The Clocks of Iraz

Chapter Ten THE CROWN OF PENEMBEI

THE WESTERN HALF OF THE HIPPODROME WAS IN SHADOW when the last race had been run. King Ishbahar stood up to announce the winners. As before, the crier relayed his words.

"Leave not early, good people," said the king. "When the formalities are over, we shall have somewhat to say that will interest you."

The king went down the list of winners. As the crier called each name, the winner marched up the steps to the royal box, bent the knee, and, to general applause, received his prize from the king. For once, the rivalry of the Pants and the Kilts seemed in abeyance.

Then King Ishbahar cleared his throat. "Loyal subjects of the Penembic crown!" he said. "Amidst the turmoils of the last month, we have been delayed in bringing up a matter of moment to all of you: to wit, the succession.

"You are all aware that we have no heirs of our body, legitimate or otherwise, living. Therefore, as our reign nears its destined end, it behooves us, to assure an orderly succession, either to search amongst our more distant kinsmen for a suitable candidate or to resort to the extreme measure of adoption.

"Be not astonished at the mention of adoption, our friends. True, the succession has not passed by adoption for over a century. But some may have forgotten that the great King Hoshcha was an adopted son of his predecessor, Shashtai the Third. Hoshcha had not a drop of the blood of Juktar the Great in his veins. To retain the crown within our divine family, he wedded both of his predecessor's daughters, and the first of their sons to reach maturity was his successor.

"Now we are confronted by a similar situation. True, we have living male relatives, but amongst them we have failed to find any who qualify for the duties of king.

"The gods, however, have sent us a true hero—a man young enough to give the throne many years of vigorous occupancy, yet old enough to be past his youthful follies; a man of mighty thews, active mind, and solid character. He has already saved holy Iraz from the horde of miscreants who lately assailed her. Moreover, the fatidical and astrological indications agree that he was born on a lucky day.

"We have, therefore, this day signed and sealed the documents adopting this hero as our son and designating him as our lawful successor. Anon, we shall arrange for his marriage to one or more of our kinswomen, amongst whom are several of nubile age and winsomeness.

"This done, we shall abdicate the throne in favor of our adopted son, ere the holy father Chaluish find it needful to wait upon us with the sacred rope."

Sounds of disturbance began to swell from the throng.

"Nay, nay, good people," said the king, "be not surprised at talk of abdication! Jukar II did it, as historical records attest. Quiet, please! Quiet! We have not yet told you the name of our chosen successor."

Jorian, having inferred what was coming next, gave Karadur a desperate glare. The old Mulvanian only spread his hands helplessly.

"The hero in question," continued Ishbahar, "my adopted son and your next king, is Jorian the son of Evor! Rise, my son!"

Leaning towards Karadur, Jorian hissed: "Oi! Get me out of this, curse it!"

"I cannot," murmured Karadur. "I was surprised, also. Stand up as the king commands!"

"But I don't wish to be king—"

"Later, later. Stand up now!"

Jorian stood up. A slight pattering of applause was quickly drowned in a storm of boos and catcalls. From the benches occupied by the Pants arose a chant, growing louder with each repetition: "Dirty foreigner! Dirty foreigner! Dirty foreigner/ DIRTY FOREIGNER!"

On the other side, the Kilts took up the cry until the Hippodrome rocked with it. The stasiarchs, Vegh and Amazluek, could be seen standing amid their factions, beating time like orchestra conductors. The chant spread to the rest of the audience until it became deafening.

King Ishbahar stood beside Jorian with tears running down his fat cheeks. "P-pray, good subjects—" he stammered. The crier shouted his words but was unheard in the din of "Dirty foreigner."

Missiles began to fly. Royal guardsmen rushed towards the royal box to protect the king. Colonel Chuivir appeared at the rear of the box.

"Your Majesty!" he shouted. "Come quickly, or all is lost! The factions have united in sedition against your throne. You must get back to your palace!"

"Come, our friends," said Ishbahar to Jorian and Karadur. The king waddled out of the box to the top of the ramp. His gilded litter lay, smashed, on one side.

"How shall we return to the palace without a conveyance?" he quavered.

"Walk!" said Chuivir.

Another guardsman rushed up clanking and spoke into the colonel's ear. Beyond the crowd of gleaming guardsmen, Jorian glimpsed a scud of mob, missiles flying, and weapons whirling. Chuivir said:

"The insurgents have seized the waterfront of Zaktan. Your Majesty will have to use Hoshcha's Tunnel."

"Must we climb that dreadful hill afoot?"

"It is that, or else," said the colonel with visible impatience.

"Ah, us! Let us hasten, then."

Followed by Jorian and Karadur and protected by a mass of guardsmen, the king puffed his way down the ramp. In the concourse, screams of rage and defiance and a rain of cobblestones, bricks, potsherds, and other missiles assailed the guardsmen. A knot of citizens rushed at the guards with clubs and knives. The guards easily beat off the attack, leaving a wrack of tumbled bodies. A few guards who bore crossbows began methodically shooting into the swirling, screaming crowds.

"This way!" yelled Chuivir.

Stumbling over corpses, they pushed across the street surrounding the Hippodrome and started up the slope to the Temple of Nubalyaga. After a few steps, the king halted, panting.

"We can no more," he moaned.

"Help me with him, Master Jorian," said the colonel.

Each of them draped one of the king's fat arms around his neck. With help on either side, the king dragged his monstrous weight slowly up the hill.

At the top, the eunuch guard was already drawn up behind their gate with crossbows ready. They opened the gate to admit the king and his escort.

At the temple, High Priestess Sahmet came running out. After a quick explanation, she said: "Follow me, sire!" and led the way towards the Tunnel of Hoshcha.

"Hold!" cried Colonel Chuivir. "I shall come with you as soon as I appoint a commander of the local detachment."

"Why?" asked the king.

"If I can regain the palace and take command of the main body of the Guard, belike I can keep the sedition from spreading across the river. Captain Saloi!"

"Aye, sir?"

'Take command of the guardsmen in Zaktan. Try to guard the main points, like this temple. If you have enough men, send a flying squad to patrol and break up gatherings of rebels." He turned to the king. "If it please Your Majesty, we are ready to go now."

Sahmet clutched Jorian's arm and whispered: "You shall see me again at the next full moon!"

Four men moved through the Tunnel of Hoshcha: Jorian in front, bearing a lanthorn; then King Ishbahar, puffing and panting; then Karadur; and lastly Colonel Chuivir, with another lanthorn. To Jorian it seemed an eternity, for the king toddled along with tiny steps at a snail's pace.

They had come, he supposed, halfway across and were under the deepest part of the Lyap, when he saw something that made his hair rise. From the side of the tunnel, a tiny jet of water sprayed out, shooting halfway across at waist height before breaking up into discrete drops.

"Gods and goddesses!" he exclaimed. "Look at that, Karadur!"

"Here is another," said the wizard, pointing to the overhead, whence another trickle of water descended.

Everywhere they looked, forward and back, water appeared in drips and leaks and spurts. The floor of the tunnel became wet and slippery.

"What befalls, Doctor Karadur?" wheezed the king. "Have your hydrophobic spells failed? Should we have ordered pumps installed after all?"

"It must be," said Karadur, "that a mob has invaded the House of Learning and snatched my wizards Goelnush, Luekuz, and Firaven from their task. I hope they have not done the poor fellows to death."

"Yea, yes," said Jorian. "But hadn't we better hurry, ere this burrow fill with water?"

"Aye, my son, that we must." Karadur turned back. "Your Majesty—"

"Wo—are going (puff)—as fast—as we can," said the king. "If you fear drowning—go on—without us."

"Oh, come on, sire!" said Chuivir heartily. "Lengthen those royal strides!"

With every step, the leakage of water increased. Soon the four were splashing along ankle-deep. Groaning and gasping, the king made a desperate effort to speed up his uncouth waddle. Then he slipped and fell with a great splash.

"Your Majesty!" cried the three others at once.

Jorian and Karadur handed Chuivir their lanthorns. Grunting with effort, they got Ishbahar into a sitting position. The king's eyes were half closed, and his breath came in rattling snores. He did not answer at first. They pushed him so that his back rested against the side wall of the tunnel. The water was calf-deep.

At last the king opened his eyes. "Master Jorian!" he whispered.

"Aye, sire?"

"Lean over. Close."

Jorian leaned. With a last effort, the king reached up, plucked the serpent crown from his bewigged pate, and clapped it on Jorian's head.

"Now—my boy—you are king. These witnesses…"

The king's voice trailed off to a mumble and ceased. Karadur tried to feel his pulse.

"I cannot locate the blood vessel through all that fat," he grumbled. He thrust a hand inside the king's robe and then laid his ear against the king's breast.

"He is dead," said Karadur. "Methinks his heart succumbed."

"Not surprising, with all that blubber," said Jorian.

"Let us be off, Captain—ah—sire," said Chuivir, "ere we drown like rats."

"What of the king?" said Jorian. "It would look odd for him to have entered the tunnel with us but not to emerge. An we cannot show his unmarked body, men will say we slew him."

"You are right, my son," said Karadur. "Help Jorian to bear the body, Colonel."

Chuivir took an arm. 'Take the other, Master—ah—King Jorian."

The two struggled and heaved. Between them, they got the body up.

Grunting, they staggered a few steps. Then Jorian slipped. The two men and the corpse fell with a mighty splash. Karadur said:

"If the water become any deeper, the body will float. You two can haul it by the feet."

"O wise old man!" said Jorian. "Take his other ankle, Chuivir."

The water was soon knee-deep. Karadur, with his robe hiked up to his bony brown knees, went ahead. He held the two lanthorns, which gave off feeble yellow glows. Behind him waded Jorian and Chuivir, hauling on the body's ankles. The corpse still scraped along the floor of the tunnel, but with each rise in the water level, the body lightened.

"Are you sure we have the right tunnel?" said Chuivir. "We must have walked halfway to the Fediruni border."

"This is the tunnel, certes," said Jorian. "It is now sloping up. If we can keep ahead of the rise in the water level, we shall escape."

"The water gains," said Chuivir. "It is up to my waist. Would I had doffed this damned armor in the temple."

The deepening water floated the king's body off the floor and made it easy to tow. On the other hand, it impeded the movements of the three living men. They could only plod, plod under a continuous shower of jets and leaks and trickles from the parts of the tunnel not yet submerged.

"That is the trouble with magic," growled Jorian. "When folks think they can count on it, they skimp on proper engineering and maintenance."

The water continued to rise; it was now breast-high. Jorian and Chuivir tried to speed their progress by making swimming motions with their free arms. Karadur, being smaller, was forced to hold the lanthorns over his head to keep them from being drowned. His white beard trailed in the water.

A spurt of water from the overhead struck one of the lanthorns, which went out with a faint hiss. On they plodded through the gloom. Jorian muttered:

"Any higher, and the cursed corpse will scrape the roof."

"If the remaining light go, at least we can feel our way," panted Chuivir. "There are no forks or branches in this tunnel, are there?"

"Nay," said Karadur. "It runs straight to—glub!" The water had been up to his chin, and a ripple filled his mouth. He coughed and sputtered, shaking the remaining lanthorn.

"Ho, don't put out our last light!" said Jorian. "Drowning is bad enough, but drowning in the dark…"

"Save your breath, King," said Chuivir.

Karadur, who had gained a little on the other two, turned back long enough to say: "When my boy Jorian ceases conversing, you will know he has terminated his present incarnation."

"Can you talk without getting a mouthful of water?" said Jorian.

"Now that you mention it, the water has not deepened recently."

The water level remained constant for a time, while the only sounds in the tunnel were the heavy breathing of the three men and the splashing of their slow progress. At last the water began to recede. Soon the king's body was again scraping the bottom.

"At least, we are now above the river level," said Jorian. "Now all we need worry about is being slaughtered by rebels at the far end."

"I could not fight a mouse," groaned Chuivir.

Karadur knocked on the secret door to the king's bedchamber. When he had explained, the door opened. After some delay, several guards and palace servants came down the stair with a stretcher.

They found Jorian and Chuivir a furlong down the tunnel, sitting in half a foot of water with their backs to the wall, breathing heavily in a state of utter exhaustion. The monstrous corpse lay in the water near them.

When the people from the palace had rolled the body on the stretcher, tied it fast with straps, and borne it back up the tunnel, Jorian got to his feet with a groan. Chuivir, weighed down by his armor, had to be helped up. After another struggle, the two crept on hands and knees up the stair and entered the royal bedchamber. They collapsed into chairs and lay back, dripping puddles on the floor. Karadur already occupied another chair, with his turban on the floor beside him. The wizard's eyes were closed.

"Wine!" croaked Jorian. Servants scurried.

Jorian looked up from his goblet to see an officer of the Guard. "Sir!" said this man. "What means this? King Ishbahar is dead, and you wear his crown!"

"Do I, forsooth?" said Jorian. He pulled off the serpent crown and stared at it absently, as if he had never seen it before.

"Is it true what they say, that His late Majesty named you his successor?"

"It is," said Chuivir behind the officer. "His Majesty died of natural causes in the tunnel whilst fleeing the insurrection in Zaktan. Have the rebels attacked the palace yet?"

"Nay, Colonel. But some have crossed the river, and there is fighting and looting and arson along the waterfront. What are my orders?"

"Secure the palace against attack, first of all. I shall be with you presently to take active command. Now leave us. You servants, also." When the chamber had been cleared of all save Karadur, Jorian, and Chuivir, the last set down his goblet.

"Excellent wine," he said. "Vindine, methinks. I begin to feel like a human being again. Now, sir, you and I have some matters to straighten out."

"At your service, Colonel," said Jorian, also putting down his goblet.

He looked speculatively at Chuivir, wondering what chance he would have against the colonel in a fight. Chuivir wore armor and a sword against Jorian's mere dagger; but Chuivir had been much more exhausted by the ordeal in the tunnel.

Chuivir: "Do you really intend to exercise your kingship, in view of the general revolt against you?"

"No longer than I must," said Jorian. "I wanted no crown. Ishbahar was a fool to name me without first making sure of political support for the move."

"A well-intentioned wight, but no monarch," said Chuivir. "Well, that relieves my mind. You may be the lawful sovran; but as a foreigner you are unpopular. Even if I threw my full weight behind you, I know not if I could keep you on your throne. How long is no longer than you must?"

"As long as it takes Doctor Karadur and me to take off in our flying bathtub." ,

"Eh? What is this?"

"Ishbahar promised me that great copper tub of his as an aerial vehicle."

"How will you make it fly?"

Jorian nodded towards Karadur, who was rewinding his turban. "The good doctor has in his ring a demon, who will bear us aloft."

"But, Jorian!" protested Karadur. "I told you I did not wish to liberate Gorax save in direst emergency, since this will be his last labor—"

Jorian snorted. "If this be not a dire emergency, with the whole city buzzing about our ears, then I know not an emergency when I see it Wouldst rather be torn to bits by a mob whipped up to hatred of foreigners?"

"Oh. But, my son, think of all the good you could effect if you retained the crown! You could introduce those reforms that Mazsan preached. You could provide the House of Learning with adequate financial support—"

"Not when half the people I saw would wish to shoot, stab, or poison me. They've made it plain that they want no foreigner for king. This must be that 'second crown' whereof Nubalyaga warned me in the dream. The first was the crown of Xylar, which you and I buried near the Marshes of Mom."

"The Irazis would soon forget their xenophobia," persisted Karadur, "once you were firmly ensconced in power and demonstrated what a good king you could be and how well you adapted to their ways. You already speak better Penembic than I do. After all, Juktar the Great was not only a foreigner but also a barbarian, and this is a cosmopolitan city."

Jorian shook his head. "I tried to show the Xylarians what a good king I could be, too, but that didn't stop them from trying to cut off my head. Besides, how should I ever get firmly ensconced in power, without some foreign mercenary army at my back?"

"Surely there are loyal elements in the Guard and in the Frontier Army on whom you could rely. Once you dompted the factions—"

"And suppose I did, then what? Spend my life humping Her Sanctity Sahmet until the priests arrived with the sacred rope? No, thank you!"

"You could abolish that custom, as did that Kortolian king."

"Doubtless. But 'tis useless to try to argue me round, old man. I've had my taste of kinging it. Whilst 'twas fun in a way, I have no wish to go back to it. Many lust for the wealth, power, and glory that kingship entails, but I harbor no such lordly ambitions. A simple life, with a respectable trade, a snug house, plenty to eat and drink, a loving family, and congenial cronies will suffice me.

"Nor do I covet an Irazi wife. I already have one spouse, and that's a plenty. Besides, the more I travel, the better I appreciate my native land.

"So let the factions fight it out; 'tis no affair of mine. To the forty-nine Mulvanian hells with the Penembic crown! I'm for Xylar to rescue my little darling, and that's that."

Looking worried, Chuivir passed a hand across his forehead. "Well then, sire, I wonder—ah—perhaps you can advise me. With you gone, the leading contenders for the crown will be the stasiarchs. But I deem neither Vegh nor Amazluek a man of kingly quality; whiles, of the late king's sister's sons, one is a wastrel and the other a halfwit. General Tereyai, to whom I have sent messengers, is old and soon to retire. Admiral Kyar is dead. Have you any thought as to whom I should back?"

Jorian stared at Chuivir. "Why not be king yourself? Methinks you would make not a bad one."

Chuivir's mouth fell open. "Really? You offer me the crown?"

"Why not? I thought you a harmless, feckless fop, but since the rebel assault you have learnt fast."

Chuivir shrugged. "I do my poor best."

'To make it legitimate, fetch writing materials, and I will sign over the sovranty, to take effect when we leave in our flying tub. Whether you can make it good is your problem."

Chuivir rose. "I thank you, sire, and will try to deserve your trust. Now I must go to command my men; but I shall soon return to see you off."

As Chuivir clanked out, Jorian raised his voice: "Servants! Hither, pray. I want a change of clothing—warm woolens, suitable for roughing it; not these pretty silky things. And fetch a dry robe for Doctor Karadur."

"Oh, my son, I need no—"

" Tis cold aloft, and I can't have you catching a tisic. You there, find the chief armorer and tell him to fetch me some weapons and armor to make a choice from. And where did King Ishbahar keep his privy purse? You! Tell the cook to whip up a dinner for the doctor and me. Not fancy, but substantial, and tell him to waste no time about it."

While the servants scurried, a guardsman entered, saying: "A courier named Zerlik would fain see Your Majesty."

"Send him in," said Jorian.

The young man entered and dramatically dropped to one knee. "Your Majesty!" he cried. "I have just returned from bearing the king's letter to Othomae. Nominating you was the best thing King Ishbahar ever did. My sword is at your service; your every wish is my command!"

"That is fine, but I fear I shan't be here long enough to profit from your loyalty."

"You are leaving? Take me with you as your s-squire!"

"Alas, our vehicle cannot carry three. Colonel Chuivir is my deputy and chosen successor, so transfer your loyalty to him."

"But there must be something, sire—"

"I will tell you. You have a big house. Set aside one small room as a refuge for me, should I ever have to flee Novaria and go into hiding here."

"It shall be done! May the gods bless Your Majesty!"

"Better ask them to bless Chuivir; he will need it. Farewell!"

An hour later, the streets of Iraz resounded to the tramp of feet, the roar of mobs, the clash of arms, and the screams of the stricken. Chuivir and several of his guardsmen stood on the roof of the palace, watching the bathtub carrying Jorian and Karadur wobble off into the heavens. The rays of the setting sun gleamed redly on the copper of the tub. The vehicle shrank until it became a mere crimson spark in the deepening blue of the heavens.

Chuivir, wearing the serpent crown of Penembei instead of his helmet, sighed and murmured: "There goes the man who should really have been king, were he not debarred by popular prejudice. Ah, well." He turned to the officers around him and began to receive reports and issue commands.