The Virgin of Zesh & the Tower of Zanid

by L. Sprague De Camp

  Dear Fallon:

  Fredro told me last night of your plans to attend Kastambang’s party tonight. Could you get around to see me today, bringing your invitation with you? Urgent.

  P. Mjipa, Consul

  Fallon scowled. Did Mjipa propose to interfere in his plans on some exalted pretext that Fallon would lower the prestige of the human race before “natives”? No, he could hardly do that and at the same time urge Fallon to proceed with the Safq project. And Fallon had to admit that the consul was an upright and truthful representative of the human species.

  So he had better go to see what Percy Mjipa had in mind, especially as he really had nothing better to do that morning. Fallon accordingly stepped back into his house to gather his gear.

  “What is’t?” asked Gazi, clearing the table.

  “Percy wants to see me.”

  “What about?”

  “He doesn’t say.”

  Without further explanation, Fallon set forth, the invitation snug in the wallet that swung from his girdle. Feeling less reckless with his money than he had the previous day, he caught an omnibus drawn by a pair of heavy draft ayas on Asadá Street over to the Kharju, where the Terran Consulate stood across the street from the government office building. Fallon waited while Mjipa held a long consultation with a Krishnan from the prefect’s office.

  When the prefect’s man had gone, Mjipa called Fallon into his inner office and began in his sharp, rhythmic tones: “Fredro tells me you’re taking Gazi to this binge at Kastambang’s. Is that right?”

  “Right as rain. And how does that concern the Consulate?”

  “Have you brought your invitation as I asked you to?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I see it, please?”

  “Look here, Percy, you’re not going to do anything silly like tearing it up, are you? Because I’m working on that blasted project of yours. No party, no Safq.”

  Mjipa shook his head. “Don’t be absurd.” He scrutinized the card. “I thought so.”

  “You thought what?”

  “Have you read this carefully?”

  “No. I speak Balhibouu fluently enough, but I don’t read it very well.”

  “Then you didn’t read this line, ‘Admit one only’?”

  “What?”

  Mjipa indicated the line in question. Fallon read with a sinking heart. “Fointsaq!” he cried in tones of anguish.

  Mjipa explained: “You see, I know Kastambang pretty well. He belongs to one of these disentitled noble families. A frightful snob—even looks down on us, if you can imagine such cheek. I’d seen one of his ‘Admit one only’ cards and I didn’t think he would want Gazi—a brotherless, lower-class woman. So I thought I’d warn you to save you embarrassment later if you both showed up at his town house and the flunkey wouldn’t let her in.”

  Fallon stared blankly at Mjipa’s face. He could see no sign of gloating. Hence, while he hated to admit it, it looked as though the consul had really done him a kindness.

  “Thanks,” said Fallon finally. “Now all I have to do is break the news to Gazi without getting my own neck broken in the process. I shall need the wisdom of ’Anerik to get me out of this one.”

  “I can’t help you there. If you must live with these big brawny Krishnan women . . .”

  Fallon refrained from remarking that Mjipa’s wife was built on the lines of the elephants of her native continent. He asked: “Will you be there?”

  “No. I wangled invitations for myself and Fredro, but he decided against going.”

  “Why? I should think he’d drool over the prospect.”

  “He heard about the beast fights they stage at these things, and he hates cruelty. As for me, these brawls merely make my head ache. I’d rather stay home reading Abbeq and Dangi.”

  “In the original Gazashtandu? All two hundred and sixty-four cantos?”

  “Certainly,” said Mjipa.

  “Gad, what a frightful fate to be an intellectual! By the bye, you said something the other day about getting me some false feelers and things for disguises.”

  “A good thing you reminded me.” Mjipa dug into a drawer and brought out a package. “You’ll find enough cosmetics to disguise both of you: hair dye, ears, antennae, and so on. As Earthmen practically never use them in Balhib anymore, you should be able to get away with it.”

  “Thanks. Cheerio, Percy.”

  Fallon strolled out, thinking furiously. First he suppressed, not without a struggle, an urge to get so drunk that the accursed party would be over and done with by the time he sobered up. Then, as the day was a fine one, he decided to spend some time walking along the city wall instead of returning directly home.

  He did not wish to quarrel or break up with Gazi; on the other hand there would certainly be fireworks if he simply told her the truth. He was plainly in the wrong for not having puzzled out the meaning of all the squiggles on the card. Of course he had shown it to her, so she should also have seen the fatal phrase. But it would do no good to tell her that.

  The nearest section of the wall lay to the east, directly away from his home, where the wall extended from the palace on the hill to the Lummish Gate. Most of the space from the fortifications surrounding the palace grounds to the Lummish Gate was taken up by the barracks of the regular army of Balhib. These barracks were occupied by whichever regiment happened to be on capital duty, plus officers and men on detached service. These last included Captain Kordaq, assigned the command of the Juru Company of the Civic Guard.

  Thinking of Kordaq set off a new train of speculation. Perhaps, if he worked it right . . .

  He inquired at the barracks and presently the captain appeared, polishing his spectacles.

  “Hello, Kordaq,” said Fallon. “How’s life in the regular army?”

  “Greeting, Master Antané! To answer your question, though ’twere meant as mere courteous persiflage: ’tis onerous, yet not utterly without compensation.”

  “Any more rumors of wars?”

  “In truth the rumors continued to fly like insensate aqebats, yet no thicker than before. One becomes immunized, as when one has survived the bambir plague one need never fear it again. But, sir, what brings you hither to this grim edifice?”

  Fallon replied: “I’m in trouble, my friend, and you’re the only one who can help me out.”

  “Forsooth? Though grateful for the praise implied by your confidence, yet do I hope you’ll not lean too heavily upon this frail swamp reed.”

  Fallon candidly explained his blunder, and added: “Now, you’ve been wanting to renew your acquaintance with Mistress Gazi, yes?”

  “Aye, sir, for old times’ sake.”

  “Well, if I went home sick and took to bed, of course Gazi would be much disappointed.”

  “Meseems she would,” said Kordaq. “But why all this tumultation over a mere entertainment? Why not simply tell her straight you cannot go, and carry her elsewhither?”

  “Ah, but I’ve got to attend, whether she goes or not. Matter of business.”

  “Oh. Well then?”

  “If you accidentally dropped in at my house during the eleventh hour, you could soothe the invalid and then offer to console Gazi by taking her out yourself.”

  “So? And whither should I waft this pretty little ramandu seed?”

  Fallon suppressed a smile at the thought of Gazi’s heft. “There’s a revival of Harian’s The Conspirators opening in the Sahi tonight. I’ll pay for the seats.”

  Kordaq stroked his chin. “An unusual offer, but—by Bákh, I’ll do it, Master Antané!” Captain Kyum owes me an evening’s duty with the Guard. I’ll send him to the armory in my stead. During the eleventh hour, eh?

  “That’s right. And there’s no hurry about bringing her home early, either.” At the gleam in Kordaq’s eye, Fallon added: “Not, you understand, that I’m making you a present of her!”

  ###

  Fallon got home for lunch, finding Gazi still in her sunny mood. After lunch, he settle
d down with a copy of Zanid’s quintan newspaper, the Rashm, a mythological name that might be roughly translated as “Stentor.” Soon he began to complain of feeling ill. “Gazi, what was in that food?”

  “Nought out of the ordinary, dear one. The best badr and a fresh-killed ambar.”

  “Hmp.” Fallon had gotten over the squeamishness of Earthmen towards eating the ambar, an invertebrate something like a lobster-sized roach. But since the creature decayed rapidly it would make a good excuse. A little later, he began to writhe and groan, to Gazi’s patent alarm. When another hour had passed he was back in bed, looking stricken, while Gazi in her disappointment dissolved into a fit of hysterical weeping, beating the wall with her fists.

  When her shrieks and sobs had subsided enough to enable her to speak articulately, she wailed: “Surely the God of the Earthmen is set against our enjoying a moiety of harmless pleasure! And all that lovely gold squandered on my new clothes, now never to be worn! Would we’d placed it at interest in a sound bank.”

  “Oh, we’ll—unh—find an occasion for them,” said Fallon grunting with simulated pain. His feeble conscience pricked him at this point. He felt that he had never given Gazi credit for her virtue of thrift; she had a much more acute sense of the value of a kard than he.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I shall be well by the tenth hour.”

  “Shall I fetch Qouran the Physician?”

  “I wouldn’t let one of your Krishnan doctors lay a finger on me. They’re apt to take out an Earthman’s liver in the belief it’s his appendix.”

  “There’s a physician of your own kind, a Dr. Nung, in the Gabánj. I could fetch him . . .”

  “No, I’m not that badly off. Besides, he’s a Chinese and would probably feed me ground yeki bones.” (This was hardly fair to Dr. Nung, but served as an excuse.)

  Fallon found the rest of the long afternoon very dull, for he did not dare to read, lest he give the impression of feeling too well. When the time for his third meal came he said that he did not wish any food. This alarmed Gazi—used to his regular and hearty appetite—more than his groans and grimaces.

  After an interminable wait, the light of Roqir dimmed and the door gong bonged. Gazi hastily wiped away her remaining tears and went to the door. Fallon heard voices from the vestibule, and in came Captain Kordaq.

  “Hail, Master Antané!” said this last. “Hearing you were indisposed, I came to offer such condolence as my rough taciturn soldier’s tongue is capable of. What ails my martial comrade?”

  “Oh, something I ate. Nothing serious—I shall be up by tomorrow. Do you know my jagaini, Gazi er-Doukh?”

  “Surely. We were formerly fast friends and recognized each other at the door, not without a melancholy pang for all the years that have passed since last we saw each other. ’Tis a pleasure to encounter her once again after so long a lapse.” The captain paused as if in embarrassment. “I had a small unworthy offer of entertainment to proffer—seats to the opening of The Conspirators—but if you’re too unwell . . .”

  “Take Gazi,” said Fallon. “We were going to Kastambang’s party, but I can’t make it.”

  There was a lot of polite cross-talk, Gazi saying that she would not leave Fallon sick, and Fallon—supported by Kordaq—insisting that she go. She soon gave in and prepared to be on her way in her spangled transparent skirt and glittering ulemda.

  Fallon called: “Mind that you take your raincoat. I don’t care if there isn’t a cloud in the sky. I don’t want to take a chance of getting those new clothes wet!”

  As soon as they were out of the house, Fallon bounded out of bed and dressed in his best tunic and diaper. This was going to turn out better than he had thought. For one thing, even if he had been able to take Gazi to Kastambang’s, having to look out for her would have hampered him in his project.

  For another, she had been hinting that she would like to be taken to The Conspirators. And Fallon, having seen The Conspirators once in Majbur, had no wish to witness the drama again.

  Fallon wolfed some food, buckled on his sword, took a quick swig of kvad and a quick look at himself in the mirror, and set out for the mansion of Kastambang the banker.

  IX

  Hundreds of candles cast their soft light upon the satiny evening tunics of the male Krishnans and upon the bare shoulders and bosoms of the females. Jewels glittered; noble metals gleamed.

  Watching the glitter, Fallon (not normally a very cogitative man) asked himself: These people are being pitch-forked from feudalism into capitalism in a few years. Will they go on to a socialist or communist stage, as some Terran nations did, before settling down to a kind of mixed economy? The inequality of wealth might be considered an incitement to such a revolutionary tendency. But then, Fallon reflected, the Krishnans had shown themselves so far too truculent, romantic, and individualistic to take kindly to any collectivist regime.

  He sat by himself, sipping the mug of kvad that he had obtained from the bar and watching the show on the little stage. If Gazi had been here, he would have had to dance with her in the ballroom, where a group of Balhibou musicians was giving a spiritedly incompetent imitation of a Terran dance band. As Anthony Fallon danced badly and found the sport a bore, his present isolation did not displease him.

  On the stage, a couple who advertised themselves as Ivan and Olga were leaping, bounding, and kicking up their booted feet in a Slavonic type of buck-and-wing. Although they wore rosy make-up over their greenish skins, had their antennae pasted down to their foreheads and concealed their elvish ears, the male by pulling his sheepskin Cossack hat down over them and the female by her coiffure, Fallon could see from small anatomical details that they were Krishnans. Why did they pretend to be Terrans? Because, no doubt, they made a better living that way; to Krishnans, the Earth (and not their own world) was the place of glamor and romance.

  A hand touched Fallon’s shoulder. Kastambang said: “Master Antané, all is prepared. Will you come, pray?”

  Fallon followed his host to a small room where two servants came forward, one with a mask and the other with a voluminous black robe.”

  “Don these,” said Kastambang. “Your interlocutor will be similarly dight to forestall recognition.”

  Fallon, feeling foolishly histrionic, let the servants put the mask and robe upon him. Then Kastambang, puffing and hobbling, led him through passages hung with black velvet, which gave Fallon an uneasy feeling of passing down the alimentary canal of some great beast. They came to the door of another chamber, which the banker opened.

  As he motioned Fallon in he said: “No tricks or violence, now. My men do guard all exits.”

  Then he went out and closed the door.

  As Fallon’s eyes surveyed the dim-lit chamber, the first thing that they encountered was a single, small oil lamp burning in a niche before a writhesome, wicked-looking little copper god from far Ziada, beyond the Triple Seas. And against the opposite wall he saw a squat black shadow, which suddenly shot up to a height equal to his own.

  Fallon started, and his hand flew to his rapier hilt—then he remembered that he had been relieved of his sword when he entered the house. Then he realized that the shadow was merely another man—or Krishnan—robed and hooded like himself.

  “What wish you to know?” asked the black figure.

  The voice was high with tension; the language was Balhibouu; the accent—it sounded like that of eastern Balhib, where the tongue shaded into the westernmost varieties of Gazashtandu.

  “The complete ritual of Yesht,” said Fallon, fumbling for a pad and pencil and moving closer to the lamp.

  “By the God of the Earthmen, ’tis no mean quest,” said the other. “The enchiridion of prayers and hymns alone does occupy a weighty volume—I can remember but little of these.”

  “Is this enchiridion secret?”

  “Nay. You can buy it at any good bookshop.”

  “Well then, give me everything that’s not in the enchiridion: the costumes, movements, and so on
.”

  An hour or so later, Fallon had the whole thing down in shorthand, nearly filling his pad. “Is that all there is?”

  “All that I know of.”

  “Well, thanks a lot. You know, if I knew who you were, perhaps you and I could do one another a bit of good from time to time. I sometimes collect information . . .”

  “For what purpose, good my sir?”

  “Oh—let’s say for stories for the Rashm.” Fallon had actually supplied the paper with a few stories, which furnished a cover for his otherwise suspicious lack of regular employment.

  The other said: “Without casting aspersions upon your goodwill, sir, I’m also aware that one who knew me and my history could, were he so minded, also wreak me grievous harm.”

  “No harm intended. After all I’d let you know who I was.”

  “I have more than a ghost of an idea,” said the other. “A Terran from your twang, and I know that our host has bidden few such hither this night. A choosy wight.”

  Fallon thought of leaping upon the other and tearing off the mask. But then, he might get a knife in the ribs; and even unarmed, the fellow might be stronger than he. While the average Earthman, used to a slightly greater gravity, could out-wrestle the average Krishnan, that was not always true; besides, Fallon was not so young as once.

  “Very well,” he said. “Good-bye.” And he knocked on the door by which he had entered.

  As this door opened, Fallon heard his interlocutor knock likewise upon the other door. Fallon stepped out and followed the servant back through the velvet-hung passage to the room where he had received his disguise, which was here removed.

  “Did you obtain satisfaction?” asked Kastambang, limping in. “Have you that which you sought?”

  “Yes, thanks. May I ask, what’s the program for the rest of the evening.”

  “You’re just in good time for the animal battle.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aye, aye. If you’ll attend, I’ll have a lackey show you to the basement. Attendance will be limited to males, firstly because we deem so sanguinary a spectacle unfit for the weaker sex, and secondly because so many of ’em have been converted by your Terran missionaries to the notion that such a spectacle is morally wrong. When our warriors become so effeminated that the sight of a little gore revolts ’em, then shall we deserve to fall beneath the shafts and scimitars of the Jungava.”