The Illyrian Adventure

by Lloyd Alexander

  By then, we had reached the heart of the Old Town: a quarter of poor dwellings, narrow streets, and in the center, a kind of bazaar filled with pot sellers, coppersmiths, hawkers of unidentifiable objects, peddlers bawling their wares, and what seemed to be as many donkeys as people.

  Vesper had gone into one of the tiny shops when the trouble started.

  I heard what sounded like pistol shots, followed by a terrible racket, and, above the din, voices shouting, "Vartan! Vartan!"

  Within moments, a crowd of men and women came running down the street. There were screams and more cries of "Vartan!" Vesper, despite my warning, hurried out of the shop.

  The press swirled around us. A number of Zentan police had caught up with the crowd. Swinging their truncheons, the officers waded in, flailing right and left. The Illyrians who stood their ground were clubbed and left lying where they fell.

  Vesper was no longer at my side. To my consternation, I saw her in the middle of the street.

  "You there!" Vesper pointed at one of the constables. "What's this about.**"

  The officer gaped, taken aback at being addressed in Zentan by an obvious farenki. By way of an answer, he tightened his grip on his cudgel and started for Vesper.

  By then, I had reached her. I called out that we were citizens of the United States of America and the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Instead of halting, the officer quickened his approach. No doubt he misunderstood my Zentan.

  "This is outrageous," Vesper declared. "These people aren't fighting back. They don't even have weapons."

  The middle of a riot was not the moment to discuss the rights and wrongs of it. I seized Vesper and joined the fleeing crowd.

  My goal was to escape the confines of the Old Town. At the first chance, I pulled Vesper into a side street. We were no better off; a number of Illyrians had taken the same route.

  A flight of ancient stone steps rose ahead of us. I hurried Vesper toward it, hoping it would lead to the Zentan area. Vesper suddenly cried out. Also, at that moment, I felt myself assaulted from the rear. I spun around, expecting a Zentan constable. I came face to face with one of the ever-present donkeys.

  What the creature was doing there and how it came upon me so suddenly, I was not inclined to guess. The beast was more annoyed than frightened, resentful at finding its way blocked. Braying at the top of its voice, it attempted to push past me.

  I fell back, lost my footing, and went sprawling under the hooves. The creature, unable to move one way or the other, could only tread back and forth, marking time, as it were, on whatever portions of my anatomy became available.

  Vesper was more stubborn than any Illyrian donkey. By sheer might and main, she succeeded in shoving the beast aside and dragged me clear.

  She hustled me up the steps. We did not slow our pace until safely in the Zentan area.

  "Are you all right, Brinnie?"

  I was, I replied, as well as could be expected.

  "Wait a minute then."

  Vesper examined her sleeve, which had been torn along much of its length. "That's odd. My jacket's ruined too."

  At first, I assumed that she had also been attacked by the ferocious donkey. A closer look showed me that her arm had been slashed and was bleeding copiously.

  "It felt like something stung me." Vesper frowned. "It happened when you fell."

  My handkerchief was gone. I flung off my coat and ripped my shirt to strips, despite the astonished glances from the passers by.

  "Dear girl," I cried, trying to improvise a bandage, "you've had a frightful accident."

  "No accident," said Vesper. "Somebody tried to stab me."

  CHAPTER 3

  "Don't cluck, Brinnie," said Vesper. "I'll be fine. The medical kit's in the hotel room, that's all I need."

  The incident, I said, should be reported as soon as possible to the police.

  Vesper snorted. "Those head crackers? They don't inspire much confidence. No, I'll deal with this myself."

  She whistled up the Zentan translation of a hansom cab. I had, by then, calmed enough to examine her injury more closely. It was unmistakably a knife wound. Had Vesper not moved to help me, the blade would have plunged into her ribs.

  "Who'd want to kill me.^" said Vesper as we rattled along toward the hotel. "And why.^"

  I confessed I had no idea. I could imagine no reason at all for such an attack.

  "No reason is what bothers me," said Vesper. "There must be a reason. Only we don't know what it is. But somebody had a very good reason. I'll have to think about it."

  Once in the privacy of our suite, I hurried to fetch the medical kit. The wound, I was relieved to see, was not as serious as I feared. Vesper was in no way upset by it. She had already turned her mind to another question.

  "Why were they shouting 'Vartan'. For the police, it was a red rag to a bull. What riled them so much?"

  I had no answer. The whole deplorable business only demonstrated that the country was hardly safe for Illyrians, let alone travelers. While Philadelphia has its shortcomings, riots and assault do not figure prominently in the social scene.

  Just then our landlord appeared at the door.

  "Hahnoom!" he cried—the first time the fellow had used this title of respect. “Hahnoom, this is for you."

  With much bowing and scraping, he presented a large envelope sealed with red wax. He was fairly jiggling with curiosity, hoping Vesper would examine the contents then and there. She thanked him and waved him away.

  "No wonder he was polite," Vesper said. She tore open the envelope and glanced at the letterhead. "It's from the palace. Here, Brinnie, see for yourself."

  I expected one of two things: a denial of out firman, or at best, some official formality sent by a minor functionary.

  It was neither.

  Written in excellent English, it granted us a personal audience with His Sublime Majesty, Osman, King of Illyria. There was a postscript penned by the king himself.

  It will be a pleasure to greet the charming daughter of an illustrious father.

  Vesper grinned all over her face. "I don't like to say I told you so, Brinnie. So I won't. Put it this way: I knew Osman would be delighted to see us."

  The following afternoon, adding to the reflected glory of our landlord, a royal carriage pulled up in front of the hotel. In the wake of further bowings and scrapings from the entire hotel staflf, it bore us to the palace.

  I use the word palace, but it was more like a city in itself: parks, fountains, gardens, a Turkish-style harim —occupied only by female relatives, for the king was still a bachelor— and a golden-domed central building.

  Vesper would have admired its splendors at length, but we had no opportunity, being promptly taken in tow by relays of functionaries, each higher in rank.

  At last, we were handed over to a gaunt, hawk-faced individual in a long-skirted black frock coat: Ergon Pasha.

  This gentleman was no less a personage than the grand vizier. As chief minister, he occupied the highest office of state next to the king himself. After greeting us with formal courtesy, he left us to cool our heels in an antechamber twice the size of our entire hotel suite.

  "I've seen happier undertakers," Vesper said. "I don't think we filled his day with joy."

  She broke off at the arrival of a chamberlain wearing a tarboosh as tall as a stovepipe, billowing pantaloons, and a gorgeously braided jacket. I expeaed him to lead us to a hall of state or audience chamber. Instead, he ushered us to one of the king's private apartments: a cool, airy room with a little fountain sparkling at one end.

  Ergon Pasha was already there, standing with his hands behind his back and a sour look on his face. King Osman reclined on a divan. Unlike his vizier, he seemed genuinely pleased to see us.

  The ruler of Illyria was quite young; a neatly trimmed, dark mustache set off his pale and very handsome features. He did not wear traditional Zen
tan costume but an excellently tailored lounging suit. He acknowledged my bow with an informal nod. Vesper stepped toward him, not to curtsy but to shake hands; Osnian, however, brought her fingertips to his lips—a gesture a Philadelphian would consider a little too familiar. Vesper seemed to enjoy it.

  "My dear Miss Holly and Professor Garrett." The king chose to speak in English, as a courtesy to us. "I have met the renowned Dr. Holly only through his publications, but was impressed by him as I am now charmed by his daughter. I trust your stay in my country is proving interesting and pleasant."

  "Interesting, yes," replied Vesper. "Pleasant? Well, for one thing, Brinnie nearly got squashed by a donkey in the Old Town. There was a riot going on at the time."

  "A small disturbance. Your Majesty," put in Ergon Pasha.

  "Indeed." said Osman. "I was not informed."

  "A minor matter. The police dealt with it efficiently. I regret that our distinguished visitors chose that moment to observe the Illyrian quarter." Ergon Pasha tried to look apologetic.

  "And something else," Vesper went on. "Not pleasant but very interesting. Somebody tried to kill me."

  "Dear Miss Holly, this is most alarming." Osman turned to his vizier. "How can this be? I had assumed—" He broke off and spoke rapidly in Zentan.

  "You had us watched?" asked Vesper.

  Osman turned to her, embarrassed. Obviously, he had not realized we understood the language. "Your well-being occupied a foremost position in my thoughts. I wished only to provide—what is the term?—a guardian angel."

  He frowned at Ergon Pasha. "How could this happen? You assured me our guests would be kept from harm."

  "Circumstances made it impossible, Majesty," Ergon Pasha answered smoothly. "The complaint will be thoroughly investigated. This regrettable incident, Majesty, is further proof of the need for strongest measures against these ethnic troublemakers."

  Ergon Pasha might have looked like a mortician, but he had not risen to the rank of vizier for nothing. He had, I realized, not only sidestepped his monarch's criticism but also turned it to advantage.

  "These rebellions must be stamped out once and for all," Ergon Pasha went on, "without delay, as soon as a punitive force can be raised. As Your Majesty has so wisely agreed."

  "Wisely, perhaps," Osman said, "but not willingly."

  "You're sending troops against your own people?" put in Vesper.

  "Against Illyrians," the vizier corrected.

  "This turmoil cannot be allowed to continue," said Osman. "We must have peace. It is vital to my kingdom."

  "So you'll crack down on half the population?" Vesper said. "What's peaceful about that?"

  "The Illyrians stand in the way of progress," replied Osman. "We desperately need the development of our natural resources, the construction of railroads, of schools and hospitals.

  "My vizier has urged me to entrust such projects to the hands of outsiders, to grant concessions to foreign interests. This I absolutely refuse. Foreign concessions would not enrich us; they would drain us. We would have no control over our own destiny. If we are to keep our independence, we must carry out these projeas ourselves."

  "What's stopping you?" asked Vesper.

  "We cannot," said Osman. "Not while these rebels constantly harass us and destroy all our efforts. They attack our work parties; they tear down what we try to build. They demand what they consider their rights."

  "If you ask me," said Vesper, "the answer's obvious."

  "His Majesty does not need instruction in government," said Ergon Pasha.

  Osman raised his hand. "I shall be interested in Miss Holly's views."

  "It's simple," said Vesper. "Give your Illyrians what they want. Why shouldn't they have the same rights as your Zentans.-^ It's their country, too, isn't it? I'd call that plain, ordinary justice."

  "Justice?" replied Osman. "You do not understand our Zentan spirit. Here, the king gives justice. He does not allow it to be forced from him."

  Vesper had struck a nerve with Osman. His face burned —with pride or anger. I hesitated to guess.

  "I speak in the name of all my ancestors," Osman declared. "Not one, from the time of King Ahmad himself, has given way to threats. Honor is as important as justice. Generosity, grace—these are gifts a king bestows of his own will. They can only be granted, never demanded. Such is our Zentan code of honor. I follow it, as I follow in the footsteps of King Ahmad. I will not betray his blood that runs in my veins."

  "As I remember the Illyriad," Vesper said, "after he captured Ahmad, Vartan generously let him go free."

  "You prove my point, my dear Miss Holly," replied Osman. "I am happy that you know our literature, but I remind you, Ahmad refused to beg for mercy. He disdained to offer a ransom to save his life. Nor did Vartan bow to threats. He released Ahmad willingly. He was truly a noble enemy, which cannot be said for Vartan today."

  "Today?" asked Vesper. "He's been dead for centuries."

  "On the contrary," said Osman. "Vartan is alive."

  CHAPTER 4

  "Alive? He'd be seven hundred years old." Vesper gave the king a slantwise look. "Don't mind me saying so, but that's hard to swallow."

  "I am speaking figuratively," said Osman. "The real Vartan is long in his tomb, wherever that may be. As for the legendary Vartan, the Illyriad tells that he found refuge in the Petrosias Mountains. There, he fell into a deep sleep and has been slumbering in his cave ever since. But these Illyrians are like children, with all their superstitions and folklore. They devoutly believe he will return."

  "When his people need him, he'll come back and save them," said Vesper. "Like King Arthur. Or Charlemagne and Barbarossa."

  "Those worthies have stayed sleeping," replied Osman. "Vartan has returned many times. What I mean, Miss Holly, is that any hothead who stirs up the Illyrians against us is looked on as Vartan himself. The name alone is a rallying cry."

  "Brinnie and I heard people shouting 'Vartan' in the Old Town. Was he there?"

  "I doubt it," said Osman. "That was merely an excuse to make trouble. Our police have yet to learn his real identity, but they assure me he would hardly dare to venture this far south. We have been plagued with a number of so-called Vartans over the years. This newest one is the most dangerous."

  "Why should one Vartan be any different from another?"

  "He is the most dangerous because he has been the most successful," replied Osman. "He has rallied the peasantry, persuaded them to burn their crops rather than turn them over to their Zentan landlords. He has inspired gangs of brigands to attack our military posts, to steal weapons. He plans no less than a full-scale rebellion against us.

  "You understand, Miss Holly, the urgent need for us to move against him and all his followers with utmost severity. The cost, I fear, will be high in money, which my country can ill afford, and in Zentan lives."

  "Illyrian lives don't count?"

  "They have brought it on themselves," Osman said. "Rebellion cannot go unpunished." He smiled bitterly. "I have often wished for that magical army which our Illyriad describes. Alas, I must sacrifice real warriors of flesh and blood, and deal with facts, not fairy tales."

  "My father didn't believe that army was a fairy tale."

  "As your letter to me suggested. An intriguing notion, Miss Holly. What evidence have you to prove it more than a legend?"

  "None," said Vesper. "We came here to find it."

  "Your confidence is admirable," said Osman. "How do you propose to do so?"

  "I don't know yet," Vesper admitted. "My father mentioned a place called Alba-Collia. We'll stay there."

  "I am not familiar with it," said Osman.

  "I believe it is in the north. Your Majesty," put in Ergon Pasha. "A village in the foothills of the Petrosias. It would be in the Vitora military district."

  "Quite so." Osman nodded. "Yes, I recall now there were some disturbances in the r
egion. It is a very backward, superstitious area, and in no way a peaceful one. It would be most unwise for Miss Holly to venture into it."

  At this, I broke in to say that we appreciated the dangers of the situation and quite understood why our request for a. firman must be denied.

  "Miss Holly is a courageous young woman," said Osman. "I deplore the risk, but if she wishes to take it, how can I deny her? The firman is granted."

  Vesper gave me an enormous wink as Osman ordered his vizier to have the document issued.

  "I must remind Your Majesty," said Ergon Pasha, "the firman requires endorsements and countersignatures from several department heads. The procedure is lengthy."

  "We needn't wait," said Vesper, after thanking Osman. "We can leave for Alba-Collia right away. Why lose time? You can send the firman to us."

  "As you wish," said Osman. "My vizier will make sure it reaches you promptly. I only ask that you communicate with me frequently, for I shall be eager to know of your discoveries. Whatever else you may need, whatever favor, you have my word I shall grant it.

  "Perhaps I may assist you further," Osman added. "I have allowed a distinguished scholar to examine and catalog our ancient archives. He is at work in the palace now. Dr. Desmond Helvitius. Do you know him, Professor Garrett?"

  I did not recognize the name but answered that I was always eager to meet a colleague.

  "So you shall." Osman ordered his vizier to have Dr. Helvitius summoned, then addressed himself again to Vesper.

  "Dr. Helvitius is studying our early history, with a view to writing a book on the subject. His research may have uncovered information helpful to you. i

  "It is unusual for my small country to attract scholarly interest, and I am grateful for it. You see. Miss Holly, I am concerned with our culture as well as with our present difficulties. In time, I hope to bu'l ' n museum and library. The efforts of Dr. Helvitius will be invaluable."

  Osman continued on that topic. I had the impression he preferred it to the unhappy and expensive task of stamping out rebellious ethnics. Vesper offered some suggestions, and the king appeared quite taken with them. Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of refreshment trays and Dr. Helvitius.