The Clocks of Iraz

by L. Sprague DeCamp

  "But, Master Jorian!" said Zerlik. "It is all but dark."

  "So much the better."

  "But we shall get lost or overset the chariot—"

  "Fear not; I'll drive. There's a moon, and I know the roads hereabouts."

  Heavily laden with three men and their gear, Zerlik's chariot, drawn by a pair of handsome Fediruni whites, reached the village of Evrodium around midnight. Zerlik climbed down shakily, saying:

  "Methought my last moment had come a hundred times, Master Jorian. Where got you that skill with driving a car?"

  Jorian laughed. "I can do many things, some passing well and some not so well. I'm probably the only wandering adventurer especially trained for the role."

  When they had secured quarters, Zerlik asked Jorian to elucidate his last remark. Over dinner, Jorian—who had a weakness for talk—explained.

  "I got into the king business by happenstance. I was about your age and had been apprenticed to various crafts, such as clockmaking and carpentry, and had served a hitch in the army of Othomae. When that was over, I wandered into Xylar to see what might turn up. I happened upon the drill field outside Xylar City on the day of the casting of the Lot of Imbal, when they behead the old king and toss his head to the crowd.

  "When, not knowing this curious custom, I saw this dark, round thing whirling towards me, I caught it without thinking. To my horror I found that I was the new king of Xylar, having caught my predecessor's gory head.

  "As soon as I learnt that the same fate awaited me five years thence, I sought means to escape. I tried to flee, to bribe my way out, to persuade the Xylarians to change their damned system, and even to drink myself to death, all without avail.

  "Then I learnt that, with the help of Doctor Karadur's spells, I might just possibly escape, in return for a favor I was able to do him. Did I succeed, howsomever, the Xylarians would pursue me to the ends of the earth, since their laws suffer not a new king to be chosen by any but the prescribed method, and therefore they must essay to drag me back and resume their interrupted rite to permit public business to go on."

  "How if the king die in office?" asked Zerlik. "Or if you die ere they can recapture you?"

  "They have other procedures in such cases; but they are irrelevant to me, since I'm not yet dead and have no yearning to become so. To resume: Knowing that I was virtually condemned—should my escape succeed—to the life of a wandering adventurer, I prepared myself therefore by the practice of such arts as acting, rough-and-tumble fighting, sleight-of-hand, cozenage, and burglary. For these, I had the tutoring of some of the most unsavory rogues in the Twelve Cities. But some of their lessons have proven most serviceable."

  Zerlik: "Do you like this irregulous life?"

  "Nay. My real ambition is to be a respectable craftsman or tradesman—a surveyor, for ensample—earning a decent if modest living, rearing a family, meeting my obligations, and plaguing no man. A peaceful bourgeois life would suit me well, but it seems to flee before me like the end of a rainbow."

  "If you knew the Xylarians were after you, why took you this post in Ir, next door to Xylar? Why not work in some more distant place, like Zolon or Tarxia?"

  "Because the Xylarians hold something I wish: to wit, my wife. Therefore I skulk about their borders, seeking means to get her out."

  "Oh. Is this the Estrildis whereof the letter from Karadur speaks?"

  Jorian gave Zerlik a hard look. "By Imbal's iron pizzle, young sir, you seem to have made rather free with my private correspondence!"

  "Oh, but Jorian, Doctor Karadur requested that I memorize the message, in case the letter were lost or destroyed!"

  "Ah, that's different. Ay, 'tis she."

  "Oh. I have heard that you Novarians entertain romantical notions about women. When one has several wives, as I have, one takes a particular woman less seriously."

  "I had several wives, too, when I was king. Five, in fact; the Xylarians allow a plurality of wives to the king but not to his subjects. Mulvanian or Penembic influence in the southern tier, I suppose. But this was the last, and the one I chose myself."

  "Really?" Zerlik patted a yawn. "It is hard for me to imagine going to such trouble and risk over any woman. After all, they are all basically alike."

  "I have not found them so."

  Zerlik shrugged. "But why? It cannot be that you were otherwise condemned to a celibate life, for you Novanans seem to have no such rigid interdicts against fornication and adultery as, I am told, obtain among the Mulvanians. Is it that this woman is rich, and you wish to possess yourself of her property?"

  "Not at all; she's a Kortolian farmer's daughter."

  "Is she then of extraordinary beauty?"

  "Not even that. She's a pretty little thing, with golden hair like a Shvenite; but of stocky build and too thick in the ankles to please the connoisseur of female beauty. No, Zerlik, it's what we call love."

  "Oh, we have this 'love' amongst us, too. In our land, however, to fall in love is accounted a misfortune—a kind of madness. It leads men to entangle themselves with unsuitable women, causing their kin distress and embarrassment. Ordinarily, our parents choose our wives for us, very sensibly, by go-betweens, with the advice of astrologers and haruspices."

  "This is not quite the same as your falling in love, laddie. Let me merely say that I enjoy Estrildis' company more than that of any other person I have known, and I am fain to have more of it, until death do us part."

  "Well, I wish you joy of it. But does not one become bored with a single woman?"

  "That depends. Having tried your system, I have no faith in it, either."

  "How so?"

  "There's a jingle that explains:

  "Oh, pity the man with a score of wives!

  For when they're at outs, however he strives

  To gentle them down, the quarrel revives,

  With curses and blows, and even with knives,

  Till among them 'tis wonder that he survives.

  "Oh, weep for the fellow with multiple mates!

  For when they're in concord, with garrulous spates

  Of chatter, they seek their desiderates

  And wear him away by alternates,

  Until the poor devil capitulates.

  "Condole with the poor polygamist!

  For every night he must keep a tryst

  With one of the wives on the harem's list,

  And he dare not repose or leave one unkissed,

  Lest the peace of his family cease to exist."

  "Whose verse is that?"

  "An obscure poetaster, hight Jorian son of Evor. Anyway, one woman at a time's enough for me. When I get mine back, one wife, one house, and one honest trade will suffice me." Jorian yawned. "We must to bed, to be up ere dawn."

  "But that will give us scarce four hours' sleep!"

  "Aye, but Chemnis is a long day's drive hence."

  "You mean to make Chemnis in one day?"

  "Certes. Since four of those rogues escaped, the Xylarians will soon be on my trail again."

  "You'll slay my poor horses!"

  "I think not; and if I did, a self-proclaimed gentleman like you could afford another pair."

  Beyond Evrodium, the road swung north to join the main road from Ir City to Chemnis, the main port of the republic at the mouth of the Kyamos. As Zerlik's chariot thundered down the river road to where Chemnis arose on the margin of the estuary, a forest of masts and yards loomed over the houses along the waterfront. Many ships had been laid up for the winter earlier than usual, since the depredations of the Algarthian pirates had depressed seaborne traffic.

  The day after the arrival of Jorian and his companions in Chemnis, they walked to the waterfront in the early morning. Zerlik still staggered from the jolting of the previous day's headlong drive. Jorian growled:

  "When I was king, we kept the sea thieves down. I built up our little fleet and commanded it myself. Betwixt us in the South and the navy of Zolon in the North, no pirate dared to show his sail off the
western coast of Novaria. But they've let the fleet go to the shipworms since I fled, whilst Zolon has a new High Admiral who dotes on fancy uniforms but never goes to sea."

  Zerlik looked more and more unhappy. At last he said: "Master Jorian, I fear that when His Majesty sent me forth on this errand, he did not mean me to get my throat cut by pirates."

  "Afraid?"

  "Sirrah, a man of my rank does not brook insults!"

  "Keep your doublet on, young fellow. I did but ask."

  "I bloodied my scimitar on your side against the kidnappers. But meseems it were pure madness for us twain to set forth in some cockleshell craft alone. If these bloody freebooters caught up with us, what earthly chance should we have?"

  Jorian frowned. "Well, no regular ships sail now to Iraz; so 'tis either buy or rent a ship of our own or not go at all. Rental were impractical, they say, for the owner would demand so large a deposit that one might as well buy the craft. Still, what you say makes sense of a sort.

  "I have it! We'll be a pair of poor fishermen with but a meager catch to show for our pains." They reached the waterfront, and Jorian consulted a list of ships for sale. "Let's see; the Divrunia should lie yonder, with the Flying Fish beyond and the Psaanius in the other direction Jorian hunted up a ship broker whose name he had. The broker took them on a tour of the waterfront. After a morning of inspecting ships, Jorian bid the broker farewell for the nonce. While he and Zerlik ate at a waterfront tavern, Jorian said:

  "Meseems the Flying Fish is our craft, an we can beat Master Gatorix down to a reasonable price."

  "That dirty little tub!" cried Zerlik. "Why—"

  "You forget, laddie, that we shall be a pair of indigent fishers. So a craft like the Divrunia, as spick as a royal yacht, were the last thing we want. We must look the part."

  "Well, the Flying Fish certainly stinks of fish. Why cannot we get a proper warship—say, one of those Irian biremes anchored out yonder? Then, with a well-armed crew, we should have nought to fear from corsairs."

  "Imprimis, those galleys are the property of the Republic of Ir, and I have no reason to think the Syndicate would wish to sell one. Secundus, such a deal would at best require months of negotiation, during which time the Xylarians would be upon me. And tertius, have you a hundred thousand marks wherewith to buy the ship, with an equal amount for the hire of the crew?"

  "Unh. But my good clothes—"

  "We shall, naturally, wear garb suitable to our assumed rank. So fear not for your finery. We shall be ragged and stinking."

  "Ugh!"

  "Moreover, the Flying Fish is sound of hull and rigging. With her beam she may be slow, but she'll get us whither we fain would go. Finish your repast, so that we can sally forth to seek Master Gatorix."

  When they found the ship broker again, Jorian said: "We should like another look at your Flying Fish; albeit a thousand marks is beyond the vault to heaven. Why, I could buy a surplus Zolonian trireme for that.

  After two hours of haggling, Jorian brought the price down to 650 marks. He said: "Methinks we can do business, Master Gatorix. Of course, you'll throw in a sun stone, a chart, and an astrolabe…"

  After further chaffering, Jorian asked the broker about distances, winds, and currents between Chemnis and Iraz. Gatorix advised him that even with favorable weather, the voyage would take at least a sennight. Jorian calculated and dispatched Zerlik and Ayuir to buy supplies. When they returned, followed by longshoremen laden with sacks of biscuits, salt pork, apples, salted fish, salt, a fish net, two poles with lines and extra hooks, and suits of rough, worn seamen's garb, Jorian was again engrossed in an argument with Gatorix.

  "I'm trying to get him to include this spyglass in the deal," he explained. "He wants a hundred marks extra for the thing."

  "Great Ughroluk!" cried Zerlik. "In Iraz, one can buy a good glass for a fraction of that."

  "Naturally," said Gatorix, "since you Irazians invented the contraption and make it, 'tis cheaper there than here."

  Jorian had raised the brass tube to his eye and trained it eastward. He stood silently for a moment, then closed the telescope with a snap and said in a changed voice:

  "Pay Gatorix his hundred marks, Zerlik."

  "But—"

  "No buts! We're taking the glass without further argument."

  "But—"

  "And help me to get this stuff aboard, yarely."

  "Surely, sirs," said Gatorix, "you're not putting to sea so late in the day?"

  "No help for it," said Jorian. "Hop to it, Ayuir, you, too, Zerlik."

  Between a quarter and a half of an hour later, the Flying Fish cast off and wallowed out into the estuary. The ship was a two-masted lateener, with a blue hull and yellow sails. She flew a large mainsail forward and a smaller mizzen aft. Seated abreast on the thwarts abaft the cabin, Jorian and Zerlik each heaved on an oar. Jorian had to exert only a fraction of his normal strength to keep the craft going in a straight line. He was so much stronger than Zerlik that, if he had put his back into it, he would have made the Flying Fish spin in circles.

  As they drew away with exasperating slowness, Ayuir waved from the quay before disappearing towards their inn. The Flying Fish heaved and bounced on a brisk chop, driven up the estuary by a steady west wind. The afternoon sun blazed in a clear blue sky.

  "I hope he makes it back to Penembei safely," said Zerlik in a worried tone. The young Irazi was already looking green. "He speaks but few words of Novarian."

  "Poor fellow! I would have given him lessons."

  "Oh, it is not with him that I am concerned, but with my beautiful car and team. I can always get another manservant."

  Jorian grunted. Zerlik said: "Excuse me. I have heard of these curious ideals that are rife in Novaria, of consideration for the lower classes, and I suppose I should guard my tongue with more care. Why put we not up the sails now?"

  "We ought to get farther from that lee shore first, lest this sea breeze blow us back thither and pile us up."

  They rowed for a while in silence, until Zerlik said: "Let me rest for a moment; I am fordone."

  "Very well. What sort of speech do you use in Penembei?"

  "Why, Penembic, of course."

  "Is it related to Fediruni? I speak fair Fediruni, as well as Mulvani and Shvenic."

  "Nay; Penembic is related to no other tongue—at least, in this part of the world—albeit it contains not a few words of Fediruni and Novarian origin. Our dynasty is of remotely Fediruni origin, you know; King Juktar was a nomadic chieftain in Fedirun. And before that, a Novarian adventurer founded the city and begat a dynasty. But Penembic is a much more precise and logical tongue than your congeries of Novarian dialects. Most of us speak a little Fediruni, since that is the tongue of the cult of the supreme god Ughroluk."

  "You must teach me Penembic."

  "I shall be pleased to. At least it will take my mind off this damnable stench offish. Tell me: Why took you Gatorix's exhorbitant price for his glass? And why the sudden haste?"

  Jorian chuckled. "I looked through the telescope up the Kyamos and saw a squad of horsemen riding hard down the river road. They were mere specks in the glass, but natheless they gave the impression of Xylarian guardsmen… Hola!" Jorian reached behind him into the cabin and took the spyglass from its rack. He peered through it shoreward. "By Astis' ivory teats, those losels are on the quay now!"

  "Let me see," said Zerlik.

  On shore, the telescope showed a group of black-clad men, one of whom held the horses while the others expostulated with several Chemnites. Their vigorous gestures could be seen.

  "Let's hope they don't find a barge and put to sea after us," muttered Jorian. "Eight oars could easily overhaul two. Row harder!"

  After a while, Zerlik asked: "Could we not put up the sails now?"

  "We shall, but count not too heavily upon them. With this onshore wind, we shall have to tack out to sea, and I know not how high our little tub will point. Here, give me the glass. Ten thousand demons, but they'v
e already found a barge and are putting out! Now we're for it!"

  Chapter Two

  THE FLYING FISH

  He must hoist the sails instanter," said jorian.

  Zerlik asked: "How do we that? I have never sailed."

  "First, we heave to in the eye of the wind." With powerful strokes of his oar, Jorian turned the bow of the Flying Fish westward. The little ship pitched wildly as she took the waves bow-on. Jorian shipped his oar.

  "Now," he said, "keep her in this position whilst I raise the sails. Oh, dip me in dung!"

  "What is the matter?"

  "I forgot that these sails had their covers on."

  "I thought you were a nautical expert?"

  "Do be quiet and let me think!" Jorian quickly unhooked the lashing of the mizzen cover.

  "It is my skin, too," said Zerlik plaintively.

  "Fear not for your precious skin. Tis I whom they're after."

  "But if a fight develop, they will not draw subtle distinctions…"

  Jorian, heaving on the mizzen halyard, forbore to answer. The mizzen yard went up by jerks. The yellow sail flapped and boomed as it luffed. Jorian shouted:

  "Keep her head into the wind!"

  "Why not sail on this sail alone?"

  'Too far aft; she'd give us too much weather helm."

  "I know not your nautical terms. Here come our pursuers!"

  The black-hulled barge, rowed by eight men, had covered half the distance from the quay to the Flying Fish. Zerlik asked:

  "Then why did you not put up that big front sail first?"

  "One must hoist sail from stern forward. If one hoists the foremost sail first, the wind takes charge and sweeps one downwind—which in this case is upriver, whither we are fain not to go. There!"

  Jorian belayed the halyard and worked his way forward to the mainmast. An instant later, Zerlik heard a wild yell. He called:

  "What is the matter now?"