Every Inch a King

by Harry Turtledove

  Every so often, I would pause for a moment to admire what was going on all around me. I wasn’t the only one, either. I think we all had the feeling this was something very special, or could be if we made it so. I think we all tried harder than we would have if we enjoyed such sport every night, too. And I think I would have soon collapsed from exhaustion-happy exhaustion, but exhaustion even so-if not for Zogu’s sorcery.

  I amazed myself. I might have been a bunny. I kept going and going and going… Well, actually, I kept…The magic lived up to its promise, I will say that.

  Max held up his end of the bargain. By the sighs and moans and murmurs that came from that part of the kaleidoscope picture, his end held up quite well indeed, thank you very much.

  And the girls were even better than I’d hoped they would be, which is saying a lot. I don’t know how much experience they had. That’s not the sort of question a gentleman asks. I am sure a couple of them, though they did seem to know a good deal about some other things, hadn’t had one particular experience before. Cold water would get the stains off the quilt.

  I’m also sure they didn’t have enough experience to let any of what we did embarrass them. They accepted it as natural and enjoyable-and by thinking it ought to be that way, they helped make sure it was.

  Lutzi lived up to what her name sounded like. Bjeshka proved shapelier than I thought she was back in the harem; maybe her outfit there hadn’t fit her well. Varri had a very talented mouth. Maja was almost as limber as dear Ilona. Shkoza enjoyed being rolled onto her stomach. Zalli…I don’t remember anything remarkable about Zalli, but I’m not complaining, either. Oh, no.

  Everything passes, everything perishes, everything palls.

  So said some dreary, world-weary Narbonese, allegedly a sage. All I can tell you is, he wasn’t there in that bedchamber that night. I never wanted it to end. I don’t think any of us wanted it to end. And, for a long time-longer than I ever would have expected-it didn’t.

  But, even with the best will in the world (and with what had to be somewhere close to the best magecraft in the world), the time comes when all you can do is all you can do. We sprawled here and there on the quilts and cushions, and on one another. We were all tired. We were all sweaty. We were all grinning like high-grade idiots.

  “Well,” I said lazily, “I’ll have to thank Essad Pasha after I sleep for a week.”

  “He told us it was our duty,” said one of the girls-Maja, I think it was, but I’m not sure. By then, they all ran together in my mind. Whoever she was, she went on, “I never thought doing my duty could be so much fun.”

  A chorus of agreement followed. It wasn’t a very energetic chorus, but that was all right. I wasn’t very energetic myself just then.

  I thought I ought to say something, so I did: “If a king can’t make his subjects happy, what’s the point of ruling?”

  That won more agreement. I felt…statesmanlike. But then Max asked, “What about the grannies with mustaches? For that matter, what about the granddads with mustaches?” Even at a time like that, even in a place like that, Max would be difficult.

  “Well, what about them?” I said. “Let them console each other. As for the king”-I ran my hand along the sweetly curved length of Bjeshka (I think it was Bjeshka)-“doesn’t he deserve the best the kingdom has to offer? And haven’t I got the best, right here with me?”

  “And we have the best, right here with us.” Was that Zalli? Was it Varri? Was she looking at me? Or did her eyes wander over toward Max? I was too happily sated to care.

  “The rest of the charming ladies in the harem deserve a trial, too,” I said, wondering if my heart would stand the strain. Zogu had warned about overusing his charm. Well, what a way to go! Who wouldn’t want such a…patriotic ending?

  “Wait till the others hear about our sport!” Was that Lutzi? I hope it was Lutzi. I did want to make her happy. And I know, with memory yet green, how happy she made me. She went on, “They won’t be able to wait for their turn to come.” The others all nodded, except for-I believe-Shkoza, who’d dozed off.

  I gently shook her awake. Then I said, “I’m afraid, my dears, it’s time for you to put on your cloaks and your veils and go on back behind the door for a while. I’ll call for you again as soon as I can. North and south, east and west, I promise you that.”

  They sighed, but they obeyed. Alas! Only the Two Prophets can see ahead of time how and whether what a man says will come to pass. I intended to keep that promise. I was, ah, firmly resolved to keep that promise. But-alas!

  I nodded to Max. “Captain Yildirim, you might do well to disappear while we go through the boring formalities.” He went back into the closet-and no, not like that. But I didn’t want Skander and Rexhep spitting rivets. The girls sighed when he closed the door. I reminded myself they’d taken pleasure with me, too. I had to remind myself rather loudly, I fear.

  I also had to remind myself to get dressed again. I was the last one out of my clothes, and the last one into them again. With a sad sigh of my own, I opened the door and called for Skander. He was yawning when he got there. What time was it? I’d had other things on my mind. “Be so good as to summon Rexhep to escort the ladies back to the harem,” I told him.

  “Of course, your Majesty,” he said, stone-faced. “I trust everything went well?”

  “Oh, yes!” That wasn’t me. That was Lutzi and Maja and Bjeshka and Varri and Zalli and Shkoza. They sounded so convincing-and so convinced-that Skander retreated in disorder.

  Rexhep came and took the girls away without a word. Did he hate me more because I’d satisfied them? For that matter, did he hate me more because I’d satisfied myself? I didn’t inquire. Yes, some few things are better left unknown.

  Max emerged from the closet neatly sheveled (the opposite of disheveled, yes?) once again. “How do you propose to get back into your room if it’s barred from the inside?” I asked. That, I did want to know.

  “I’ll pull strings,” he said. The reply made no sense to me, but then, a fair amount of what Max says makes no sense to me. The only thing saving him from complete incomprehensibility is that, unlike a lot of people I could name, he doesn’t talk too much.

  On the way to Max’s room, we passed Skander in the hallway. Skander gave one of the better double takes I’ve seen on noting the redoubtable Captain Yildirim out and about. Put it on the stage in Schlepsig or Albion or even Narbonensis and it would stop the show for a couple of minutes: it was that good.

  I wondered if my majordomo would follow us. That could have been awkward. But he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t trust his own eyes. If not, he was foolish: if you think you see something Max’s size, you probably do.

  When we got to Max’s door-also tall-he reached up and yanked on a bit of string up near the top. No one less uncouthly tall would have noticed it or could have reached it. “I put the bar on a pivot,” he murmured. “All I need to do is pull down here, and up it comes.” And it did. He opened the door and went into the room where Skander thought he’d been all along. “Sweet dreams, your Majesty.”

  Well, I obliged him there. Oh, didn’t I just!

  XIII

  Sorry-no Chapter XIII. It’s unlucky.

  XIV

  Yes, I know this is the thirteenth chapter. But it’s not Chapter XIII. There’s a difference. If you don’t believe me, ask the next tall building you happen to meet.

  When I woke in the morning, I had some trouble remembering where I was and who I was supposed to be. But I didn’t have any trouble at all remembering what I’d been doing. I smiled. Traces of cinnamon and rosewater and sandalwood still lingered in the air. My smile got wider.

  Had it been only the morning before when I was crowned King of Shqiperi? By Eliphalet’s curly whiskers, so it had! This would be my first whole day as a sovereign among sovereigns, equal in rank (if not in might) to the lords of Schlepsig and Torino and Leon.

  In something over half a day’s worth of kinging it, I’d started a war and start
ed an orgy. I wondered what I could do to top that, given a day with the full complement of hours.

  First things first. I looked under the bed. Zogu’s stuffed eagle stone was still there. He’d warned me about overusing it, but he had said I could get a few days out of it. You never know how much till you try. It would, I told myself, be purely in the pursuit of knowledge. Can you deny that carnal knowledge is knowledge like any other kind? Can you deny it’s more fun than any other kind?

  Didn’t think so.

  I walked over to the closet to see what all was in it when it wasn’t holding Max. Besides those incandescent robes, it turned out to have some specimens of Shqipetari national costume. What Shqipetari wear is more attractive than, say, Lokrian clothes: no short skirts, no pompoms on the shoes. Past that, I don’t have much to say for it. One of these days, I might have to put it on anyway, to show I was at least pretending to be a jolly Shqipetar like the jolly Shqipetari I ruled. (More often than not, a jolly Shqipetar either has something wrong with him or he’s just killed someone, but that’s another story.)

  Along with the white shirts and tight trousers and clumsy cloaks and horrid headgear (and those robes, which even Count Rappaport would have disdained), the closet held several sensible, comfortable Hassocki caftans. Evidently I was allowed to recall the land I came from as well as the one I now inhabited. A caftan and a crown go together oddly, but I donned them both. Maybe I would start a new trend.

  The faithful-I hoped-Skander wasn’t far from the door when I came out. If he saw anything odd about my outfit, he didn’t mention it. “Good morning, your Majesty,” he said. “How may I serve you today?”

  “Coffee,” I said. “Breakfast.” A king has to have his priorities straight. I thought about asking for another helping of harem girls, too, just to see the look on Skander’s face. But I couldn’t do them justice right then, and my mother always taught me not to ask for anything I couldn’t use. So I tried a different question instead: “Who wants to see me this morning?”

  “Several scribes, your Majesty-they seemed quite insistent,” the majordomo replied. “And Essad Pasha-he seemed quite upset. And Untergraf Horst-Gustav-he seemed quite…well, quite hung over.”

  “I’ll deal with all of them,” I said, though the prospect of dealing with scribes made me wish I were hung over, too. Considering some of the katzenjammers I’ve had, that tells you how much I love scribes. I couldn’t face them on an empty stomach. “Coffee,” I repeated. “Breakfast.”

  The coffee was Hassocki-style, thick and sweet and muddy, the way it always is in the Nekemte Peninsula. It was also strong enough to pry my eyelids apart despite my sweaty exertions the night before. If I had been hung over, the curses and clashing cutlery in the kitchens would have driven me to despair. As things were, they helped wake me up.

  Fried eggs. Fried blood sausages. Fried mush, which looks like something from the wrong end of a cow but actually tastes pretty good. The cooks didn’t fry the strawberries. If they had, I might have ordered my first executions.

  Max staggered into the dining room when I was about halfway through breakfast. He looked even more bedraggled, or possibly bed-raggled, than I felt. “Coffee,” he croaked in piteous tones.

  “Yes, your Excellency.” Skander bowed deeply. “At once, your Excellency.” He acted a lot more deferential toward Max than he had the day before. He must have decided Captain Yildirim was a powerful wizard along with being my aide-de-camp. How else could the redoubtable captain have got out of a locked room? Not for anything would I have told Max’s secret.

  I lingered over coffee, and smoked a cigar to stretch things out still further. It seemed to distress Skander. Shqipetari, I learned later, reckon anything but a pipe unmanly. This doesn’t keep some of them from smoking cigars and cigarettes. It does give the rest an excuse to sneer at the ones who do. And Skander couldn’t very well think me unmanly, not after the night before.

  Bless the girls, anyhow!

  At last, though, I had to face the evil moment. Captain Yildirim at my side, I went to the throne room to do it. Maybe the royal trappings would impress the foreign scribes (there were no Shqipetari scribes, proving the kingdom did have something going for it after all). Or maybe not-the trappings didn’t much impress me.

  In swarmed the scribes, pens poised above notebooks. They shouted questions in half a dozen languages, only two of which I was supposed to understand. I glanced over to Max, who stood behind and to the left of the throne. “Captain Yildirim,” I said.

  Out came the sword, the blade glittering in the torchlight. “Show respect for the royal dignity!” Max bawled in Hassocki.

  Not many scribes knew Hassocki. That was all right. When a very large man bares his blade and shouts angrily, even some journalists will pay attention-enough to lessen the racket, anyhow.

  Bumbling Bob of Albion wouldn’t have noticed the sword if it cut off his head, and probably would have gone right on talking afterwards. Losing his head wouldn’t have affected his brainpower much. In Albionese-of course-he asked, “Why did you declare war on Belagora?”

  He didn’t know I spoke Albionese. He thought I didn’t, in fact. But, poor sap, he didn’t speak anything else. Eventually someone translated the question into Schlepsigian, which I could admit I understood. Because Barisha wears silly uniforms and ridiculous medals. No, I didn’t say it. It was true, but I didn’t say it. Ah, diplomacy.

  “Because Belagora does not respect Shqiperi’s northern border. Because Belagora has soldiers on our territory”-my very first royal we!-“and refuses to remove them.” That was also true. It had the added virtue of being polite, or as polite as you can be when you declare war on somebody. It had the vice of being dull.

  The scribes didn’t care. They solemnly wrote it down. One of them asked, “What will you do if Vlachia declares war on you?”

  “Why should I care about the Vlachs?” I said grandly.

  “Because they just beat the stuffing out of the Hassockian Empire?” the scribe suggested. “Because most of your soldiers are Hassocki leftovers?”

  As a Schlepsigian, I had nothing but scorn for Vlachs. As I’d pointed out to Barisha, they’re born chicken thieves. They also have a certain talent for murdering their betters from ambush. But the idea that I should take them seriously struck me as absurd.

  As a Schlepsigian…I had to remember that, to these hovering vultures, I was no Schlepsigian. I was Halim Eddin, prince of a folk who, as the scribe was blunt enough to remind me, had just got ignominiously beaten by the Vlachs. How should I-I as Halim Eddin-react to that?

  I decided that neither I as myself nor I as Halim Eddin could stomach knuckling under to the Vlachs. “If they want a fight, let them come. We will give them all they ask for, and more besides. They didn’t beat our army here in Shqiperi during the Nekemte Wars, and they won’t beat it now.”

  More furious scribbling from the scribes. “Do you trust Essad Pasha as a general?” one of them called.

  Now there was an interesting question. I didn’t trust Essad Pasha to empty my Chambers pot. Deceit was his middle name. I’d put the fear of the Quadrate God-or at least of Captain Yildirim-in him, but how long would that last? Long enough for me to let him command an army when he wasn’t right under my eye? Max’s cough said he didn’t like the idea. Neither did I. But if he let the Vlachs beat him, he wasn’t just risking my neck. He was risking his own even more.

  “Essad Pasha is a very valiant warrior,” I said after those calculations swallowed perhaps two heartbeats. I might not even have been lying. And I knew that, whatever I told the scribes, Essad Pasha would hear of it in short order. I went on, “Thanks to his courage and brilliance, Vlachian aggression in Shqiperi went nowhere during the late wars.”

  I might not have been lying about that, either. I didn’t say anything about my new kingdom’s impossible geography. You can’t make a hero out of swamps and mountains. Yes, I admit that making a hero out of Essad Pasha is just about as unlikely, bu
t all the same…

  I also hadn’t said whether I trusted him. I wondered if the scribes would notice. There went some wasted worry. Scribes get paid to write down the obvious, and to try not to put their readers to sleep while they do it. The better ones can more or less manage that. The rest? Well, if someone like Bob can still get work, the standards of the trade could be higher.

  “How did you like your harem, your Majesty?” somebody asked.

  All the scribes leaned forward. There was the sort of story they were made to cover. They didn’t have to think, which was lucky for most of them. They only had to be sensational. They could handle that, all right. Some semipornographic drivel their editors could tone down-or spice up, if they were Narbonese-later on was just what they had in mind.

  As Otto of Schlepsig, I might have given it to them. As Halim Eddin? No. In the matter of harems, Halim Eddin was a worldly-wise man of experience, where the scribes were panting boys with drool running down their chins. So I said, “The girls seem pleasant enough. They fully measure up to the ones I knew in Vyzance.”

  “How many of them do you know?” someone shouted.

  “I made a point of introducing myself to all of them yesterday afternoon,” I replied. “Summoning women I had not met would be most impolite.”

  “How many of them did you summon?” a scribe asked, while another one called, “Did you summon them all at once or one at a time?”

  I looked severe. At least, I hoped I didn’t just look exhausted. “Gentlemen, I don’t ask you what you did in the nighttime.”

  Once that was translated for Bob, he said, “I did nothing in the nighttime.”

  “Thou lying dog,” Max said behind me in Hassocki. I don’t think any of the scribes heard him, which was probably just as well.