The crowd watched in fascination. As long as the two heads were shouting at each other-as long as Josй-Diego was shouting at himself?-in Leonese, everything was fine, or near enough. Hardly any Shqipetari understand it. But if and when Josй-Diego went back to Schlepsigian, all my troubles came back, too. Even in Peshkepiia, which is every bit as Prophets-forsaken as Josй-Diego said (why else would he, or they, have ended up there?), quite a few people know Schlepsigian, the language of Culture.
Josй stamped on Diego’s foot. That didn’t do either one of them any good, since they both felt it. They howled the polyglot curses anyone who’s done time in a circus uses.
Josй did go back to Schlepsigian, and I felt like cursing him. “Seriously, Otto, what are you doing here?” he asked.
And then, at my elbow, someone spoke to me in Hassocki: “Excuse me, your Majesty, but is this, uh, person bothering you?”
May I turn into a Shqipetar if it wasn’t the sergeant of the guard. He and his men had put Mustafa and Kemal away, and then they’d come after me to make sure I was all right. Such devotion is touching; it almost made me wish I really were Halim Eddin. “He’s…getting there,” I answered. “Tell me-do you or any of your men speak Schlepsigian?”
“No, your Majesty,” the sergeant said. “I’m sorry, your Majesty.”
“Don’t be,” I told him.
Josй-Diego gave me two suspicious stares. “What are you yattering about, Otto?” Josй said irritably. It wasn’t just Diego he couldn’t get along with; he had trouble with the whole world. “Talk a language a thivilithed man can underthtand.”
“He’th going to thcrew uth,” Diego thaid-uh, said. I said I wouldn’t do that any more, didn’t I? Well, I’m trying. “He’s going to screw us to the wall.” There, that’s better.
And I did aim to screw them to the wall, too. I’ll tell you something else-I enjoyed doing it metaphorically much more than I would have enjoyed it physically. I nodded to the sergeant. “This fellow is a troublemaker, I’m afraid. Why don’t you take him, uh, them, to the dungeon to cool down for a while?”
“Yes, your Majesty!” All at once, the sergeant sounded enthusiastic. He nodded to his troopers. “Grab the monster, boys!” I have no doubt that members of the Society for the Advancement of the Rights of Individuals with Multiple Necks will be distressed by the crudity, prejudice, and discriminatory nature of his language, and I apologize for the infliction of any such distress. I do not editorialize here; I merely report.
Apparently untroubled by higher feelings of brotherhood, the Hassocki soldiers grabbed the monster. Josй-Diego tried to fight back. In less time than it takes to tell, he-they-had three black eyes and two bloody noses. If it wasn’t pretty obvious that I wouldn’t have approved, he would have lost two heads.
“For Eliphalet’s sake, Otto, call the authorities!” Josй howled.
“You don’t seem to understand. I am the authorities,” I said, and then, to the sergeant, “Take him away!” If you’re going to be a tyrant, be a tyrant!
“Yes, your Majesty!” Away Josй-Diego went. He was still making a dreadful racket. Fortunately, he was doing most of it in Leonese, which the bystanders couldn’t follow. Now that I look back on it, that might have been lucky for him as well as for me. If they had understood some of the things he was calling them, he might not have made it to the dungeon.
“Keep him away from Mustafa and Kemal,” I called after the soldiers. “They don’t need to listen to his ravings.” Could you hold a two-headed man in solitary confinement? A nice grammatical and philosophical question, isn’t it?
The sergeant waved to show he heard me. I wasn’t sure whether the Hassocki officers spoke Schlepsigian. I wouldn’t have been surprised, though. If they did, they would have found out some things I didn’t want them knowing. They would have been able to tell the palace guards about them, too. That could have proved…awkward.
As things were, Take him away! worked just fine. No wonder tyrants enjoy being tyrannical. Not many bigger thrills than telling people what to do and actually having them do it. Some, yes (I wondered if Zogu’s aphrodisiac preparation was good for one more night), but not many.
The market square slowly went back to normal-which is to say, dull. I turned to Max. “Well, I’m glad that’s over with,” I said. “We don’t want any more two-faced dealing around here.”
My esteemed minister for special affairs looked revolted if not outright rebellious. But he said, “I guess you did about as well with that as you could. Out of sight, out of mind.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “Josй-Diego is out of his mind-minds-even when he’s in sight.”
Max didn’t try to tell me I was wrong-a good thing, since I was right. “I wonder what he was doing in Peshkepiia,” he said.
I shrugged. “This is a place for losers. Where else would somebody like Josй-Diego show up?” There aren’t many like him-and a good thing, too, I say.
“What are we doing here, in that case?” Max inquired.
“Don’t be difficult,” I told him. “I’ll say this-what we’re doing here is a lot more profitable than haggling for vegetables in the market square. More fun, too. By tonight we’ll have tried out the whole harem.”
“A point,” Max said. When Max doesn’t argue, you know it’s a good point, too.
Peshkepiia, royal harem and royal treasury excepted, was rapidly running out of good points. Chief among the not so good points was the Consolidated Crystal office. Given any encouragement from me, Max would have haunted the place like a jilted ghost in one of those castles on the crags above the river that are so beloved of Schlepsigian romance-writers of the female persuasion.
Even without encouragement from me, the intrepid Captain Yildirim went back to the CC office. When he returned to the market square, his face was longer than the road between Dooger and Cark’s and a good circus.
“Well, what is it this time?” I asked. Maybe if he got it out of his system all at once, as if from a purgative…
“It’s the Hassockian Atabeg, that’s what,” said my minister for special affairs. “Really bellowing like an angry dragon now. He says the fellow who has the unmitigated gall to pretend to be his Highness, Prince Halim Eddin, should get exactly what he deserves, and another twenty piasters’ worth besides.”
Now, I’ve always thought of my gall as being on the mitigated side. “Twenty piasters piled together aren’t worth a good Schlepsigian kram,” I said.
Somehow, this observation failed to calm Max. “That still leaves you getting what you deserve,” he said. “It leaves me getting what you deserve, too, for which I thank you so very much. What the Atabeg thinks you deserve would keep a team of torturers busy for weeks.”
“You’ve been getting what I deserve the past three nights, too, or half of it, anyway,” I said. “When you thank me for that, you can sound like you mean it.”
Max ignored that thrust, despite all the thrusting he’d done on those three memorable nights. “Wait till this fireball gets to Essad Pasha,” he said dolefully. “Just wait. He can’t pretend he doesn’t believe it, the way he did with the last one.”
“No. He really didn’t believe that one,” I said. I had a certain amount of trouble believing Essad Pasha would disbelieve the Atabeg’s latest. Since I had trouble believing it, I didn’t waste my time trying to persuade Max. Trying to persuade Max of anything good is commonly a waste of time. I did want to persuade him to keep quiet, so I added, “Essad Pasha hasn’t complained about my jugging Colonel Kemal and Major Mustafa.”
“Not yet,” Max said. “No, not yet. But he hasn’t heard the latest, either. When he does, he’ll probably complain about your jugging Josй-Diego, too.”
Now he’d gone too far. “Nobody could possibly complain about jugging Josй-Diego,” I said with great certainty. “North and south, east and west, even Josй thinks Diego wants jugging, and conversely.”
“And perversely, you mean,” Max said. “Curse it, we
’re in trouble, Ot-uh, your Majesty.”
“You worry too much,” I said. “For all you know, this latest mumble from Vyzance won’t even get to Essad Pasha. Why should it?”
“Your Majesty!” That was Bob, the bewigged Albionese attempt at a scribe. Who else would shout at me in a language he didn’t think I spoke? Still in Albionese, he went on, “What do you think of the Atabeg’s latest statement, your Majesty?”
“That’s why,” Max said, fortunately in a low voice.
“Oh, shut up,” I told him, also quietly. I nodded to the scribe with Bob, a man possessed of some sense. The other newshounds, I noted, made a point of not letting Bob wander around by himself. I suppose none of them was really eager to be the one who had to identify his body. “What does he say?” I asked in Schlepsigian.
The other scribe translated something I understood into something I admitted understanding. “I also would like to know this, your Majesty,” he told me.
I’ll bet you would, I thought. No matter how foolish Bob was, not all of his questions were. Perfect idiocy, appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, seemed beyond him. “I am afraid the Atabeg feels acknowledging my presence here would be an embarrassment,” I told the other scribe, and embroidered on that theme for some little while-the same story I’d given my dear Max and my not so dear Essad Pasha.
As I talked, Bob hopped up and down in an agony of impatience. He tugged at the other scribe’s sleeve like a little boy with no manners. “What does he say?” he asked, as I had. But he did it over and over again. “What does he say? What does he say?”
Had I been that other scribe, I would have hauled off and decked him. But the other man showed admirable patience-what was he doing in his line of work, anyway? He even did a good job of translating what I’d told him. When he finished, Bob nodded, as if in wisdom. “Well,” he said, “that makes sense.”
I sent Max a slightly superior smile, one that said, You see? They’re still buying it. I didn’t want to be too blatant, for fear the other scribe would notice me reacting to things I wasn’t supposed to be able to follow. Bob I wasn’t worried about. Bob noticed nothing, as he proved by believing me.
The other scribe sent him a pitying smile, as if he still thought Eliphalet drank the extra mug of beer people put out for his name day. “It’s a crock of crap, Bob,” he said in Albionese. “This guy’s lying through his teeth. Either he is or the Atabeg is, anyway, and the Atabeg sounds too cheesed off to be blowing smoke. Something’s screwy somewhere. You wait and see.”
I wasn’t supposed to be able to follow that, either. By my expression, you’d never know I did. I glanced over at Max. I wasn’t expecting a slightly superior smile from him, and I didn’t get one. Max doesn’t waste smiles like that. I’d never imagined anybody frowning a slightly superior frown, but there it was. Max’s face is made for expressing subtle shades of disapproval.
“Are you really the Atabeg’s nephew, your Majesty?” Bob asked. He had a childlike faith that, because he was a scribe, nothing he said could land him in trouble. Or maybe he was trying to prove he was a perfect idiot after all; I don’t know. I do know his keeper turned a shade of chartreuse that didn’t go at all well with the dark green jacket he was wearing.
“What does he say?” I asked again, as innocently as if I were innocent.
Instead of answering me, the other scribe spoke to Bob in a low voice. I really couldn’t follow all of that. What I could follow was…entertaining. Bob’s keeper wasn’t telling him all the different kinds of fool he was; he’d still be standing there in the Peshkepiia market square talking if he tried it. He did seem to make a judicious selection.
“What does he say?” I asked again after a while.
“Never mind, your Majesty. He’s decided he doesn’t really want to ask that question,” the other scribe said in Schlepsigian. “Haven’t you, Bob?” he added in ominous Albionese.
“It really would be interesting to find out,” Bob said. “Add a bit of human interest to things. Make a good story-do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, and the story right after it would be how an Albionese scribe got his nose cut off because he couldn’t keep from poking it into dark corners with knives hidden in them.” His keeper had some basic grasp on reality. The man switched to Schlepsigian to tell me, “Bob really and truly doesn’t want to ask that question.”
Bob really and truly did, but I wasn’t supposed to know it. So I smiled and nodded and let the other scribe lead the ineffable Albionese out of danger. Out of danger from me, anyhow-I had the feeling Bob would keep on putting himself in danger wherever he went and whatever he did. And he wouldn’t even know he was putting himself in danger, which would be all the more dangerous for him.
“Your Majesty.” By the exaggerated patience with which Max said it, he didn’t think I even knew I was putting myself in danger. “Your Majesty, it’s unraveling. It’s coming to pieces. Don’t you think we ought to get out while the getting’s good? Don’t you think we ought to while we still can?”
I sighed and reached up to pat him on the back. “Go if you want to, old fellow. I won’t say a word about it. But I’ll miss you tonight, I really will. Even with Zogu’s charm under the bed, I don’t know if I can handle six of them all by myself. Oh, well. I’ll just have to try my, ah, hardest. It’s my patriotic duty, after all.”
Max walked back to the palace with me. I’m sure his patriotic duty was the uppermost thing in his mind. Max always was a very patriotic fellow.
Strati. Hoti. Rruga. Jeni. Zarzavate. Silnif. The last of the harem. Thinking that made me sad. There wouldn’t be any more first times for me and Max. Ah, well. Some things don’t get boring even with repetition.
By that fourth night, Skander had given up asking the whereabouts of my distinguished minister for special affairs. He assumed Max was in the room where he belonged. I assumed Max belonged in the room where he was. Skander’s assumption satisfied him-and presumably Rexhep. Mine satisfied me.
Max seemed quite capable of satisfying himself.
Between the two of us, we seemed quite capable of satisfying Strati and Hoti and Rruga (roll those first two r’s as hard as you can) and Jeni and Zarzavate and Silnif. Yes, Zogu’s magic helped. But we knew what we were doing, and we did several different things. If we’d just done that, we never could have managed, even with a helping hand from the wizardry.
“Oh, your Majesty!” Zarzavate said at one point in the proceedings. I think it was Zarzavate. Whoever it was, I don’t believe I got a more heartfelt compliment in my whole reign.
But all good things must come to an end, which is another way to say you can’t keep coming forever, no matter how much you wish you could. We sprawled across the bed and across one another, worn out but happy.
“Which of us did you like best, your Majesty?” asked Hoti-I do believe it was Hoti.
“All of you,” I said. I might not be a politician, but I’m not an imbecile, either. I sounded sincere, too.
The girls laughed. Even Max unfrowned a little. But Hoti-was it Hoti?-didn’t want to leave it alone. She pouted prettily. “Yes, your Majesty, which of all of us?”
Well, I had an opinion. I had it, and I was bloody well going to keep it to myself. The Atabeg’s torturers couldn’t have torn it out of me. So I say, anyhow, never having made the acquaintance of those illustrious gentlemen.
“All of you,” I repeated. “I can’t imagine how any king anywhere in all the world could be happier than I am right now.” And I could imagine the harem wars if I didn’t stay evenhanded. I could, and I didn’t want to.
None of the girls felt combative just then. I liked the way they felt just fine. “We’d do anything for you, your Majesty,” Strati said. I’m almost sure it was Strati. “Anything at all.” If she was the one I thought she was at one particular moment-exactly who was who when blurred a bit-she meant every word of that, too.
“And for you, brave Captain Yildirim,” Silnif added. Well, let’s
say it was Silnif. “We don’t want you to feel all alone, now.” She giggled. My minister for special affairs might have felt a lot of things right then, but he was most unlikely to feel alone.
A little later, Max did his amazing, astounding, never to be equaled disappearing act: he went back into my closet. The girls sighed with regret. I restored myself to something resembling decency. They sighed about that, too, which did ease my mind. Then they got dressed, which gave me something to regret.
I summoned Skander. Skander summoned Rexhep. The eunuch took the girls back to the harem. “You’ve made yourself remarkably popular, your Majesty,” Skander said, for all six of them went right on sighing. “Remarkably.” He knew something was going on, but he didn’t know what. A good thing he didn’t, too.
That was the end of my fourth night as King of Shqiperi.
XVII
On the fifth day, things fell apart.
I might have known they would. By Eliphalet’s fuzzy whiskers, I had known they would. I’d tried not to admit it, even to myself. I’d tried not to admit it, especially to myself. That didn’t make things any better when they did fall apart. Yes, I admit it. If I’d had any sense…
If I’d had any sense, I would have stayed in Thasos. I never would have become King of Shqiperi. I never would have browbeaten Essad Pasha. I never would have slain a dragon on the way to Peshkepiia. I never would have declared war on Belagora. I never would have made the acquaintance of so many lovely-well, reasonably lovely-Shqipetari maidens.
That was the good side. I’d savored every instant of it.
The bad side was, once things started falling apart, everybody else in Peshkepiia savored the notion of killing me in as many ingenious ways as possible. Even Essad Pasha showed a regrettable tendency not to stay browbeaten. I certainly regretted it, let me tell you.
He came to the palace while I was still eating breakfast. Given the general greasiness of Shqipetari breakfasts, most of the time I wouldn’t have minded having mine interrupted. Most of the time. This particular morning, though, he came with a sorcerous copy of the portrait of Halim Eddin, the very portrait that had launched me on my kingly career.
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