“Put them—let’s see—there and there!” said King Gordius. The men lowered the cannon, plants and all to the floor. Gordius said: “At least it’s fairly easy to dispose of those things. You’ve no idea, Rollin, how awkward swords are to beat into plowshares; and as for making spears into pruning hooks, it works all right, but we’ll have enough pruning hooks for ten kingdoms the size of ours. Ah, the drinks!” The butler poured and handed. The king said: “Here’s to a long, happy, and fertile married life, my children!”
Hobart sipped to hide his expression, and sat down when the king did.
“Boom!” It went off right under Hobart, who jumped a foot straight up, spilling the rest of his drink.
The king started a little, too, as did the others. “Nois bless that boy!” he cried. “Wait till I get my hands on him!”
“Oh, Father,” said the princess, “he’ll be an adolescent tomorrow!”
“I take it,” said Hobart frigidly, “that you refer to my future brother-in-law, Prince Aites?”
“Yes, yes,” said the king harrassedly. “He will put firecrackers around. It runs to quite a bill. But that’ll be all right now, heh, because we’ll transfer the gunpowder in the royal arsenal to our privy purse at a forced-sale price. We have to get rid of it somehow now that the army’s being disbanded. Here, dear boy, have another drink!”
“Doesn’t Argimanda take any?” asked Hobart, accepting.
“Why no, she’s good. Thought you knew. How’s your appetite?”
“Could eat a horse and chase the driver,” said Hobart.
The king looked a little taken aback; then he took the butler aside and whispered to him.
Prince Alaxius had just finished his second cocktail. He now stood up and stalked about, swinging his long legs, and said: “Rollin, I’ve spent all day mixing pigments to try to get those unearthly shades you wear. But the mixtures come out the same old red, yellow, and blue. Now how—hehehehehehe!”
At the end of this inane giggle, Prince Alaxius sank slowly to his knees on the rug, a wide foolish smile on his face, and collapsed to the floor.
Hobart jumped up and tried to raise Alaxius to his feet.
“Dear, dear,” said the king. “The fool’s intoxicated again. Put him on something, Rollin; it’ll wear off.”
“Seemed perfectly sober a minute ago,” said Hobart.
“Of course, of course; he wasn’t intoxicated then; just about to be. Either one’s intoxicated or one isn’t.”
Alaxius stretched on the sofa, suddenly revived. He passed a hand across his face, grimaced, and said: “Did I make a fool of myself again? Sorry, Father; I miscalculated.”
Hobart, who happened to be bending over Alaxius, said in a low tone: “Could I see you later?” The aesthetic prince nodded briefly.
Hobart turned to King Gordius: “What’s this about the privy purse and so? I ought to know something about the way the finances of the kingdom are handled.”
“Well,” said the king, “let’s see. Suppose Charion decides we need more revenue. He gets the royal treasurer to draw up a tax bill, and brings it to me for signature—”
“Excuse me,” said Hobart, “but don’t you have any sort of parliament or congress?”
“What? I don’t know what you mean.”
Hobart started to explain about these institutions. The king seemed intensely interested; pressed Hobart for more and more details, while Argimanda hung fascinated on his words and Alaxius oozed boredom. The lion had begun to snore. After they had sat down to dinner, the Affable Monarch continued to pump the engineer.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “That’s a most remarkable idea. I see I shall have to take it up with Charion.”
Queen Vasalina put in a worried question: “Rollin dear, don’t you like your steak?”
“What is it?” asked Hobart with a sickly smile. The meat was not only tough, but had a strange and not very agreeable flavor.
“Horse,” said the king. “You just said you’d eat one. And in case you still feel like chasing a driver after dinner, I’ve ordered one to wait outside. Of course if you catch him you mustn’t really eat him, you know . . .”
###
“All right, my man,” said Prince Alaxius, disposing himself on Hobart’s bed with his hands clasped behind his head, “say your little say.”
Hobart had begged off any extended visit with the king and queen or their daughter after dinner. He sat in his armchair and lit his remaining cigar before answering: “I need a little advice, Alaxius.”
“Ask away.”
“How do you react to the last two days’ events?”
Alaxius yawned. “If you expect me to say I’m pleased, I shall have to disappoint you.”
“Not so disappointed at that. Mean I’m not the brother-in-law you’d have picked?”
“It is not that, Rollin. While I don’t know what Argimanda sees in you, I’d ordinarily not care whom she married. But it’s this half-the-kingdom business.”
“Ah,” said Hobart, “now we’re getting somewhere. Mean you’d have gotten the whole thing if I hadn’t rescued your sister?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But what would have happened to Argimanda?”
“She’d have been eaten, stupid.”
“Wouldn’t that matter to you?” asked Hobart in slight surprise.
“Not particularly. My art comes first.”
“Hardly an altruistic point of view.”
Alaxius raised his eyebrows. “Of course I’m selfish! Didn’t you know? My fairy godmother saw to that.”
“Anyway, she seems to have given you veracity along with your other—uh—virtues.”
“Candor. I can’t help saying what I think, though it gets me into trouble constantly. Look here, this is all very dull. Wouldn’t you rather come up to the studio and pose—”
Hobart put up a hand. “Easy, Alaxius. What would happen if I disappeared?”
“Why—that depends. If it happened before you married my sister, I’d be the sole heir again, I suppose. But if Argimanda were your widow, the succession would pass to her, and then to any male children—”
“Okay, okay; it’s an immediate disappearance I’m interested in.”
Alaxius looked puzzled. “I don’t see what you’re getting at. I am certainly not going to murder you; haven’t the necessary qualities. And it would be unprecedented for the champion to disappear voluntarily—”
“This champion,” said Rollin Hobart grimly, “is about to establish a new precedent.”
Alaxius’ mouth dropped open, and he sat bold upright on the bed. When the full implications of Hobart’s statement sank in, the young prince’s eyes rolled up, and he fell back on the pillow. He had fainted.
7
The next morning, the trumpeter awoke Hobart again with his cacophonous racket. While Hobart was fumbling over the side of the bed for a shoe to answer this assault on his nerves, the fellow announced: “His Altitude, King Gordius of Logaia; Her Luminescence, Queen Vasalina; His Dignity, Prince Alaxius; Her Purity, Princess Argimanda . . .”
The whole Xerophi gang trooped in; Hobart pulled the covers up to his chin, thinking that his underwear would not give an impressive aesthetic effect. Speaking of aesthetics, he wondered momentarily whether Alaxius might have blabbed, despite the fact that it was to his selfish advantage not to . . . But a searching look at the prince’s face disclosed an expression of no more than usual superciliousness.
A member of the group whom Hobart had not seen was a gangling red-haired youngster. At his inquiring look, the queen said: “Don’t you know Aites, Rollin dear?”
“Aites? But he didn’t look at all like that when I saw him last!”
“Oh, but now he’s an adolescent! I thought you knew. How is your poor dear nose?”
“Better, thanks,” said Hobart, feeling it. The swelling was less, but the goose-egg lump on the side of the king’s head was still flourishing; His Altitude wore the Crown of Logaia cocked to one side
as a consequence.
“Ahem,” said the king, “my dear Rollin, as a small token of my—uh—appreciation for your heroic action yesterday, let me present you with a small—uh—token of my appreciation.” He extended a package.
“I’m thrilled,” said Hobart sadly, not wanting to hurt the old codger’s feelings. The package contained the promised coronet: like the king’s crown but with a simple scalloped top border instead of the tall spikes with knobs on their ends. It fitted remarkably, and the Xerophi all went oh and ah and how well it becomes you.
He thanked them out. After breakfast he found the king with his feet up, a pipe in his mouth, and his crown askew, reading the Logaian Ephemerides. Gordius passed him the first section, which he had finished. It was printed in large hand-set type on obviously hand-made paper; the language appeared to be the same phonetically spelled English that he had seen before in Logaia. He asked the king how this came to be. Gordius merely said: “The people of this country of yours are civilized, aren’t they, son? Then they speak the language of civilized people, don’t they? Well, we’re civilized, so naturally we do also. As for the spelling, I don’t see how it could be otherwise; a letter either stands for a certain sound or it doesn’t.”
The gangler that Aites now was entered with an armful of boxes, saying: “Father, where shall I put my toys and things?”
“Leave them here and I’ll order Charion to distribute them to the poor children, Aites.”
Hobart asked: “Giving away all your stuff?”
“Sure,” said the boy. “They’re child’s things. And I’m sorry about the firecrackers, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“Okay,” said Hobart.
Something was bothering the boy; he fidgeted and produced a small pad. He said hesitantly: “Sir—would you mind—I’m starting a collection of the autographs of heroes—”
Hobart signed promptly, whereat the boy said, “Nolly!” in an awed tone. The rest of the day he stuck to Hobart like a burr, asking questions with respectful sirs on them, and in general displaying all the symptoms of hero worship.
The tournament took place in the huge concourse inside the palace walls. Hobart found it long and dull. Two regiments that were being disbanded, one of pikemen and one of musketeers, staged an elaborate parade; the pikemen charged in phalanx formation; the musketeers fired blank charges. As each rank fired the men of the rear rank finished reloading and ran forward to the front and fired in their turn. They solemnly turned over their standards to General Valangas, who made a speech during which some of them wept; they stacked their arms and filed into the stands to watch the rest of the show.
A fence was now set up along the central axis of the arena, and men with huge round shields and bucket-shaped helmets that covered their whole heads rode horses in opposite directions along the opposite sides of the fence, trying to knock each other out of the saddle with padded poles like those used in canoe tilting. Thanks to the fence, and the heavy armor of the jousters, and the blue moss with which the floor of the arena was carpeted, the risk was negligible.
Rollin Hobart peacefully puffed a new pipe and waited for it to end. His expression did not even change when General Valangas, having won several of the tilts, rode by close enough to give him a scornful glance. He could afford to wait for the bee he had put in Prince Alaxius’ bonnet to produce some honey. If the prince was selfish he was selfish, period. The people of this screwy world had the simple monochromatic characters of the cast of an old-time melodrama. That was one more reason for not wanting to stay here—imagine being married to that girl on his left, with her magazine-cover beauty and her ultra-modern goodness that allowed not one human vice . . . But this inhuman consistency had the advantage of dependability. Alaxius would not fail him.
Nor did he. When Hobart excused himself and retired, he found the prince waiting for him with a pair of monkish robes with hoods, the sword and musket he had requested, and a map of Logaia.
Alaxius explained: “You take the Great West Road to here where it forks; this way goes to Barbaria and that way to the Conical Mountains, where we first met you. Are you sure you want to go there? The cavepeople are not to be fooled with.”
“Don’t care if they’re ten-foot cannibals,” said Hobart. “I’ll find Hoimon if I spend the rest of my life looking.”
Alaxius shrugged. “No concern of mine. I’ll accompany you to the fork, though.”
“Nice of you.”
“Not at all. I want to make sure you’re on your way.”
When Hobart started to pull the face-shading hood over his head, he was reminded of the coronet. He hesitated; if it was real gold it ought to fetch—but then he took the thing off and put it on the bed. He would not take advantage of old Gordius by accepting his gold under false pretenses.
In the dim hall they almost ran into the Princess Argimanda. Hobart started, expecting an alarm and the urgent need for explanations. But all she said was: “You are going, Prince?” He nodded.
“May I—just once—”
No harm in that, he thought. She was in his arms as he was still opening them; kissed him passionately; whispered: “Farewell, my dearest darling,” and fled silently.
He was grateful for her having neither made a fuss nor tried to dissuade him; if only she weren’t so too perfect . . . Wait, maybe it was just as well he was getting out; no telling what mere propinquity would do to the best of resolutions . . .
A sentry passed them without a word. Outside, an anonymous groom handed them horses and a big food-bag in the uncertain light of a pair of flambeaux bracketed to the palace wall. They plop-plopped through the deserted streets of Oroloia; the Logaians must keep early hours.
Out of the city, Alaxius led the way briskly, apparently steering by clairvoyance or by the faint stars overhead; the landscape as far as Hobart could see was as black as the inside of a cow. The uncertain feeling of jogging through a black void on an invisible steed oppressed Rollin Hobart, who had been accustomed to the definiteness of this orthogonal world.
Now that he observed them, the stars were peculiar. They were all of the same magnitude, and were arranged in neat patterns: circles, squares, and configurations like diagrams of the molecules of organic compounds. In such a cosmos there was a real reason for naming constellations: that group on their right, for instance, was probably called the Tiller Wheel; at least it looked like a tiller wheel, whereas Taurus had never to Hobart’s exact mind borne the slightest resemblance to a real bull.
He waited with some interest for more constellations to appear over the horizon. But after an hour’s jogging none came, and it was gradually bore upon Hobart that none were coming: that the vault of heaven here stayed put relative to the earth. Maybe Hoimon had been right: the earth was the center of the solar system here, and the universe was built on Ptolemaic lines . . . Come to think of it, between its black-and-white logic—which got plenty of support from the behavior of people and things—and its geocentric cosmogony, this whole plane of existence looked suspiciously as though it had sprung from the brains of a crew of Hellenistic philosophers . . . The correspondence was too close for coincidence. The question would bear looking into, if somebody cared to hire him under a decent contract to investigate it . . .
“The fork,” announced Alaxius. “You turn right; I return to Oroloia. It’s up to you to decide whether you want to rest till dawn and then ride hard—for Father will have sent men after you—or continue slowly now.”
“Guess I’ll wait,” said Hobart. “It oughtn’t—hello, what’s that?”
They fell silent as unmistakable hoof sounds came down the Great West Road, mixed with the creak of wheels.
“This is no time for honest travelers to be abroad,” whispered Alaxius. “Could it be that Father already pursues us?”
“Doesn’t seem likely he’d do it in a wagon,” replied Hobart. “Let’s hide anyway.”
They dismounted as quietly as they could, which unfortunately was not very quiet, and pul
led their horses off the road. The clink and shuffle of their movements must have carried to the approaching vehicle, for its sounds ceased. For some seconds all concerned froze, listening to their own breathing. From the direction of the unknown came a spark and then a sputter of light: a little yellow flame flickered and went out. But it left behind it a small red spark. This moved about the darkness erratically, then came toward them. It would move a little, halt as though to listen, then move some more.
Hobart guessed it to be the match of a gun. He held his breath as it came right up to the fork, perhaps thirty feet from where he stood with his hand over his horse’s muzzle.
The spark halted. Again came the flicker and the little yellow flame, near the spark but not identical with it. The light showed a taper in the hand of a man standing in front of the signpost, peering at it. In his free hand was the grandfather of horse pistols, and his nag’s face was dimly visible behind him. He had an ordinary bearded Logaian face.
The stranger moved the taper back and forth in front of the sign, then stared into the darkness, little wrinkles of intentness around his eyes. He blew the taper out, and the red spark was moving back toward where the wagon should be, when Alaxius sneezed—uh khyoo!
The darkness flicked out in one brilliant flash and the pistol roared. Hobart heard the clatter of the man’s scramble back into his seat, shouting to his animal, and horse and wagon rattled off down the road to Barbaria.
“Are you hit?” cried Hobart.
“Never came near me,” came Alaxius’ voice, “but that is a peculiar way to treat strangers in a peaceful country. I do not like being shot at, even by ear. I want to get back to my nice, safe palace.”
They pulled their horses back on the road. Hobart stubbed his toe.
“Now what,” he murmured, “can that be?” He bent down and fumbled. It was a musket like the one he carried under his arm.
“Did you drop a musket, Alaxius?” he asked.
“Not I. I hate the things.”
“Somebody did. Let’s have some light.”
The Undesired Princess Page 6