window. He found himself looking down from the second story of the jailhouse on to the street below.

  "Methinks we're on Amaethius Street," he told Karadur. "There are a few passersby. Ho there, young man! You with the red cap! Wouldst earn a golden royal of Penembei by bearing a message?"

  The boy hurried on. Jorian tried again and again with other pedestrians. At last he gave up. "They must be so used to hearing cries from prisoners that they heed them not."

  A raucous laugh came from beyond the bars. Malgo stood there, saying: "Waste your breath if ye will, noble Jorian! Know that there's a law against carrying messages for prisoners, and we keep an officer posted to see that none flouts the rule."

  Jorian got down. When Malgo went away, Jorian said: "Still, there must be something." He sat frowning in thought and said at last: "Some have said that I have not a bad singing voice, albeit untrained. If I gave the folk below a little concert, at a regular hour each day, perchance I could draw a crowd who would gather to hear. Sooner or later the word would get out, and one of our friends would hear of it."

  "I cannot see how it would hurt to try," said Karadur.

  Jorian hoisted himself back on the stool and, in his powerful bass, began singing one of his jingles, to a tune from an operetta by Galliben and Silfero. The first stanza ran:

  "Oh, some like the steaming jungle hot,

  Where serpents swarm and the sun shines not,

  And sweat runs off and your garments rot;

  But I prefer a more temperate spot—

  Novaria, my Novaria."

  By the end of the third stanza, a cluster of pedestrians had coagulated in the street below, staring up. Malgo appeared outside the bars, roaring: "Stop that hellish noise!"

  Jorian grinned over his shoulder at the bailiff and continued on through the six stanzas he had previously composed. He added a new one:

  "Some take to the ice-clad arctic waste,

  Where man by the snow bear fierce is faced,

  Or else by ravenous wolves is chased;

  But as for me, I'd return in haste

  To Novaria, good Novaria."

  Malgo continued to bawl objections, but he did not enter the cell. Jorian added several other songs, then stepped down. "It's a start," he said.

  He spent the rest of the day and much of the night remembering the verses he had casually tossed off over the years and trying to match them to tunes he remembered. The following afternoon, at about the same time, he delivered another recital. Malgo shouted: "For this, I'll see to it ye never go free! Ye shall rot here for ay!"

  Jorian ignored the threat and continued his singing. On the sixth day after the first recital, the half-wit appeared at the bars with keys. To Jorian's astonishment, the youth unlocked the cell door, saying: "Ye come, now."

  They found Magistrate Flollo talking with Doctor Gwiderius. The professor beamed through his bushy gray beard. "Jorian! My onetime pupil! When I heard those songs with the quadruple-alpha rhyme scheme, I suspected 'twas you, since that was your favorite form despite its difficulties. You are free, and there are your effects. Who is your companion?"

  Jorian introduced Karadur, adding: "What—how—"

  "I shall tell you later. Have you a place to stay? I cannot lodge you in my own house, because we have visiting kinfolk."

  Jorian shrugged. "I suppose I'll stay at Rhuys's inn, the Silver Dragon, as I did before." He turned to the magistrate. "Sir, where is Master Malgo?"

  "Oh, when Doctor Gwiderius brought the order for your release, the bailiff was seized by sudden pains internal. Avouching that he suffered an affliction of the bowels, he begged the rest of the day off. So I let him go. Why, Master Jorian?"

  Jorian looked at the knuckles of his fist. "Oh, I just thought I should like to bid him a fond farewell." He turned to Gwiderius. "Where's the public bathhouse?"

  Chapter Three

  THE INN OF THE SILVER DRAGON

  JORIAN SAID: "GOOD MASTER RHUYS, I, TOO, AM GLAD TO see you again. I trust the dinner will make a pleasant contrast to those I've enjoyed as a guest of the Grand Duchy."

  "I heard of your trouble with the park rangers," said Rhuys. The proprietor of the Silver Dragon was a small, seedy-looking man with thinning, gray hair and pouched eyes.

  Jorian, Karadur, and Doctor Gwiderius occupied a table in Rhuys's common room, drinking wine and telling tales while awaiting their repast. Jorian had sent one of Rhuys's pot boys with a message to the wizardess Goania, whom he had met on his previous visit to Othomae. He said to Gwiderius:

  "But Doctor, you haven't explained how you got me out so featly."

  The learned man chuckled. "I have a cousin named Rodaus, a usurer by trade. This cousin owed me a favor for giving his mediocrity of a son a passing grade in one of my courses at the Academy. The Grand Bastard seeks a loan from Rodaus, and they have disputed the rate of interest." .

  'To finance his armored horse, belike?" said Jorian. In Othomae, the Grand Duke ran civil affairs, while the Grand Bastard, the eldest illegitimate son of the previous Grand Duke, commanded the army.

  "No doubt. Anyway, I passed the word to Rodaus, assuring him that, knowing you from yore, I was sure your release were no injustice. So Rodaus, in return for a promise to drop all charges, let the noble Daunus have his loan for half a percentum point less than he had demanded."

  Nodding toward Karadur, Jorian smiled. "My dear old perceptor insists that all decisions be made on a basis of abstract, impersonal right and wrong. But I note that in sore straits, he lets expediency rule his course, even as we common clods." He counted the money in his purse. "By Imbal's brazen arse, they forgot to deduct the cost of my food in jail!"

  "They forgot not," said Gwiderius. " Twas part of the bargain."

  Jorian was volubly thanking the savant when the door opened, and in came the wizardess Goania, a tall, middle-aged woman with graying hair. After her came her bodyguard, a big, gross, porcine man. Following him, a tall, black-haired young woman in a grass-green gown came in. She was not beautiful, but striking-looking, with the lines of a hard life graven on her irregular features. She bore a black eye.

  Jorian rose. "Hail, Mistress Goania!" he called. "Ah there, Boso and Vanora! How wag your worlds?"

  The stout man growled something in a surly tone. The young woman cried: "Jorian! How good to see you again!" She hurried over to embrace Jorian, who showed no great eagerness to respond. Two years before, just after his escape from Xylar, he had engaged in a brief and stormy love affair with Vanora, who then became the companion of the piggy-eyed Boso son of Trüs. She and Boso sat down by themselves at a small table across the common room.

  "Now, Jorian," said Goania Aristor's daughter, in the tone of an aunt setting a wayward nephew to rights, "sit down and tell all. What's this wild tale of your rolling into the ducal park in a tub on wheels, and there slaying the Grand Duke's prize unicorn?"

  Jorian laughed. "It wasn't like that, albeit what truly befell us was quite as strange." He plunged into the story of his escape from Iraz in the demon-borne tub, his failure to abduct Estrildis, and his unwitting landing in the park. When he told of his imprisonment, Gwiderius said:

  "I am shocked, Jorian! Prison management was supposed to have been reformed; I was on the committee to make recommendations to the Grand Duke. But I see things have slipped back into their usual rut. True, persons like this b
ailiff are not always of highest character, but we cannot permit such persecution of one who is not even tried! I shall get word of this to His Grace."

  Jorian thought a moment and said: "Thanks, but you had better let the matter lie, Doctor. If I meet Malgo alone, I may take him on at fisticuffs; but meanwhile the less I'm involved with the ducal court the better. Someone might get the idea of selling me to the Xylarian Regency for enough to equip another squadron of lancers."

  Rhuys served their dinners. Later, Jorian said: "Let's talk of how I shall get my darling Estrildis out of her gilded cage. I cannot raise an army to besiege the city, and our flying bathtub is out of service. What else can be had in flying spells?"

  "Well" said Karadur, "there is Sir Fendix's flying broom, and Antonerius's tame wyvern, and Cod's spell, whereby he changes himself into a vulture. But all have shortcomings. Fendix has twice been nearly slain when his broom went out of control; it is subject to something he terms a 'tailspin.' The wyvern is but half domesticated and may yet devour Antonerius at one gulp. And Coel is said to have sold his soul into a thousand years' bondage on the Third Plane in return for his shape-changing power. Nay, I see no good prospect for another aerial assault. Besides, the Xylarians will have posted guards on the roof."

  "Then we should need more than just me," said Jorian. "I wonder—"

  Goania spoke up: "Meseems the Xylarians, fearing another raid from the air, would have moved your queen to some less-exposed place."

  Jorian grunted. "You make sense as usual, my dear aunt. How shall we find out?"

  "Leave it to me," said the wizardess. "Is this tabletop clean? Good. I shall probe the Xylarian palace. You!" she spoke to a pot boy. "Fetch me a clean towel, pray."

  With the towel she wiped the inside of her empty wine glass. Then she dropped a pinch of green powder into the glass. She muttered an incantation, whereupon the powder smoldered and sent up a thread of purple smoke.

  "Break not one of Rhuys's best glasses!" said Jorian.