“As a token of gratitude, it is my desire to reward you in a way that would be most pleasing to you. Suppose you name the reward. Anything within my power.”
There was only one thing he desired, Mark was ruefully thinking, and no man could grant that — the return of his memory.
“There is nothing,” he said. “Anyone with the opportunity would have acted as —”
Murf, suddenly pushing his way through the crowd, interrupted him. “Your Highness,” he panted, dodging the hands of those who would have stopped him, “there is a reward that would please this man!”
Chapter 4: King to Be
THE Duke waved aside the soldiers who pounced on the red-head before he came within six feet of the carriage. “Speak,” he commanded. “What is this reward?”
Murf leered at the soldiers. “A pardon!” he answered, and grinned at the wondering glances of the crowd. “This man comes from a far country. Without knowing of the curfew laws he entered the city too early in the morning. The night-watch clapped him in prison about an hour before the gong. And Your Highness knows the penalty for curfew-breaking.”
The Duke shuddered. “Quite. But if he was placed in prison how is it that he is now free?”
“Upon being informed of the penalty he must suffer for his innocent trespass, he escaped. But he will be tracked down without Your Highness’ pardon.”
The Duke smiled. “I am in your debt for this information,” he said. “You have shown me how I may avert a wrong. But how is it that you know all this?”
Murf glanced nervously about as if wondering whether to make a run for it, then squared his thin shoulders. “I also was unjustly imprisoned,” he said, trying to look as virtuous as possible. “When I told this man how I was borne false witness, against, he took pity and freed me also.”
The Duke’s eyes twinkled. “A Mic, eh?” he chuckled. “Always unjustly accused, always downtrodden; but never without a likely sounding story. However, I am in your debt. There will be two pardons and quickly.”
A cheer went up from the crowd as the Duke reentered the carriage. But the smile of approval from his pretty wife probably weighed far heavier in his scale of values. Neither could guess that as a ruler, he was inviting disaster.
Mark and Murf were both lifted to the shoulders of enthusiastic men and carried behind the carriage back to the prison. This time they entered the office of the captain, which was much better than being forced through the courtyard to the cellblock.
A short time later Mark hurried toward the alley from which they had earlier emerged to the street. Murf scurried after, quite puzzled. He wasn’t kept in suspense long. With a dive Mark swooped into the alley and came out a moment later, smiling happily. He brushed same mud from the gleaming surface of the helmet he had retrieved, and placed it jauntily on his head. Then he patted the axe which had been returned to him. Murf shook his head, mystified.
“It looks like losing them gimcracks is the only thing about the whole business that really had you worried,” he remarked.
MARK nodded. He didn’t explain that the axe and the helmet were the only concrete links between him and the past. Nor that it was his hope that the sight and feel of them would stir his memory. And it is just as well that he didn’t, for then Murf might have seen that he lost them again. For canny Murf was cooking up a plan, whose ultimate success depended on Mark’s innocence and gullibility.
“Why did you lie?” Mark inquired. “You didn’t tell me you were falsely accused. And I’ll bet you weren’t.”
Murf laughed. “No. Sure, it just sounded better that way. His nibs didn’t believe me anyway. But I couldn’t tell him that I was guilty of treason. He wouldn’t have pardoned me for that.”
Mark thought for a minute. “Then you took a chance of being sent back to prison when you spoke up for me.”
Murf waved a hand airily. “Sure. Sure. It was a gamble, but it turned out all right. And I paid back a debt. You got me out, and I got you a pardon.”
“Still, you took a dangerous chance. Treason is a grave offense. Now I’m in your debt.” Through Mark’s gratitude ran a tiny dark thread of suspicion. Beware the Irish bearing gifts.
Murf glanced away to hide triumph in his face.
“Forget it,” he said. “Come on with me.”
Mark saw no reason why he shouldn’t.
The way led through a squalid section of the town, and little attention was paid to Mark’s singular dress — or lack of it. There were sailors from far lands, fish-peddlers with their carts, laborers, an occasional lady of the street, and innumerable strutting soldiers.
Once an armorer in the doorway of his shop stopped Mark and asked for a look at his axe. Mark handed it to him and wondered at the man’s excitement.
“The ancient metal!” gasped the armorer. “Where did you get it?”
Mark shook his head, uncertainly. “I’ve always had it,” he answered.
“But it’s made of the ancient metal, which does not rust! It is found nowhere but in the ruins of the cities of our ancestors. Modern steel-men cannot duplicate it. How much will you sell it for?”
Mark hesitated, and Murf decided to take a hand. “What will you pay?”
“A thousand coppers!”
Murf turned to Mark. “It’s a good price,” he said. “You can get an ordinary axe for ten. You’ll need money. You haven’t any, have you?” He looked hopefully toward Mark’s single pocketless garment.
Money... medium of exchange... with which one could buy the necessities of life. No! he decided, abruptly. “I need the axe, but I don’t need money. Sorry, no sale.”
Murf shook his head and they went on their way. Mark was becoming acutely aware of the fact that somehow or other he required no “necessities of life.”
THEIR destination was a haberdashery shop. The proprietor, a wizened man with shrewd eyes, was both surprised and upset at sight of Murf. He came round the counter, closed the door and pulled curtains across the windows.
“Murf!” he exclaimed, in tones he might have used upon being told that an epidemic had struck the town. “You mustn’t come here! They’re sure to find you. It will jeopardize the cause!”
Murf laughed. “Hush your blather, man. Is your leader as stupid as you? I have been pardoned. This is Mark, who will some day be our king!” This last announcement came as a distinct surprise to Mark, who had some remembering notion of the word’s meaning.
Murf went on rapidly, while Mark listened with incredulous ears. Murf’s story proved him to be an accomplished liar and an adept at the perhaps forgotten art of the buildup. The haberdasher, who was named Smid, listened with avid interest, now and then glancing admiringly at Mark.
“He is a fit leader,” Murf concluded, pompously. “One who will administer justice, not persecution.”
Smid nodded. “And one who will inspire the cooperation we need from our loosely-joined allies. The other groups have never fully trusted you, you know.” His eyes twinkled maliciously.
Murf nodded. “My cursed red hair,” he said. “They’ve always thought I was with the Mics, just because my grandfather came from Eire. The dolts! But they’ll trust this Vike, for the Vikes are not intriguers. If they wanted anything from the Brish they’d descend in their ships and take it.”
Smid nodded and seemed perfectly willing to accept Mark at face value. Mark, who found his attitude unbelievably naive, followed Murf into the living quarters in the rear.
“Look,” he said. “Would you mind explaining all this? I don’t know what this is all about, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want any part of it. It seems to me you might have the decency to consult me about it before you go around slamming crowns on my head.”
Murf looked at him incredulously, and then changed his expression to a sympathetic smile. “I had forgotten,” he said. “You don’t know that I’m giving you a chance to help the downtrodden and oppressed. Man, you have not the right to refuse at all. ‘Tis your sacred duty. Listen to me.”
AND Murf explained. From his deft and Celtic tongue rolled an eloquent depiction of the terrible conditions of the land. Of the unbearable taxation of the poor, and lavish ease and luxury of the nobles. Of the inhuman penal code, torture, corruption, squalor — all dripped persuasively from his flow of words until at last the bewildered Mark was more than half convinced, and sure only of not being sure of anything.
Even apart from his obligation to Murf, Mark really felt that this might be a cause to warrant the aid of any red-blooded man. This thought brought him up short. His blood was blue.
Not that it changed his ideas, but it reminded him that he must not lose sight of the fact that he was different, and that he had to find out the reason for the difference. He knew that there lay the clues that would lead him to the lovely lady of his half-awakened memories.
“But you said I would some day be king,” he said.
“Of course. The various groups who are working for the betterment of this country, are loosely joined because they lack a real leader. You will supply them with one. They will unite under your leadership.”
How was Mark to know that Murf was a master of the patter of the soapbox agitator? He sounded sincere enough and clever words are delicate but often irresistible webs to trap and hold fast the innocent.
“But it doesn’t make sense,” Mark insisted, yielding inch by inch. “I am an outsider, not even familiar with the country.”
“Makes no difference,” said Murf. “The Brish are a people who require an impressive leader, or they won’t move. They must have a king, even though that king has to relegate all the duties of his kingship to more capable men. The Brish need him as a symbol. And your part in the coming events will be to bind our members under your leadership, and let them revere you as their deliverer. And in the meantime, I, as your lieutenant, will plan the moves to be made.”
Mark said nothing.
Murf, who had stripped and was busily washing off some of the prison grime, sensed something of Mark’s thoughts. “Your position is an honorable one,” he pointed out. “It will further a cause which might otherwise lack the impetus to get it started. If I am willing to continue the work without hope of reward, even of recognition, you should be. To you will go all the glory and adulation. But to remove the yoke of oppression from my people, I consider it a small sacrifice. Surely you can have no objection.” His tone was convincingly pious.
Mark suddenly felt ashamed of himself. “I’ll work with you,” he said simply. “But there is one thing I must insist upon.”
“What is that?”
“When this work is done, you must take over yourself. I can’t be tied down here. I must be free to take up my life from the point where I lost it. Some day I’ll remember, and then I shall leave.”
Chapter 5: Mark the Deliverer
THE days that followed were busy ones for Mark. Murf and Smid contacted members of rebellious groups in the Duchy of Scarbor, presented Mark, and proceeded to win them over to the idea of a new leader. The idea took hold with unanimous enthusiasm. Stories of Mark’s unjust imprisonment, his miraculous escape and the adroit manner in which he had grasped the opportunity to obtain his, and Murf’s, pardon, had traveled ahead of them.
The story had lost nothing in the telling, having already been considerably embellished by Murf. He had credited Mark with having planned the whole episode, and with admirable modesty had toned down his own part in it.
Mark allowed this, though inwardly cringing at the deception, for he realized that he was playing a necessary part. Occasionally there would be doubters, who found it impossible to believe that a man’s arms could be strong enough to bend stout iron bars. So Mark would patiently show off for them, feeling a little silly. On request, he gave exhibitions of axe throwing, in much the same fashion as twentieth century politicians had gone about kissing babies and submitting to initiation into Indian tribes.
In the course of his campaign Mark ran across many evidences of poverty and oppression, and his anger mounted along with his growing urge to do something about it. Murf and Smid were delighted at the success of his efforts to bring all the rebellious factions under his leadership. His speeches, prepared by Murf, were delivered with fervor, and conviction. Mark was no orator and got fussed when a crowd cheered Murf’s canny platitudes, but it was all in the day’s work.
The Duchy of Scarbor, of the four that comprised the country of the Brish, was the most important nut to crack. It was the largest and most thickly populated, and it harbored some of the more powerful of the ruling nobles. The Duke of Scarbor, he learned with a twinge of sympathy, was a mere figurehead, forced to do the bidding of the other nobles. They controlled the army and owned the greater part of the land. And although Jon, the duke, made efforts to alleviate suffering among the poorer classes, he was invariably overruled. The nobles, interested only in their own welfare, considered it good policy to keep the people properly to heel.
Lunn, the province to the south, was the capital of the country of the Brish. It was presided over by Aired, Emperor of the Brish, who was the father of Jon of Scarbor. He too, was popular with the people, but helpless to do anything for them. His hands were as thoroughly tied by the Council of Peers, as were his son’s by the ruling nobles of Scarbor. This Council, it appeared, were representatives of the various nobles of the four Duchies, empowered to act in their behalf.
But though his success in organization was such that the rebellious factions of the Duchy of Scarbor were solidly united in a matter of days, Mark was troubled by a sense of futility. Time’s passage had not produced the desired effect on his memory. The associations which should have reminded him of incidents in his past were failing of their purpose. Could it be that he was living a life so foreign to his former one that there were no parallels, no similar occurrences that he might match up and start a train of recollection?
THERE was only one thing to console him in his constant quest for knowledge of his past. During the long nights when his companions rested and slept, he was able to think more clearly. Each night he was in a different place, as they campaigned about the country, but his surroundings meant little to him. For no matter where he was, he could always conjure up the vision of Nona, the woman he knew was his.
And lately he was able to associate her with the presence of another person. Who this person was he couldn’t quite grasp, but the feeling was there that it was someone who had played an important part in his former life. And Nona was clearer, too. Sometimes he could hear the low throbbing of her laugh, and it never failed to leave him with a sensation of happiness and desire.
The Duchy of Scarbor had been thoroughly canvassed and thoroughly organized by the end of the second week of the harvest holidays. The final week of the holiday period was to be devoted to games in the great arena. These games were a gesture of the nobles calculated to take the minds of their subjects off their troubles.
Murf and Smid decided that inasmuch as the following days would bring a return to normalcy, it was high time to strike their blow.
First all prisoners must be released from the jails. Most of these would immediately join the cause and swell their ranks. It was decided that the first jail delivery would be made from the prison from which he and Mark had escaped.
Murf laid his plans with admirable thoroughness. Instead of going about the business furtively, he dressed several men in uniforms corresponding to, those of the night-watch. Mark was attired in a sergeant’s outfit, except that he insisted on keeping his axe.
Boldly they marched through the streets long after curfew, headed for the jail. The night was cloudy and the moon obscured. This fitted their plans, for after the jailbreak it would be necessary for the prisoners to scatter and find concealment with friends, and every minute on the streets there would be danger of being sighted by genuine patrolmen.
The plan went off like clockwork — up to a certain point.
Reaching the prison the party entered the courtyard and stopped be
fore the huge oaken door. Mark hammered on it with the butt of his axe. The door was supposedly impregnable to anything less devastating than a battering ram, and could only be opened from inside the guardroom. The inner door was equally formidable from the side of the cell block. It also could be opened from the guardroom only.
But evidently the authorities had never considered that a weakness was present in the fact that the guards were in the habit of opening the outer door whenever the night-watch brought in a prisoner. The open-sesame was the hammering of the night-watch sergeant’s club.
After a moment the door swung outward. Before the startled guard knew what was happening, he was felled by an enthusiastic club. His three companions were downed before they could move.
A ring of keys hung on a nail beside the inner door. In a matter of moments Mark had swung open the inner door and released the prisoners. A search of the prison revealed several other blocks of cells, one to match each key on the ring. The locks on the doors of each row of cells were opened by a single key. Over two hundred prisoners were released in the course of less than a half hour.
THE thing had been accomplished with the utmost quiet. Mark was congratulating himself on their efficiency when he received a rude jolt. In the guardroom were only three unconscious men!
Hastily he gave orders to leave. He didn’t know how much time had elapsed since the missing man had regained consciousness. He may have already summoned help. Why hadn’t he taken time to bind them or at least have left a guard over them?
But there was no time now for regrets. He swung the outer door open, and realized at once that the damage had been done. The sound of a large number of running men echoed down the street!
They were nearing the archway that led into the courtyard. In the few seconds that remained, Mark put into effect the only plan that had a chance of success. He deployed his men in the shadows at the sides of the archways. The door to the guardroom gaped open, illuminated by a glow from the oil-lamp within.
The Best of Argosy #6 - Minions of Mars Page 4