The Clocks of Iraz
L. Sprague DeCamp
CONTENTS
Chapter One The Scarlet Mammoth
Chapter Two The Flying Fish
Chapter Three The Tower Of Kumashar
Chapter Four The Master Of The Clocks
Chapter Five The Tunnel Of Hoshcha
Chapter Six The Golem General
Chapter Seven The Siege Of Iraz
Chapter Eight The Barbarian Savior
Chapter Nine The Waxen Wife
Chapter Ten The Crown Of Penembei
Chapter One
THE SCARLET MAMMOTH
IT WAS THE HOUR OF THE GOAT, ON THE THIRTEENTH OF the Month of the Unicorn, in the republic of Ir, one of the twelve city-states of Novaria.
In the tavern called the Scarlet Mammoth, in the city of Orynx, a slim, well-dressed young man toyed absently with a glass of wine and watched the door. Although this man wore Novarian garb, there was about him a suggestion of the exotic. His skin was darker than that of most Novarians, although the latter were a mainly brunet folk. Furthermore, his ornaments were gaudier than those of the Land of the Twelve Cities.
Across the common room sat an older man: a chunky fellow of medium height, with a plain, nondescript face, clad in garments of sober black. If the first man looked foppish, the second looked ostentatiously austere.
While the tall youth watched the door, the chunky man, now and then sipping from a leathern drinking jack of ale, watched the tall youth. Sweat beaded the foreheads of both men, for the weather was unseasonably hot.
The door flew open. In stamped six noisy, rough-looking men, covered with sweat and dust and cursing the heat. They seized the largest table in the common room and hammered on it. The tallest man, a burly, ruddy fellow with deep-set dark eyes under heavy black brows and a close-cut black beard, shouted:
"Ho, Theudus! Can't a gang of honest workmen get a drink, when their throats are caked with dust thick enough to raise a crop in?"
"Coming, coming, Master Nikko, if you'll stop that hellish racket," grumbled the taverner, appearing with his fists full of jacks of ale, a thick finger hooked around each handle. As he set the vessels down, he asked: "Be this your last day, working out of Orynx?"
"That's right," said the big man, across whose face a sword-cut had left a scar and put a kink in his nose. "We move to Evrodium on the morrow. Our orders are to make the aqueduct swing south, following the high ground, before reaching Ir City."
"I should think you'd cut directly across to Ir," said Theudus, "to shorten the total length."
"We would, but the Syndicate would have to pay for an arcade several leagues long, and you know how they are with money; they give it out as a glacier gives out heat. When the thing is built, they'll doubtless complain that the grade is too low and the channel clogs up. I warned 'em, but they wouldn't listen. No matter what route we pick, we poor surveyors get blamed."
"They've been talking about this project for years," said the taverner.
"Aye. They should have built it years agone, but I suppose they hoped that Zevatas would send enough rain to fill the old aqueducts. They did nought till water got so scarce that they had to ration baths. You ought to smell the air in that underground city! They could cut it up and sell it for fertilizer. Well, what's for dinner?"
As the men gave their orders, the slim young man approached the surveyors' table. Standing behind the big man, he rapped the latter on the shoulder with a peremptory forefinger. As the chief surveyor looked up, the younger man, speaking Novarian with an accent, said:
"You, there! Are you not Jorian of Ardamai?"
The big man's eyes narrowed, but his face remained blank and his voice level. "Never heard of him. I'm Nikko of Kortoli, as my mates here will attest."
"But that is—well, come over to my table, where we can talk."
"Certes, my unknown friend," said the surveyor in no friendly tone. Carrying his ale, he rose and followed the other back to his table. He sat down beside the younger one, while his hand strayed to the knife at his belt. "Now, sir, what can I do for you?"
The other gave a high-pitched giggle. "Come, good my sir. Everyone has heard of Jorian of Ardamai, once king of Xylar, who fled his official decapitation and has been hiding—ow!"
"Be quiet," murmured the big man, who had slid an arm around the younger man's waist and then, with his other hand, had thrust his knife so that its point gently pricked the skin of the other's belly.
"How—how dare you!" cried the slim young man. "You cannot order me around! You durst not harm one of my rank!"
"Want to find out? An you'd not mess up Theudus' nice clean floor with your guts, you shall do exactly as told."
"B-but, my dear Jorian, I know you! Doctor Karadur said that Nikko of Kortoli was one of your false names, and that is how I tracked you hither—eh, stop that!"
"Then shut up, idiot! What has Karadur to do with this? Keep your voice down!"
"He gave me a letter to you—"
"Who are you, anyway?"
"M-my name is Zerlik son of Doerumik son of—"
"An uncouth name, if ever I heard one. Whence come you? Penembei?"
"Precisely, sir. The great city of Iraz, in fact. Now—"
"And Karadur is in Iraz?"
"Aye, Master Jor—ow!"
"The next time you speak that name aloud, I'll let you have it up to the hilt. Let's see this letter."
Zerlik looked down his long, hooked, high-bridged nose. "Really, sir, a gentleman like myself is not accustomed to such unmannerly—"
"The letter, your lordship, unless you want steel in your guts. Did Karadur hire you as messenger?"
"Really, good my sir! Persons of my quality do not work for pay. It is our duty to serve the court, and my task is that of royal messenger. When His Majesty, knowing me fluent in Novarian, commanded me to bear Karadur's missive…"
During this speech, the big man had pried the seal off the letter and unfolded the sheet of reed paper. He frowned at the spidery writing on the crackly, golden-brown surface, then called:
"O Theudus! A candle, if you please."
When the candle had been brought, the big man read the following epistle:
Karadur the Mulvanian to his stout comrade in the adventure of the Kist of Avlen, greetings.
If you would recover your little Estrildis, and if you remember enough of your early training in clockmaking to put in order the clocks on the Tower of Kumashar, then come to Iraz with Master Zerlik. The task should not be difficult, for I understand that these clocks were installed by your sire in the first place. Farewell.
Jorian of Ardamai murmured: "The old fellow has better sense than you, Zerlik my boy. You'll notice he mentioned no names—"
He broke off as a movement on the other side of the room caught his eye. The man in plain, dark clothing laid a coin on his table, rose, and walked quietly out. Jorian caught a glimpse of his profile against the darkening sky, and then the door closed on the man.
"Theudus!" Jorian called.
"Aye, Master Nikko?"
"Who was that who just left?"
The taverner shrugged. "I know not. He's been here all afternoon, sipping a little ale and watching about him."
"Could you place him by his speech?"
"He said little; but what he said was, meseemed, with a southern accent."
Jorian grunted. "With those clothes and a southern accent, he has 'Xylar' written all over him, as surely as if he bore the crimson hourglass on his tunic."
"Are you not jumping to conclusions on scant evidence?" said Zerlik.
"Mayhap, but in my position one becomes sensitive to such things. If it make you happy, Master Zerlik, know that you're not the only stupid man in
the room. I should have noticed this wight as soon as I came in, but I was thinking of other things."
"Mean you the Xylarians are still fain to cut your head off and throw it up for grabs, by way of choosing the next king? A beastly custom, I always thought."
"You'd find it even beastlier if it were your head. Well, I shall have to accept Karadur's invitation instanter. But travel costs money, and I have but little of the precious stuff."
"That is all right. Doctor Karadur entrusted me with a sum adequate for the purpose."
"Good." How came you hither?"
"In my chariot," said Zerlik.
"You drove all the way from Iraz? I knew not that the coastal road was good for wheeled traffic."
"It is not. My man and I had to dismount a hundred times, to manhandle the thing over rocks and out of holes. But we made it."
"Where is this man of yours?"
"Ayuir is in the kitchen. You would not expect him to dine with his master, would you?"
Jorian shrugged. After a pause, Zerlik said: "Well, sir, and what next?"
"I'm thinking. We have perhaps half an hour wherein to flee the Scarlet Mammoth ere a squad of Royal Guardsmen from Xylar arrives with nets and lariats. Are you staying here?"
"Aye. I have a private room. But surely you do not propose to leave tonight?"
"Yes I do, and forthwith."
"But my dinner!" cried Zerlik.
"Bugger your dinner; corpses have no appetite. If you hadn't blabbed my name… Anyway, command your man to hitch up your chariot whilst we gather our gear. What's your idea of whither we should go?"
"Why, back the way I came—through Xylar and along the coastal road, at the foot of the Lograms, and down the coast to Penembei to Iraz."
Jorian shook his head grimly. "You'll never see me in Xylar—not whilst they seek to chop off my head."
"What, then? Shall we send eastward to Vindium and around the other end of the Lograms?"
"Not practical. 'Twould take months, and the valley of the Jhukna is wild, roadless land. Methinks we needs must go by sea."
"By sea!" Zerlik's voice rose to a squeak. "I hate the sea. Besides, what would become of my beautiful chariot?"
"You and your man can take it back the way you came. I'll join you in Iraz as soon as I can find passage."
"From what I hear, there is not much coastal shipping just now, with the pirates of Algarth active off the coast. Besides, I was commanded to accompany you, to render aid and assistance."
Jorian thought that if any help were called for, it would be he who rendered aid to this spoilt young fop rather than the other way round. But he merely said:
"Then come with me, whilst your man takes the chariot. If we cannot find passage on a coaster, we may have to sail our own ship, and that takes at least two."
"Ayuir might steal my car and run off with it!"
"That, young sir, is your problem."
"Nor can I be expected to flit about the world without a single attendant, like some wretched vagrant—"
"You'll learn, laddie. You'd be surprised what one can do when one puts one's mind to it." Jorian rose. "In any event, we cannot sit here havering all night. I go to pack and shall meet you back here in a quarter-hour. Tell your man to be ready to drive us down the river road to Chemnis." He stepped back to the large table and touched one of the surveyors on the arm. "Come up to the dormitory a moment, Ikadion."
With a puzzled frown, the other followed Jorian up the creaking stairs. In the dormitory, Jorian pulled his spare clothing, sword, and other possessions out from under the bed. He donned the scabbard and jammed the other gear into a stout canvas bag. As he worked he said:
"I fear I must run out on you, as the pard said to the lioness when the lion returned home."
"You mean—you mean to leave the gang?"
"Aye. That makes you head surveyor. The Syndicate owes me for the work I've done so far. Pray collect my pay and keep it against my return."
"When will that be, Nikko?"
"I know not. Perchance in a fortnight, perchance in a year."
"Whither away? Why the haste and mystery?"
"Say that I fear the blast of the wintry winds and the drip, drip, drip of the rain. When and if I return, I'll seek you out and tell you about it —and also collect my pay."
"The boys will be sorry to see you go. You drive them hard, but they think you're a good boss."
" Tis good of you to say so. By rights you should have had my job."
'True, but I never could get the work out of them as you do. Did I hear that foreign fellow call you 'Jorian?'
"Aye, but he had confused me with another man entirely."
With his duffel bag slung over his back and Ikadion following, Jorian strode to the head of the stair. Glancing over the scene below, he muttered: "Where's that Zerlik?" Then he stepped back and knocked on the door of the private room occupied by the Irazi.
"Coming, coming," said Zerlik's voice.
"Welt hurry up! Have you sent your man to get out the car?"
"Nay, Ayuir is in here helping me. You do not expect me to pack my own gear, do you?"
Jorian sucked his breath through his teeth. "I've just packed mine without dying of the effects. What do you want, an egg in your beer? Send the fellow out; we have no time to squander."
The door jerked open. Zerlik said: "My good man, if you think I will do my own chores like a common lout, just to meet your convenience—"
Jorian flushed a dangerous red. At that moment, Zerlik's servant, a small, swarthy man, spoke timidly in his own tongue. Zerlik briefly replied. Ayuir picked up the massive wooden chest and issued from the room.
"One moment," said Zerlik. "I needs must give the room a last inspection, lest I forget aught."
Jorian waited while the servant staggered down the stairs with the chest. Ayuir set the box down near the door and scuttled out.
Zerlik came out of his room; he, Jorian, and Ikadion started down the stairs. As they did so, six men in plain black clothing entered the Scarlet Mammoth. In the lead came the chunky man, who pointed to Jorian and shouted:
"There he is, boys! Take him! King Jorian, I command you in the name of the kingdom of Xylar to surrender!"
The six rushed across the floor, circling around the table at which the gaping surveyors sat. As one of the former started up the stairs, Jorian swung his duffel bag off his shoulder and hurled it at the man. The missile bowled the fellow over, and the man behind him tripped over his body.
Before they could recover, Jorian's sword came out with a wheep. Jorian hurdled the two sprawling figures and brought the blade down in a whistling cut on the shoulder of the next intruder. The man screamed and staggered back, cloven halfway to the breastbone. He sank to the floor in a swiftly widening pool of blood.
Another black-clad man threw a net over Jorian's head. Jorian slashed at the net but only entangled his sword in its meshes. He struggled to tear off the net, but the men in black expertly drew it tighter about him, while one stepped up behind him with a bludgeon.
"Surveyors, to me," roared Jorian. "Help! Zerlik, bear a hand! Theudus!"
Coming out of their daze, the surveyors rose to attack the men in black. Three of the latter pulled out short swords. The surveyors had only daggers, but one picked up a stool and smote the nearest Xylarian over the head.
Theudus appeared with a mallet. After hesitating to see who was fighting whom, he waded in with the surveyors. Zerlik, after dancing excitedly about on the fringe of the fray, ran to his chest, fumbled with a key, opened the chest, and took out a light scimitar.
Assailed from all sides, the Xylarians left off cocooning Jorian to defend themselves. Jorian tore and cut his way out of the net and fell upon the foe. Since not only was he the largest man in the room but also his sword had much the longest reach, his reentry into the fray tipped the odds against the kidnappers.
The combatants swayed back and forth, stabbing, punching, grappling, falling down and scrambling
up again, hurling crockery, thrusting, slashing, swinging, and kicking. The room resounded with the shouts of the fighters, the boom of overturned furniture, and the crash of breaking tableware. Red blood spattered the floor and stained the fighters' garments. The Red Mammoth trembled to the stamping of feet. The din of roars, yells, curses, and threats wafted into the street, so that several Oryncians gathered about the door.
Outnumbered, the newcomers were soon overborne. Jorian sped a fierce thrust through the body of one, while the Xylarian was engaged with Zerlik. As the man fell, the remaining four set up a cry:
"Out! Flee! Save himself who can!"
The four burst through their opponents and out the door. Two dragged another, half-stunned by a blow from Theudus' mallet. The three still on their feet displayed slashed clothing and oozing wounds. The faces of two were masks of blood from head wounds. A flourish of weapons sent the spectators fleeing, and the quartet vanished into the gathering dark.
Inside, two surveyors bound up cuts, while Ikadion sat with head in hands, nursing a growing lump on his pate from a Xylarian bludgeon. The first man whom Jorian had struck down was dead; the other coughed bloody froth.
"My nice tavern!" wailed Theudus, surveying the wreckage.
"We didn't do it wantonly, Master Theudus," said Jorian, leaning on his sword and breathing hard. "Bear a hand with cleaning up, Floro. You, too, Vilerias. Tot up the cost of breakage, mine host, and Master Zerlik will pay."
"What?" shrilled Zerlik.
"Charge it against the sum Karadur entrusted to you on my behalf."
"Are you in sooth the fugitive King Jorian of Xylar?" said a surveyor in an awed tone.
Jorian ignored the question and turned to Theudus, who stood over the wounded Xylarian. The taverner said:
"This fellow may linger for hours, but I misdoubt he'll survive. Someone should fetch the constable; there must be an inquest on these manslayings."
"Inquest all you like, but without me," said Jorian. "I'm off with Master Zerlik."
Theudus shook his head. " 'Tis not lawful, to leave town ere the magistrate has dismissed you. There might be charges."
"I'm sorry. Whereas I am a reasonably law-abiding wight, I can't wait around for another gang to lay me by the heels, whilst your men of the law mumble gravely in their beards. Pay Master Theudus, O Zerlik." While Zerlik rumbled with his purse, Jorian donned his hat and shouldered his duffel bag. "Now let's forth!"
The Clocks of Iraz Page 1