The Virgin of Zesh & the Tower of Zanid

by L. Sprague De Camp

  Let me help you!

  Fallon put his head into the door of the tent, a large one divided into compartments. In the vestibule, a wrinkled Krishnan sat on a hassock smoking a long cigar.

  Fallon said in fluent Balhibou: “Hello, Qais old man. What have you committed lately?”

  “In Balhib I’m Turanj,” replied the Krishnan sharply. “Forget it not, sir!”

  “Turanj then. May I enter, O seer?”

  The Krishnan flicked an ash. “Indeed you may, my son. Wherefore would you rend the veil?”

  Fallon let fall the flap behind him. “You know, sagacious one. If you’ll lead the way . . .”

  Turanj grunted, arose, and led Fallon into the main compartment of the tent, where a table stood between two hassocks. Each took a hassock, and Turanj (or Qais of Babaal as he was known in his native Qaath) said: Well, Antané my chick, what’s of interest this time?”

  “Let’s see some cash first.”

  “Ye are as niggardly with your facts as Dákhaq with his gold.” Qais produced a bag of coins from nowhere and set it down upon the table with a clink. He untied the draw string and fingered out a couple of golden ten-kard pieces.

  “Proceed.”

  Fallon thought, then said: “Kir’s worse. He took offense at the beard worn by the envoy of the Republic of Katai-Jhogo-rai. Compared to Terran whiskers, you could hardly see this beard—but the king ordered the envoy’s head off. Embarrassing, what? Especially to the poor envoy. It was all Chabarian could do to hustle the fellow out and send him packing, meanwhile assuring the Dour that the victim had been dispatched. Of course, he had been—but in another sense.”

  Qais chuckled. “Right glad am I that I’m no minister to a king madder than Gedik, who tried to lasso the moons. Why’s Kir so tetchy on the theme of whiskers?”

  “Oh, don’t you know that story? He once grew one himself—twelve or fourteen whole hairs’ worth—and then the Grand Master of the Order of Qarar in Mikardand sent one of his knights on a quest to bag this same beard. It seems that this knight had done in some local bloke, and Kir had been giving Mikardand trouble, so Juvain figured on giving ’em both a lesson. Well, Sir Shurgez got the beard, and that pushed Kir off the deep end. He’d already been acting eccentric—now he went completely balmy, and has remained in that interesting state ever since.”

  Qais passed over the two golden coins. “One for the news of Kir’s madness, and the other for the tale wherewith ye embellished it. The Kamuran will relish it. But proceed.”

  Fallon thought again. “There’s a plot against Kir.”

  “There always is.”

  “This looks like the real thing. There’s a chap named Chindor—Chindor er-Qinan, a nephew of one of the rebellious nobles liquidated by Kir when he abolished feudal tenure. He’s out to grab the throne from Kir, as he claims, from the highest motives.”

  “They always do,” murmured Qais.

  Fallon shrugged. “He might have pure motives at that, who knows? I once knew an honest man. Anyway, Chindor’s backed by one of our new middle-class magnates. Liyará the Brass-founder, the story being that Chindor’s promised Liyará a protective tariff against brasswork from Madhiq in return for his support.”

  “Another Terran improvement,” said Qais. “If the idea spreads much farther, ’twill utterly ruin this planet’s trade. What details?”

  “None beyond what I’ve told you. If you make it worth my while I’ll dig into it. The more worth, the more dig.”

  Qais handed over another coin. “Dig, and then shall we decide how much ’tis worth. Aught else?”

  “There’s some trouble caused by Terran missionaries—Cosmotheists and Monotheists, and the like. The native medicine men have been stirring up their flocks against them. Chabarian tries to protect ’em because he’s afraid of Novorecife.”

  Qais grinned. “The more troubles of this sort, the better for us. What else have ye?”

  Fallon held out his hand palm up and twiddled the fingers. Qais said: “For small news like that, which I knew already, smaller pay.”

  He dropped a five-kard piece into the palm. Fallon scowled. “O sage, were that disguise never so perfect, yet should I know you by your lack of generosity.”

  He put away the coin and continued: “The priests of Bákh are campaigning against the cult of Yesht again. The Bákhites accuse the Yeshtites of human sacrifices and such abominations, and claim it’s an outrage that they—the state religion—may not extirpate the worship of the god of darkness. They hope to catch Kir in one of his madder moods and get him to revoke the contract made by his uncle Baladé giving the Yeshtites perpetual use of the Safq.”

  “Hmm,” said Qais, handing over another ten-kard piece. “Aught else?”

  “Not this time.”

  “Who built this Safq?”

  Fallon performed the Krishnan equivalent of a shrug. “The gods know! I suppose I could dig out more details in the library.”

  “Hast ever been in the structure?”

  “How much of a fool do you take me for? One doesn’t stick one’s head into the pile unless one’s a confirmed Yeshtite—that is, if one wishes to keep one’s head.”

  “Rumors have come to us of strange things taking place in the Safq,” said Qais.

  “You mean the Yeshtites are doing as the Bákhites say?”

  “Nay, these rumors deal not with matters sacerdotal. What the Yeshtites do I know not. But ’tis said that within that sinister structure, men—if they indeed be such—devise means to the scath and hurt of the Empire of Qaath.”

  Fallon shrugged again.

  “Well, if you’d truly make your fortune, find out! ’Tis worth a thousand karda, a true and complete report upon the Safq. And tell me not ye’ll ne’er consider it. Ye’d do anything for gold enough.”

  “Not for a million karda,” said Fallon.

  “By the green eyes of Hoi, you shall! The Kamuran insists.”

  Fallon made an impractical suggestion as to what the mighty Ghuur of Uriiq, Kamuran of Qaath, might do with his money.

  “Harken,” wheedled Qais. “A thousand’ll buy you blades enough to set you back upon the throne of Zamba! Doth that tempt you not?”

  “Not in the least. A moldy cadaver doesn’t care whether it’s on a throne or not.”

  “Be not that the goal for which for many years ye’ve striven, like Qarar moiling at his nine labors?”

  “Yes, but hope deferred maketh one skeptical. I wouldn’t even consider such a project unless I knew in advance what I was getting into—say if I had a plan of the building, and a schedule of the activities in it.”

  “Had I all that, I’d have no need to hire a Terran creature to snoop for me.” Qais spat upon the floor in annoyance. “Ye’ve taken grimmer chances. Ye Earthmen baffle me betimes. Perchance I could raise the offer by a little . . .”

  “To Hishkak with it,” snapped Fallon, rising. “How shall I get in touch with you next time?”

  “I remain in Zanid for a day or twain. Come to see me at Tashin’s Inn.”

  “Where the players and mountebanks stay?”

  “For sure—do I not the part play of such a one?”

  “You do it so naturally, maestro!”

  “Hmph! But none knows who I really be, so guard your saucy tongue. Farewell!”

  Fallon said good-bye and sauntered out into the bright sunshine of Roqir. He mentally added his takings: forty-five karda—enough to support him and Gazi for a few ten-nights. But it was hardly enough to start him on the road back to his throne.

  Fallon knew his own weakness well enough to know that if he ever did make the killing for which he hoped, he would have to set about hiring his mercenaries and regaining his throne quickly, for he was one through whose fingers money ran like water. He would dearly love the thousand karda of which Qais had spoken, but asking him to invade the Safq was just too much. Others had tried it and had always come to mysterious ends.

  He stopped at a drink shop and bought a bo
ttle of kvad, Krishna’s strongest liquor, something like diluted vodka as to taste. Like most Earthmen on Krishna, he preferred the plain stuff to the highly spiced varieties favored by most Krishnans. The taste mattered little to him; he drank to forget his disappointments.

  “Oh, Fallon!” said a sharp, incisive voice.

  Fallon turned. His first fear was justified. Behind him stood another Earthman: tall, lean, black-skinned, and frizz-haired. Instead of a Balhibou diaper, he wore a fresh Terran suit. In every way but stature he posed a sharp contrast to Fallon with his crisp voice, his precise gestures, and his alert manner. He bore the air of a natural leader fully aware of his own superiority. He was Percy Mjipa, consul for the Terran World Federation at Zanid.

  Fallon composed his features into a noncommittal blank. For a number of reasons, he did not like Percy Mjipa and could not bend himself to smile hypocritically at the consul. He said: “Hello, Mr. Mjipa.”

  “What are you doing today?” Mjipa spoke English fluently but with the staccato, resonant accent of the cultured Bantu.

  “Eating a lotus, old man—just eating a lotus.”

  “Would you mind stepping over to the prefectural pavilion with me? There’s a man I should like you to meet.”

  Mystified, Fallon followed Mjipa. He knew perfectly well that he was not the sort of person whom Mjipa would exhibit with pride to a visiting dignitary as an example of an Earthman making good on Krishna.

  They passed the drill field, where a company of the Civic Guard of Zanid was parading: platoons of pikemen and arbalestiers. These were a little ragged in their marching, lacking the polish of Kir’s professionals; but they made a brave showing in their scarlet tunics under shirts of blackened ring-mail.

  Mjipa looked narrowly at Fallon. “I thought you were in the Guard too?”

  “I am. In fact, I’m on patrol tonight. With catlike tread . . .”

  “Then why aren’t you out there parading?”

  Fallon grinned. “I’m in the Juru Company, which is about half non-Krishnans. Can’t you imagine Krishnans, Terrans, Osirians, Thothians, and the rest all lined up for a parade?”

  “The thought is a bit staggering—something out of a delerium tremens or a TV horror-show.”

  “And what would you do with our eight-legged Isidian?”

  “I suppose you could let him carry a guidon,” said Mjipa, and passed on. They came within range of the Terran missionary, who was still ranting.

  “Who’s he?” asked Fallon. “He seems to hate everything.”

  “His name is Wagner—Welcome Wagner. American, I believe, and an Ecumenical Monotheist.”

  “America’s gift to interplanetary misunderstanding, eh?”

  “You might say so. The odd thing is, he’s a reformed adventurer. His name is really Daniel Wagner; as Dismal Dan he was notorious around the Cetic planets as a worse swindler than Borel and Koshay put together. A man of no culture.”

  “What happened to him? Get thrown in pokey?”

  “Exactly, and got religion—as the Americans say—while brooding on his sins in the Novorecife jail. As soon as he got out, the E.M.s, having no missionaries in the West, signed him on. But now he’s a bigger nuisance than ever.” A worried shadow flickered across the dark face. “Those fellows give me a worse headache than simple crooks like you.”

  “Crooks like me? My dear Percy, you wound me, and what’s more you wrong me. I’ve never in my life . . .”

  “Oh, come on, come on. I know all about you. Or at least,” corrected the meticulous Mjipa, “more than you think I do.”

  They came to the big banner-decked tent. The African crisply acknowledged the salutes of the halberdiers who guarded the entrance to the pavilion, and strode in. Fallon followed him through a tangle of passages to a room that had been set aside for the consul’s use during the festival. There sat a stocky, squarish, wrinkled man with bristling short-cut white hair, a snub nose, wide cheek bones, innocent-looking blue eyes, and a white mustache and goatee. He was carelessly dressed in Terran travelling-clothes. As they entered, this man stood up and took his pipe out of his mouth.

  “Dr. Fredro,” said Mjipa, “here’s your man. His name is Anthony Fallon. Fallon, this is Dr. Julian Fredro.”

  “Thank you,” Fredro murmured in acknowledgment, head slightly bowed and eyes shifting, as if with embarrassment or shyness.

  Mjipa continued: “Dr. Fredro’s here for some archeological research, and while he’s about it, he’s taking in all the sights. He is the most indefatigable sightseer I’ve yet experienced.”

  Fredro made a self-deprecating motion, saying in Slavic-accented English: “Mr. Mjipa exaggerates, Mr. Fallon. I find Krishna interesting place, that’s all. So I try to make hay while cat is away.”

  “He’s run my legs off,” sighed Mjipa.

  “Oh, not really,” said Fredro. “I like to learn language of countries I visit, and mix with people. I am studying the language now. As for people—ah—Mr. Fallon, do you know any Balhibou philosophers in Zanid? Mr. Mjipa has introduced me to soldiers, noblemen, merchants, and workers, but no intellectuals.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Fallon. “The Krishnans don’t go in much for exploring the country of the mind, especially the Balhibuma, who consider ’emselves a martial race and all that sort of thing. The only philosopher I ever knew was Sainian bad-Sabzovan, some years ago at the court of the Dour of Gozashtand. And I never could understand him.”

  “Where is this philosopher now?”

  Fallon shrugged. “Where are the snows of yesteryear?”

  Mjipa said: “Well, I’m sure you can still show Dr. Fredro a lot of things of interest. There is one thing he’s particularly anxious to see, which ordinary tourists never do.”

  “What’s that?” asked Fallon. “If you mean Madame Farudi’s place in the Izandu . . .”

  “No, no, nothing like that. He merely wants you to get him into the Safq.”

  II

  Fallon stared, then cried, “What?”

  “I said,” repeated Mjipa, “that Dr. Fredro wants you to get him into the Safq. You know what that is, don’t you?”

  “Certainly. But what in the name of Bákh does he want to do that for?”

  “If—if I may explain,” said Fredro. “I am archeologist.”

  “One of those blokes who digs up a piece of broken butterplate and reconstructs the history of the Kalwm Empire from it? Go on—I rumble to you.”

  The visitor made motions with his hands, but seemed to have trouble getting the words out. “Look, Mr. Fallon. Visualize. You know Krishna is great experiment.”

  “Yes?”

  “Interplanetary Council tries to protect the people of this planet against too-fast cultural change by their technological blockade. Of course that has not worked altogether. Some Earthly inventions and—ah—customs leaked through before they gave visitors pseudo-hypnotic treatment, and others like the printing press have been allowed to come in. So today we see—how shall I say?—we witness native cultures beginning to crumble under impact of Terran cultural radiation. Is important that all information about native culture and history be got quickly, before this process runs its course.”

  “Why?”

  “Because first effect of such cultural change is—is to destroy the veneration of affected population for native traditions, history, monuments, relics—everything of that kind. But takes much longer to—ah—to inculcate in them the intellectual regard for such things characteristic of—of well-developed industrio-scientific culture.”

  Fallon fidgeted impatiently. Between the polysyllabic abstractions and the thick accent, he was not sure that he understood half of what Fredro was saying.

  Fredro continued: “As example, one nineteenth-century pasha of Egypt planned to tear down Great Pyramid of Khufu for building stone, under impression he was being enlightened modern statesman, like commercial-minded Europeans he knew.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, but what’s that got to do with our stickin
g our heads into a noose by breaking into that thing? I know there’s a cult based upon alleged measurements of the interior . . . What’s that gang, Percy?”

  “The Neophilosophical Society,” said Mjipa, “or as the Krishnan branch calls itself, the Mejraf Janjira.”

  “What is?” asked Fredro.

  “Oh, they believe that every planet has some monument—like that Egyptian pyramid you mentioned, or the Tower of the Gods on Ormazd—by whose measurements you can prophesy the future history of the planet. Their idea is that these things were put up by some space-travelling race, before the beginning of recorded history, who knew all future history because they’d seen it by means of a time-travelling gadget. Naturally they picked the Safq for that honor on Krishna. They turn people like that loose here, and then wonder why Krishnans consider all Earthmen cracked.”

  Fallon said: “Well, I’m no scientist, Dr. Fredro, but I hardly suppose you take that sort of thing seriously. I must say you don’t looked cracked, at least not on the outside.”

  “Certainly not,” said Fredro.

  “Then why are you so anxious to get inside? You won’t find anything but a lot of stone passageways and rooms, some fitted up for the Yeshtite services.”

  “You see, Mr. Fallon,” said Fredro, “no other Terran has ever got into it and it might—ah—fling light on the history of the Kalwm and pre-Kalwm periods. If nobody goes in, then Balhibuma might destroy it when their own culture breaks down.”

  “All very well, old chap. Not that I have any objection to science, mind you. Wonderful thing and all that.”

  “Thank you,” said Fredro.

  “But if you want to risk your neck, you’ll have to do it on your own.”

  “But, Mr. Fallon . . .”

  “Not interested. Definitely, absolutely, positively.”

  “You would not—ah—be asked to contribute your services for gratis, you know. I have a small allowance on my appropriation for employ of native assistance . . .”

  “You forget,” broke in Mjipa, with an edge in his voice, “that Mr. Fallon, despite his manner of life, is not a Krishnan.”