“What sort of an arrival? Speak up!”
The man gestured helplessly. “First, a number of wagons, Lady Ninazu. Half a dozen of them at least. It is the Show of Ensor. And then a—a crowd of soldiers.”
“Ah!” she cried with delight, and looked at Ben. “Come with me!”
For a moment Ben considered trying to vanish into the orchard, but the lady’s imperious eye caught him and dragged him along. He consigned himself to the fates, and followed with a sigh. His only hope was probably her protection anyway, he thought.
Maintaining a respectful interval, he followed her into the house and through its splendors. This was a very long, wide structure, all or very nearly all of it built upon a single level. When they had passed outside again through the front door Ben could see the front gate of the grounds standing open some thirty meters ahead of him. Beyond the open gate more soldiers were milling around.
Lady Ninazu hurried eagerly toward the gate, but he hung back.
Then he saw something that made him advance until he was able to see a little more. Outside the gate, soldiers were indeed arriving, and nonmilitary wagons too, a poor-looking little train of them with crude signs blazoned on their canvas sides. The Magnificent Show of Ensor.
The lady turned and beckoned Ben impatiently, signaling him to join her outside the gate. Slowly he complied. Amid a sudden new prodigality of torches, which were rapidly being lighted at the orders of the lady of the manor, Ben moved outside the gate, where he gazed with dull wonder at the five or six poor wagons, being pulled by tired-looking load beasts into camp position.
“Ho, there!” One of the officers in red and gray, who appeared to be in charge of the milling troops, bellowed impatiently toward the wagons. “Who’s the boss of that flea circus?”
At once the driver of one of the wagons waved back energetically. He reined his animals to a halt and jumped down from his high seat. Ben, staring at him, felt something in his heart almost stop; and then his blood was pumping steadily again, a little faster than before.
Meanwhile the officer had turned away, to deal with some evidently more urgent problem just brought to him by a noncom. The proprietor of the show had changed course and was now coming straight for Ben.
Ben waited. It seemed that there was nothing else that he could do.
The proprietor of the show was a middle-sized, sturdy-looking man clad in nondescript gray, with a short cloak to match. Dark hair, showing no sign of gray, curled crisply. The only remarkable feature of his attire was a magnificently painted clown’s mask that covered his own face completely.
He approached Ben with the familiar manner of an old friend—or perhaps an old military commander. He said, in a pleasant though undistinguished voice: “Maxim! I’m glad to see that you have found the right place.”
“Uh, yes sir.”
“Between us, Maxim, no formalities are necessary.” And the masked man reached out with one hand to clasp Ben familiarly by the arm.
No one else, for the moment, was paying the least attention to their conversation. Ben licked dry lips. He said: “We have met before—I think. You are the Emperor.”
The other nodded. “Of course. And we have met —but you had no way of knowing me then. I sat on a hillside overlooking the sea, and greeted you as you climbed past me. You answered, but you were not minded to stay and talk to me that day.”
Ben swallowed and nodded. Since that day years ago he had learned a great deal, about the nature of the world and the powers that moved in it, and now he felt relief almost as at the arrival of a friendly army. And yet at the same time he felt newly uneasy, even somewhat fearful, in this man’s presence.
“Will you join us for the evening?” the other went on in his mild voice, gesturing toward his wagons. “Or for longer, if you like.”
“I … for this evening, certainly, if you wish it.”
“I think it would be a good idea. Each member of my little troupe here must be ready to play his or her assigned part. Tonight I have the urge to be a clown. Often I have that urge, and give way to it. A little joke or two, here and there, hey, to lighten up the world?”
Ben nodded again. “Your son,” he said, choking a little, “Prince Mark, is out there on the island. I mean, I don’t know if he’s—”
“Oh, he’s alive,” the Emperor assured Ben quickly. “Not as fully and pleasantly alive as he has been, or ought to be, but … it is not easy to kill one of my children.” The eyes behind the clown’s mask glittered out at Ben. “My daughter Ariane lives also. You may see her again, one day, when both of you will have to make great decisions.”
Ben could not speak.
The smaller man clapped him reassuringly on the arm again. “Come, strongman. Did you see which wagon I was driving? Hop up into it, and put your costume on. You’ll find it there. Then be ready to use your strength to help your Prince.”
Feeling somewhat dazed, Ben walked out among the wagons. Momentarily he felt now as if he had returned to the days of his youth. He had spent years then in the carnival with Barbara, the dragon-hunter Nestor, and later with Mark himself, long before there had been any suspicion in Mark’s mind that he might one day occupy a princely throne.
Glancing in under the canvas of the other wagons as he passed them, Ben saw in one a small mermaid coming out of a bathtub-tank. She looked like one of the creatures that Zoltan had described to him, who could be found rarely in the rivers hereabouts, and somewhat more commonly farther south. This one was certainly not an animal captive, but another member of the small troupe, chatting with a woman in pink tights who was now handing her a towel.
Outside the next wagon were a couple of young men in the tight costumes of jugglers or acrobats, looking enough alike to be a team of brothers. And there, a pair of short-skirted dancing girls who resembled each other even more, enough to be twins.
He came to the indicated wagon, found a step, and hopped right aboard, pulling back the canvas flap. His weight made the light frame tilt strongly on the wooden springs. Someone’s cramped living quarters, perhaps those of the Emperor himself. No one else was in it now. Hanging on a prominent peg was a large garment of some leathery animal skin, with spots of fur still on it, and on the floor below it waited a pair of buskins sized for large feet.
Ben changed quickly into the costume, which fit him well. Meanwhile he wondered how in all the hells the Emperor had known to greet him as Maxim. Ben had made up that name on the spur of the moment—or he thought he had.
Might he have seen it or heard it somewhere else? He couldn’t recall doing so. But that problem, like some others, would have to wait.
A couple of minutes later, when he rejoined the Emperor and the other members of the troupe in the field outside the front gate of the manor, the process of setting the show up for a performance was already well under way. Little had to be done, beyond arranging some scantly decorations to mark out a portion of the field in front of the manor as a circus ring, and moving a couple of wagons to provide wings behind which it might be possible to organize something approaching a theatrical entrance.
Already the audience too was more or less in place. It was bigger than Ben had expected, certainly over a hundred people. Most of them were soldiers, with servants from the manor and a random scattering of other civilians attracted by the assembly. There were of course no seats, and the soldiers in particular were not settled in to watch. Whatever they had originally come here for, they were only pausing as their officers had paused, to see what might be interesting about this motley group of fools who had come to put on a show.
It was not the kind of audience Ben would have chosen, but he had already decided to obey orders. “What am I supposed to do?” he demanded loudly of anyone who would listen to him. He could see no weights, no strongman paraphernalia anywhere. And even as he spoke, the clown passed right by him, apparently ignoring his question completely. No one else paid him any particular attention.
Next, the clown, having reac
hed the approximate center of the open field, assumed the role of ringmaster. He made a short speech, punctuated by exaggerated bows and obeisances, which earned him a faint titter of laughter from the civilians in the crowd—only a few hoots and muttered curses from the soldiers. Giving a very good imitation of terror, he scampered back behind one of the wagons.
A moment later, to the music of simple drum and flute, the two dancing girls came prancing out from behind the other wagon. It was a simple dance, more comic than erotic. But the assembled soldiers greeted it with a roar of serious lust.
The girls had barely reached the center of the ring when the first of the soldiers rushed from the sidelines to grab at them. One performer was whirled around in a helpless parody of a dance; the other, pawed by a dozen hands, already had part of her costume torn off.
The two victims were able to escape only because fighting broke out almost immediately among the soldiers. As an officer shouted into the confusion, the dancers made good a quick retreat, their faces pale, holding their ripped costumes about them as they ran.
Naturally the dancers were frightened. No, thought Ben as they passed him, it would be more accurate to say that they looked as if they had been frightened, even terrified, a moment ago. But now already they felt safe. They had managed to escape from the small arena, and with monumental trust they were ready to leave their problems in the hands of the clown.
Ben had already moved a step forward. But against a hundred soldiers his interference on the dancers’ behalf would have been hopeless; and now it appeared that it might not be necessary.
The clown, enacting a parody of bold defiance, had sprung forward from somewhere to confront the armed mass of the soldiers.
The masked figure had drawn from somewhere a rusty, toy-sized sword, and he waved this weapon wildly as in a thin, hopeless, angry voice he challenged the whole garrison of the town to come against him.
The soldiers laughed. At the beginning it was almost a good-humored sound.
One of them, not bothering to draw a weapon, came at the clown with fist uplifted, ready to knock this preposterous Obstacle out of his way with one half-drunken swing. But he couldn’t do it, couldn’t hold himself together long enough.
Helpless with laughter, the soldier staggered around the clown, who continued to challenge him, and halfway across the ring toward the waiting girls. But before he reached them he had to give up and sit down, abandoning himself completely to hilarity.
The laughter had spread quickly through the military audience, and it was growing steadily louder, though the clown was doing nothing to enlarge his simple routine. The officers, their next reaction anger, the instinct to maintain discipline, were soon as badly infected as the men.
Men and officers alike, they roared, they bellowed, they guffawed. They shrieked and screamed and howled. The noise they made was rising to an unnatural level. Officers abandoned their dignity entirely. Choking helplessly on their own mirth, they rolled on the ground.
The lady of the manor had come to stand beside Ben, watching, waiting.
Turning, looking until he caught Ben’s eye, the clown made a sign, a gentle push as of dismissal. It was an expressive gesture, and Ben knew it meant that he and Lady Ninazu were now free to be on their way.
Chapter Fourteen
Once again Draffut hoisted Zoltan to his shoulders. Then, swimming and wading, the giant carried the young man with him through the lake, back in the direction of the castle.
When they reached the area of shallower water that surrounded some of the smaller islands, the Beastlord enjoined silence, then set his passenger down again on a dark beach. Some of the victims of Draffut’s attack had evidently reached a different island, where they were waiting in hope of rescue; their mournful voices carried through the night.
Draffut crouched beside Zoltan and together they awaited the approach of the next boat.
“What if there’s no more traffic on the lake tonight?” Zoltan whispered.
“I think there will be. Even before I tipped that boat, something was stirring the soldiers to activity, in the castle and in the town.”
Looking in the direction of the castle on its island, Zoltan found something dreamlike in the appearance of the structure, with the multitude of tiny flames that were trying to light it all reflected in the water. Even more lights had appeared in the stronghold in the few minutes since he had taken his last deliberate look at it. And the docks at the foot of those high walls displayed increased activity. Miniature human figures could be seen swarming over them, though at the distance it was impossible to see just what they were about.
Draffut, who had been peering in the other direction, toward the town, now hissed softly, signaling for renewed silence. Crouching lower, the Beastlord whispered: “Another boatload of soldiers is coming in our direction—no, I think there are two boats this time.” Draffut’s whisper was a peculiar sound, like the rushing of an almost silent breeze across the night.
Very soon Zoltan, peering over the low, dry elevation of the barren islet, was also able to hear the oars. And shortly after that he believed he could tell that there were at least two boats approaching.
Tugging childlike at the half-luminous fur of the crouching giant beside him, he whispered very softly: “Ben might be on one of those.”
The Beastlord nodded his great head once. “When we approach these boats, I’ll signal with a roar if I see that they carry no prisoners. Then you can go on to the castle, as you are determined to do, if fortune grants you the chance. But if I am silent, then there are prisoners, or at least one, and you should probably wait to confer with them first.”
“I agree.”
Presently Zoltan was able to see the dark shapes of the slow-moving boats intermittently silhouetted against the twinkling lights of the distant town.
Moving his lips closer to Zoltan’s ear, Draffut whispered a last question: “Are you a good swimmer? Good enough to reach the castle from here, in water as cold as this?”
“Good enough.”
“Then do what you must do. And the help of all true gods go with you.”
With that Draffut slid away, moving in eerie silence, and, almost without causing a ripple, submerged himself to his neck. In this position he began to swim very quietly toward the two approaching boats. Zoltan, still fully clothed, moved after him.
In only a few moments the Lord of Beasts had reached the boats, and once more the night erupted in clamor and confusion. Once more the giant reared his full height out of the water, and closed his grip upon a wooden gunwale. And in rapid succession these craft too were tipped and emptied of their screaming rowers. Again the men in the boats had scrambled to grab up their weapons and use them against this incredible apparition—only to find themselves in the water, struggling just to breathe and find their footing, before they could even attempt to fight.
Draffut was roaring now, giving the signal agreed upon that there were no prisoners here for him to rescue; and Zoltan reacted accordingly. He, unlike Draffut, was under no compulsion to avoid harming the enemy. Swimming methodically into the tumult of bobbing heads and thrashing limbs, Zoltan picked out his target quickly. Close ahead of him the faint glint of moonlight on partial armor showed him a foe who was ill-equipped for watery combat.
Approaching this man from behind, Zoltan struck silently, taking his victim around the neck and thrusting him under the surface. The bubbles of the man’s last breath came up unnoticed by any of his struggling comrades.
A few moments later Zoltan was fumbling under water to lift the helmet from the lifeless head, and pull the drowned man’s short cape free at the neck and shoulders. The remaining armor, he thought, ought to be enough to weight the body down.
With the helmet now jammed uncomfortably on his own head, and the waterlogged cape trailing behind him, he waited his chance to seize one of the drifting oars. Once he had this minimum of support in hand, he struck out through the cold water for the castle, paddling with his
free hand and kicking briskly.
In the water around him, on every side, others were making progress in similar ways. None of the soldiers were now close enough to Zoltan to get a good look at him, or exchange conversation. He did his best to maintain this situation, preserving a certain distance.
The cold was numbing, but his steady efforts gradually brought the castle nearer. Looking up at those stone walls and towers from the very level of the lake, Zoltan saw them grow more and more intimidating. But it was too late now for second thoughts about his plan; he doubted that he would be able to reach the distant mainland from here by swimming, and there was no telling where Draffut might have got to now.
By now he was close enough to the castle docks to get a good look at the soldiers there. But their activities were not that much easier to comprehend. People appeared to be getting into boats and out of them again. Perhaps some large exchange, as of entire companies, between the castle and the town’s garrison had been in progress when Draffut began to disrupt traffic.
Whatever orderly process had been going on had been disrupted, and small wonder, with all the screams and havoc out on the darkened lake, and now with half-drowned, half-frozen refugees swimming in. By now the officers on the dock must have communicated with their superiors, and there would be a discussion going on of what had happened, and whether it was necessary to involve the next higher layer of authority. There were more torches now than ever on the docks, and by their light men were trotting to and fro, into the castle and out of it again.
Zoltan, swimming now within a few meters of the dock—and really sure for the first time that he was going to be able to reach it—took note of what was happening as one man and then another climbed out of the water ahead of him. He rejoiced to see that these arrivals were going almost unnoticed. And now a further distraction for the officers on the dock—out of the darkness behind Zoltan another burst of distant oaths and splashing. Draffut, in timely fashion, had evidently found yet another boat to capsize.
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