The Clocks of Iraz

Chapter Nine THE WAXEN WIFE

GUESTS OF THE KING, JORIAN AND KARADUR POLLOWED Ishbahar's litter up the ramp to the royal box. At the top of the ramp, the litter bearers set the litter down. This time, the bearers were slaves —hairy ape-men from the jungles of Komilakh—not aristocrats. King Ishbahar did not trust his poundage to amateurs on such slopes.

The king wriggled out of the litter like a broaching whale. He waved to the crowd and puffed through the entrance to his box, around which guardsmen were drawn up. Jorian and Karadur followed.

"Sit anywhere you like, our dear fellows, anywhere you like!" said the king. "We needs must occupy this cursed throne, albeit it is far from comfortable. Now, where is lunch? Ah, steward, here you are! Doctor Karadur, will you move your chair, pray, to let the table be set up? Master Jorian, we have a real treat for you: minced scarlet monkey from Beraoti, fried in the fat of the giant tortoise of Burang. And wine made from the chokeberry of Salimor. Try it!"

Jorian thought that chokeberry wine was an excellent name for the fluid, but he drowned his potion. The king leaned confidentially towards him. "Are you in fine fettle today, dear boy?"

"As far as I know, sire. Why?"

"We have a little surprise for you later. We are sure that so stalwart a youth as yourself would hardly shriek and swoon with shock; but we thought it well to warn you."

"May I ask the nature of this—"

"Nay, you may not!" The king gave Jorian a heavy wink. 'To tell you now were to spoil the fun, heh heh. You shall see in good time—in good time. Do you dance?"

"I dance some Novarian dances, like the volka and the whirligig. Why, sire?"

"We are planning a grand ball. You can doubtless learn the Penembic steps. It has been years since we gave one; as you can see, dancing is not exactly our forte."

While the king shoveled in the food, and Jorian and Karadur ate modest portions, the stands below them filled. As before, the Pants sat on their left in blue and gold, while the Kilts, in red and white, sat on their right. Nobles and officials occupied the intermediate strip.

"Let us hope that we have not another factional disturbance," said Karadur.

The king swallowed a huge mouthful. "We had the stasiarchs before us just this morning, Doctor. We laid down the law to them, we assure you! They promised to love each other like brothers. Like brothers, they said."

"Brotherly love, sire, cannot always be counted upon," said Jorian, "as in the case of the kings Forimar and Fusonio of my native Kortoli."

"What is this tale, Master Jorian?" asked the king.

"It is called the Tale of the Waxen Wife. King Forimar was a collateral ancestor of the better-known King Filoman the Well-Meaning, who was the father of King Fusinian the Fox. This king was known as Forimar the Esthete. He was noted for his indifference to public affairs and for his passion for the arts, at which he was himself no mean performer. He was a fair architect, an accomplished musician, a worthy composer, a fine singer, and an excellent painter. Some of his poems are the glories of Kortolian literature to this day. He could not, alas, do all these things and at the same time run the kingdom.

"As a result of Forimar's neglect, public affairs in Kortoli got into a frightful mess. The army was a cowardly rabble, crime and corruption prevailed in the city, and the people were on the verge of revolt. Then the army of neighboring Aussar marched into Kortoli. The city was saved by a ruse devised by Forimar's brother Fusonio, who returned in the nick of time from a mission abroad.

"In saving the city, however, Fusonio demanded as his price that Forimar abdicate in his favor. This Forimar did with ill grace; but I will tell Your Majesty that story some other time.

"Anyway, the king was now Fusonio, who was of a very different character. Fusonio had none of his brother's esthetic sensitivities. He was a bluff, hearty, sensual type, whose idea of a large evening was to spend it incognito in some low tavern frequented by the rougher element, swilling ale and roaring ribald songs with unwashed peasants and ruffianly muleteers.

"Whereas Forimar was unwedded, Fusonio had a plump, peasantry, and not at all beautiful wife, named Ivrea, who had borne him five children. The twain would oft argue familial matters at the tops of their voices until the windows rattled; but woe betide the man who thought they were really quarreling and sought to take advantage of the fact! Both would turn upon him like tigers, and the children like tiger cubs.

"After his abdication, Forimar at first found it a relief not to be pestered by his ministers for decisions about public works, and hiring and firing, and foreign affairs, and law and order, and all those other tedious matters that take up a ruler's time."

"We know whereof you speak," said King Ishbahar.

"After a while, however, Forimar began to regret his lost kingship. Whilst his brother granted him an ample stipend, it was no longer enough to enable him to gratify his artistic whims. For ensample, he had an idea for an all-Novarian poetry contest, which he hoped to make into an annual affair and thus to place Kortoli in the front rank as a cultural center. As usual, he entertained grandiose ideas for the prizes. He had already spent his allowance on paintings, sculptures, and the like and had borrowed against it until his credit was exhausted. When he besought of his brother ten thousand golden marks for poetry prizes, Fusonio told him he was out of his mind.

" 'I have enough trouble rounding up tax money to repair the damages of your reign, dear brother,' quoth he. 'Get you gone and contemplate the beauty of a daisy in the field, or something equally cheap and harmless. You shall get no money for your schemes here, unless you save up your emolument.'

"It happened that a man named Zevager had lately set up an exhibition of waxworks in Kortoli City, showing such historical tableaux as King Finjanius defying the priests, the crowning of Ardyman the Terrible as emperor of Novaria, and the beheading of the rebel Roskianus. Zevager, who prided himself on the meticulous realism and authenticity of his exhibits, besought the former king to allow such an effigy to be made of His Highness and displayed. Forimar, who had never shown any sense about money but was now straitened by its lack, demanded a fee, which Zevager paid.

"Forimar took an interest in making the image, as he did in all the arts. Thus he discovered that Zevager, besides the usual techniques of making waxen effigies, knew something of magic. He cast a glamor spell upon the image, so that it looked even more like its living model then it otherwise would have. Forimar went to the Bureau of Commerce and Licenses and learnt that Zevager had no license to practise magic in Kortoli. This gave him a handle to use in dealing with the man.

"When the exhibit of the waxen Forimar proved popular, Forimar subtly insinuated into Zevager's mind the thought of making images of King Fusonio and Queen Ivrea. For a larger bribe, Forimar undertook to gain the permission of the royal couple to having their images put on display. He said it would cost him vast sums in bribes and contributions to worthy causes favored by his brother; but in fact it cost him nought. He simply asked his brother and sister-in-law at breakfast whether they would mind if he told his old friend Zevager that he might reproduce them in wax.

" 'Not at all,' said Fusonio, 'so long as his images do not make monsters of us. It will be good public relations.'

"Thus Forimar kept all the money that Zevager paid him, but he was still far short of the ten thousand marks needed for his poetry contest. So he became more and more intimate with Zevager. Soon he enticed the showman into a conspiracy against the throne. He inveigled the magician into his plot by, on one hand, dangling before him the post of Minister of Fine Arts when Forimar should become king, and on the other hinting that, if Zevager resisted his lure, he would denounce the showman for witchcraft or unlawful magic.

"In his magical arsenal, Zevager had a spell of immobility. To effect this spell, he had to get samples of Fusonio's hair and finger-nail parings. Forimar got these for him.

"One night, when Fusonio was out on one of his pub-crawls, Zevager cast the spell upon him as he was passing near the waxwork museum. Zevager and Forimar dragged the statuesque Fusonio within, exchanged his garments with those on the waxwork, and set him up in place of the image. The effigy they hid in a lumber room.

"Then Forimar hastened to the palace, awoke his sister-in-law, and gave her a document in his brother's writing. The document stated:

"My darling Ivrea: I have departed the kingdom for a secret meeting of all the heads of Novarian city-states in Xylar City, about threatening moves by the nomads of Shven. My absence should be kept quiet as long as possible. Meanwhile, my brother Forimar is named regent. Convey my love to the children and promise them that I shall be back in a fortnight or two.

Fusonio Rex

"Actually, the document was a clever forgery. Being an artist, Forimar could feign the calligraphy of anyone he chose. Ivrea was startled; but the tale sounded plausible, since there had been rumors of an invasion from Shven.

"So Forimar ascended the throne as regent. His first act was to announce his poetry contest and appoint a committee of judges. He entered no poems of his own, knowing that he would have an unfair advantage in such a contest. This would militate against making the contest a respected annual event. He was sincere in his desire to advance the art of poetry and to promote Kortoli as a center of culture.

"Forimar's next act was to begin a purge of his brother's adherents. He retired some, sent others to far places, and demoted still others. The posts thus vacated he filled with his own supporters. He moved cautiously, not wishing to arouse suspicion. He calculated that in a month, when Fusonio was due to return, he would have the machinery of state firmly in his grip and could declare himself king.

"As for Fusonio, now standing regally in Zevager's waxworks, Forimar would decide what to do with him later. He hesitated to slay his brother, since the family had an old tradition of presenting a united front to the world despite their internal differences. On the other hand, he knew his brother for a much abler man than he, who if left alive would surely devise means to usurp the throne from the usurper.

"He reckoned, however, without Queen Ivrea. When a fortnight had passed with no word of Fusonio, she became suspicious. She besought the aid of a scryer, who sent his mystic vision to Xylar and reported that there was no sign of an international conference in that city.

"Ivrea mourned, sure that foul play had befallen her man but uncertain what to do next. One day, missing him, she stopped at Zevager's museum to look at his waxworks. Fusonio's effigy, she thought, were better than no husband at all. Zevager was delighted that the queen and several of her ladies should patronize his establishment. He showed them about with much bowing and scraping.

"When Ivrea sighted the ostensible effigy of Fusonio, she exclaimed at its verisimilitude. In fact, she said, she could scarce believe that it was not her man in the flesh. When Zevager was talking to some of the other women at the other end of the chamber, she touched the hand of the image and found that it did not feel like wax.

"Then she conceived a daring plan. She made careful note of the costume on her own effigy.

"Back in the palace, she supped that even with her brother-in-law. 'I met your friend Master Zevager today,' she said, and artlessly told of her visit. 'He said something about seeing you there tomorrow.'

" 'Oh?' said Forimar. 'Methought it was the day after tomorrow— but then, I always get dates mixed up.'

"That night, Ivrea sallied forth with a single guardsman whom she trusted and another fellow lately released from gaol for burglary. For a suitable reward, the burglar picked the lock on the door of Zevager's museum, admitted her, and locked the door behind her. Ivrea climbed the stair to the loft where the images stood. Clad almost exactly like the waxwork, she hid the effigy of herself behind a curtain and took its place.

"When sounds announced the approach of Zevager and his first customers, she stiffened to immobility. One of the viewers said that the image of the queen was so lifelike that she could swear she saw it breathe. Luckily, Zevager took this as a compliment to his glamor spell.

"Later, when there were no regular customers in the museum, Regent Forimar arrived. Standing before the royal trio of images, he nervously asked Zevager what was up. 'Are our plans discovered?' he panted.

" 'Nay, my lord, not to my knowledge,' said the showman. 'True, there have been rumors that King Fusonio set out on some mysterious quest but never reached his destination. He vanished off the earth, they say.' Zevager glanced at the effigy of the king and chuckled. 'Of course, my lord, you and I know that he is in plain sight still—if one know where to look.'

" 'Hush up, you fool!' said Forimar. 'Even walls have ears. I may have to strike sooner than I expected. Therefore we may have to scrap one of your waxen images.' He in his turn looked at Fusonio. 'A pity, but we cannot risk having him turn up alive and vigorous.'

"The twain walked slowly down the loft, talking in low voices, so that Queen Ivrea could no longer hear them. But she knew enough. Zevager saw his royal guest out and came back up the stairs.

"As he stepped out on the floor of the loft, a movement made him turn. He had just time to glimpse the queen's effigy, as he thought, swinging the ax from the tableau of the execution of Roskianus the rebel. He gave one horrified shriek ere the blade split his skull. Luckily for I vrea, who was a strapping wench, the ax in the tableau was real and not an imitation of painted wood. Zevager had prided himself on authenticity.

"The showman's apprentice was at the door below to collect admission fees. When he heard the disturbance, he hurried up the stairs. When he saw Ivrea with a bloody ax in her hand and Zevager lying dead, he gave an even louder shriek and took to his heels.

"With the death of Zevager, the spell he had cast upon Fusonio quickly wore off. The king blinked and rubbed his eyes and began to breathe normally.

" 'Where am I?' he said. 'What in the forty-nine Mulvanian hells is going on?'

"When things had been explained, he said 'Hand me the ax, my dear. My reach is longer than yours.' And the pair marched post-haste back to the palace. The guards gaped at the sight of their king and queen approaching the palace unescorted, the king with a bloody ax on his shoulder; but none barred their way.

"Presently Fusonio came upon his brother, practising a flute solo in his study. Seeing what was toward, Forimar fell to his knees and begged for his life.

" 'Well,' said Fusonio, swinging the bloody ax about his head, 'I ought to give you what our ancestor gave Roskianus. No headless man has ever yet caused his sovran trouble.

" 'But then, we have our tradition of keeping a united front to the world, which I am loath to breach. So you shall depart forthwith as my ambassador to Salimor in the Far East. And I shall send a message to my old friend the Sophi of Salimor, that if he is fain to keep our profitable trade, he must hold you there for the rest of your days.'

"And so it was done. Face was saved by the appointment of Forimar as ambassador, none but a very few knowing that he was going into exile and genteel captivity. It is said that he wrought revolutions in several of the native arts of Salimor, but that I cannot vouch for."

"What of Forimar's poetry contest?" asked the king.

"Since the judges had been chosen, the announcements had been made, and the submissions were already pouring in, Fusonio forbore to cancel the event, lest in so doing he dishonor the government of Kortoli and bring to light the discord betwixt him and his brother. A few sennights later, after Forimar's departure, the judges announced their awards. First prize, they said, should go to Vatreno of Govannian for his poem, Demonic Downfall This verse began:

'The judges brought the manuscripts of all the prize-winning poems to King Fusonio for his approval. He was supposed to bestow the prizes the following day. Fusonio read Vatreno's poem and said:

" 'What is this? Some kind of joke?'

" 'Oh, no, Your Majesty,' quoth the chief judge. 'It is a serious poem, very soul-revealing.'

" 'But,' said Fusonio, 'the thing has neither rhyme nor rhythm. Moreover, meseems it makes no sense. It is not my idea of a poem at all.'

" 'Oh, that!' said the judge. 'One can see that Your Majesty, with all due respect, has not kept up with late developments in the art of poesy. Rhyme and rhythm have been abandoned as archaic, artificial fetters on the artist's creativity.'

" 'But still, one expects a poem to make sense!'

" 'Not today, sire; one does not. We live in chaotic times, so poetry should reflect the chaos of the times. If the world fail to make sense, one cannot expect a poem to do so.'

" 'Perhaps you feel chaotic, messires,' said the king, 'but I do not. In fact, to me the world makes very good sense indeed.'

" 'Would that your humble servants had Your Majesty's divine omniscience!' said the chief judge with sarcasm.

" 'I claim no omniscience,' said Fusonio with ominous calm. The world is far too complicated for any one mortal mind to encompass in its entirety. The few things I do claim to understand seem to follow orderly natural laws—including the follies of my fellow men.' He flicked the paper with a linger. 'If you ask me, Master Vatreno composed this thing by opening a dictionary at random and pointing to words with his eyes closed.'

" 'Well, ah,' said the judge, 'as a matter of fact, sire, that is just what he did. Afterwards he added a few auxiliary words like "the" to give it grammatical form. We thought it a brilliant poetical innovation. It is the coming thing.'

"Pusonio glanced through the poems to which the judges had awarded the lesser prizes, but they pleased him no more than did Demonic Downfall At last he said:

" 'And I am supposed to pay ten thousand good marks out of my straitened treasury for this garbage! Well, when I order beer in a tavern, I at least expect beer for my coin and not horsepiss.' With that, he tore the manuscripts across with one wrench and roared: 'Get out, you dolts! Asses! Noodleheads!'

"The judges ran from the chamber with their robes flying and King Fusonio after them, thwacking their rumps with his scepter. The poetry contest was called off on the ground that nought worthy of award had been submitted. This act caused much discontent among the artists and the advanced thinkers, who called Fusonio a low-browed tyrant and a crass vulgarian. But Fusonio paid no heed and had, in fact, a long and successful reign."

King Ishbahar laughed heartily. "Luckily for us, perhaps, we have no brothers; nor has poetry in Penembei ever reached such a pitch of refinement that none but the poet can ever understand one of his own compositions. But now the program is due to begin." To his secretary he said: "Herekit, hand us our reading glass and the proclamation."

Ishbahar stood up and read, while the crier bellowed his words through the speaking trumpet. The speech was the usual amass of cliches, and then the parades and clownings and races began.