The Clocks of Iraz

by L. Sprague DeCamp

  Karadur shrugged and continued: "Discovering that life, even though materially better in some ways, was not really happier, the kings began to lose interest in the House of Learning. During the last half-century, appropriations have been steadily lessened. There have been no great advances since the invention of the telescope, thirty-odd years ago.

  "The present head of the House of Learning is one Borai—another sinecurist, unqualified for his task. Because of the prophecy concerning the clocks, the king and his advisers have been greatly exercised over their malfunction. The king has brought pressure to bear upon Borai, who in turn has brought it upon the dean of the School of Matter, who in his turn has applied it to Yiyim the Clockmaster—all to no avail.

  "None of these gentlemen can admit the principle that appointments to the House of Learning ought to be on a basis of merit and knowledge, for then their own posts would be endangered. The expert, they assert, is too full of prejudices and convictions that this or that is impossible. Only the gentlemanly amateur can view these arcane arts in a judgmatical spirit. And so things have buzzed along for months, with much loquacity but no action.

  "Last month, His Majesty gave a banquet to the professors of the School of Spirit. The king entertained us with such gustatory rarities as the tongues of the fatuliva bird of distant Burang—gods of Mulvan, how that man eats! Being myself a man of very simple tastes, I paid little heed to these exotic delicacies but seized the opportunity to broach some of my own ideas to His Majesty. I implied that, had I Borai's authority, I could eftsoons have his tower clocks put in order.

  "We beat around the bush somewhat, since prudent commoners utter not blunt truths to kings, nor do wise kings reveal their full minds to commoners. King Ishbahar, howsomever, is not an unreasonable individual when one can get his mind off his stomach. He conceded that something must be done about his non-timekeeping timepieces. On the other hand, he could not simply dismiss Borai, who has powerful friends among the nobility, on the mere say-so of a junior professor and a foreigner at that.

  "At last we reached a compromise. Ishbahar would grant me a special commission as Friend of the King, which in practice means king's errand boy. I might then make my own arrangements for fixing the clocks. If they worked, the king would pension off Borai and appoint me in his room. On the strength of my commission, I sent Zerlik to find you, having approximately located you by divination."

  "But how does this get my little darling out of that gilded gaol in Xylar?"

  "See you not, my son? As director of the House of Learning, I can direct the efforts of the scientists and magicians under my command in such directions as would prove most efficacious in abducting your wife. With all that intellectual power—"

  "I wonder that you haven't figured out some magical method of your own."

  "That is not possible in my present situation. The dean of the School of Spirit, Fahramak, is of the same kidney as Borai and Yiyim. To make sure that I did not—ah—'show him up,' as the vulgar put it, he assigned me to one of the most useless tasks he could find: compiling a dictionary of the language of the demons of the Fifth Plane. He visits me betimes to make certain that I waste not my time on other researches."

  "What had you in mind as a method of rescue?"

  "A magical flying vehicle seems the most promising. You have certainly heard of flying brooms and carpets. We have investigated these and found that, while it is possible to imprison a demon in one of these objects and compel him to bear it aloft, they leave much to be desired as aerial vehicles."

  "What do they do?"

  "They wobble, overturn, go into a spin like that of a falling leaf, and otherwise misbehave, with usually fatal results for the would-be flier. Some of Fahramak's savants are working on the problem now. If you will repair the clocks, I shall be in a position to assign more of my colleagues to the problem, and I doubt not that we shall soon achieve our goal."

  "Who will pay me," asked Jorian, "and how much?"

  "I shall pay you from the fund set aside for my use as King's Friend. Would half a Penembic royal a day suit you?"

  "How much is that in Novarian?"

  "A Penembic royal is worth about two and a half Irian marks, or a sixth of a Xylarian lion."

  "Half a royal a day will do nicely, then."

  "It is not so much as it seems at first blink, for these great cities are costly to dwell in. If you find yourself running short, confer with me."

  "Meseems I shall do well to invest my first pay in some local garb, to be less conspicuous."

  Karadur looked sharply. "That brings up a question. Dress has political significance here."

  "Oi! How's that?"

  "There are two racing factions, the Pants and the Kilts—"

  "I beg your pardon. Said you racing factions?"

  "Aye. Belike I had best begin at the beginning. Know that of all mankind, the folk of Iraz are the greatest sport fanatics, and their favorite sport is racing. They race beasts of divers kinds—even tortoises."

  "What? Were a snail race not more thrilling?"

  "Spare me your jests, my son. These are giant tortoises, from distant isles. Men ride them around the Hippodrome. Now there are two factions, distinguished by their garb. One faction wears kilts, like that which you saw on Master Zerlik; the other, trousers. It is a rare race that is not followed by a riot betwixt the factions, with knifings and other outrages; and there are affrays between factionists apart from the races."

  "What's the political angle?"

  "With so much rabid partisanship afloat, the factions have acquired political colorings. One might call the Pants the liberals and the Kilts the conservatives, since the kilt is the more traditional garment. Trews have come into fashion only in the last century, being copied from those worn in northern Mulvan."

  "Then I shall perforce have to be enrolled as a liberal," said Jorian, "for I prefer trousers. Where stands the king in this?"

  "He is supposed to be neutral, since the factions have public status and furnish companies of the Civic Guard. In fact, he leans to the Kilts, who are vociferous supporters of absolute monarchy, whereas the Pants would fain limit the king's power by an elective council. The Pants are in bad odor just now, for a dissident faction of them has fled Iraz, it is feared to foment revolt in the countryside. It were wiser for you, therefore, to dress as a Kilt."

  Jorian stubbornly shook his head. "I shall wear trousers, for I should never feel comfortable in a skirt. Too drafty. You will have to explain that, as a foreigner, the garment has no political significance for me."

  Karadur sighed. "I will try. As I said, King Ishbahar is not an unreasonable wight, if one interfere not with his gustatory pleasures."

  Chapter Four

  THE MASTER OF THE CLOCKS

  CLAD IN HIS BAGGY NEW IRAZI TROUSERS, JORIAN STOOD IN the courtyard of the Tower of Kumashar and tipped his head back, squinting against the brightness of the sky.

  "By Vaisus' brazen arse!" he said. "Those clocks must be thirty stories above us. Am I doomed to run up and down thirty flights of steps every day?"

  "Nay, my son," said Karadur. "As the tower was originally built in the days of Shashtai the Third, men had to toil up all seventy-odd stories to bear fuel for the beacon. But so many workmen perished of heart failure that, when Hoshcha established the House of Learning, he commanded the savants to devise a method of hoisting men and materials up and down the tower. Come with me, and you shall see."

  The twain approached the vast entrance on the north side, where the huge teakwood doors were flanked and surmounted by sculptured lions, dragons, and gryphons. The soldier leaning against the stone of the door frame straightened up, stepped in front of the door, and clicked his greaves together as he came to attention. He barked a challenge in Penembic.

  Karadur peered nearsightedly. "Oh," he said, and replied in the same tongue. "Here!"

  The old Mulvanian produced a scroll of parchment, which he handed to the soldier. The latter, needing both hands to un
roll the stiff sheet, had to balance his halberd awkwardly in the crook of his arm as he read. He let the parchment roll up again with a snap and handed it back.

  "Pass, sirs!" he said, bringing his fist up to his bronzen breastplate in salute. He turned the big brass door handle with a clank and pushed open one of the teakwood valves. The hinges squealed.

  The interior was cavernous and dusty. After the brilliance of the sun outside, it seemed dark, although windows at every story let in light. The light was dimmed, however, by the dirt on the windowpanes.

  To the right, the main staircase rose from the floor. It circled round and round the tower as it rose, with landings at every story to give access to the many small chambers built into the structure. The hollow shaft of the interior rose into dimness far above.

  On the ground floor were pieces of apparatus: chains and ropes hanging down from above and, to one side, a horse mill. This comprised a vertical shaft with a horizontal crosspiece on top. From each end of the crosspiece dangled a set of straps and a horse collar. No animals now occupied the harness.

  "What's that?" asked Jorian.

  "When the clocks are running, the water that drives them must needs be daily pumped from the sump back up into the reservoir. A pair of mules, attached to yon mill, turns the shaft, which drives the pump by means of those chains and sprockets and things. You would understand them better than I. Since the clocks have stopped, howsomever, the mules have been put to other tasks. Hola, Saghol!"

  A bundle of rags in a corner stirred and resolved itself into a sleeping workman. As the man rose, a grin split the brown face and showed an irregular row of yellow teeth.

  "Ah, Doctor Karadur!" said the man and went on in Penembic. Jorian thought he said: "Do you wish to go up?"

  "Aye," said Karadur and turned to Jorian. "How much do you weigh, my son?"

  "A hundred and ninety the last time I weighed. When I get over two hundred, I begin to worry. Why?"

  "Your weight must be counterbalanced." Karadur turned to the lift attendant. "Allow us three hundred and a quarter."

  Saghol pulled one of the cords that hung from above, whence a bell tinkled faintly.

  "Stand in this thing with me," said Karadur. The wizard stepped into a large, open-topped wooden box or tray, six feet on a side, with a handrail around it and a gantrylike structure arching over their heads. Attached to this structure was a chain, which extended upward out of sight.

  Saghol grasped another cord and jerked it thirteen times, with a pause between jerks. Then he pulled the first cord again, twice. The bell tinkled.

  "Whatever is he doing?" asked Jorian.

  "He is signaling his colleagues above to set counterweights weighing three hundred and twenty-five pounds in the other car, to balance our weight. Hold tight!"

  Jorian gripped the stanchion on his side of the box, which trembled and rose. "By Zevatas' golden whiskers!" he exclaimed as he peered over the edge.

  "Make no sharp movements," said Karadur, "lest you set this car to swinging like a pendulum."

  The stairs and chambers of the tower sank past as the lift rose. The walls came slowly closer, since the tower tapered upward. At the sixteenth story, the other car, laden with cast-iron weights, sank past them. The sounds of gearwheels and ratchets from above waxed louder.

  The car stopped, and Karadur stepped briskly out. Jorian followed. A pair of brawny, sweating Irazis rested from turning a pair of large flywheels by means of crank handles.

  The shaft bearing these wheels was united by gearing with a huge sprocket wheel mounted over the center of the hollow shaft of the tower. The lift car that had carried Jorian up hung from one end of the chain that passed over the sprocket, while the weighted car that had passed them hung from the other. A dog locked the gearing in place.

  "Whew!" said Jorian, peering uneasily down the shaft. "That scared me worse than when the princess Yargali turned into a monster serpent whilst I was in bed with her."

  "Now, now, my son!" said Karadur. "Do you still practise your old vice of self-deprecation?"

  Jorian grinned weakly. "Not very often, Holy Father. Anyway, I misdoubt these fellows understand Novarian." He stepped to one of the windows. Beneath him, vast Iraz lay spread out, with broad, straight processional avenues cutting at various angles through the tangle of lesser streets and alleys. Amid the sea of red-tiled roofs, the metallic roof-plates of temples and other public buildings flashed blindingly in the sunlight, like gems scattered about a red-patterned counterpane.

  "Oi!" said Jorian. "Karadur, tell me: is that the palace? And that the temple of Ughroluk? And that the House of Learning? Where lies our tenement?"

  Karadur pointed out landmarks. Jorian said: "I wonder the king add not a few coppers to his treasury by letting the vulgus up the tower for a small fee, to enjoy the view."

  "One of Ishbahar's predecessors did that; but so many young people, disappointed in love, ascended the tower to jump from the top that the privilege was rescinded. If you have seen enough, follow me."

  The old man led Jorian up a narrow stair to the next level, cluttered by a mass of machinery. To one side rose another lift, like the one that had brought them halfway up the tower but smaller.

  "That takes fuel up to the beacon," said Karadur. "There is Yiyim now."

  A metallic tapping came from the clockwork. Then a small, gnomish man with a graying beard popped out of the gearing. In one hand he gripped a hammer, with which he had been tapping one of the huge brass gearwheels.

  "O Yiyim," said Karadur, "this is Jorian the Kortolian, whom the king has commanded to repair the clocks. Jorian, I present Clockmaster Yiyim."

  Yiyim stood glaring with fists on hips, silent but for the hiss of breath in his nostrils. Then he hurled his hammer to the floor with a clang.

  "You cursed old pickthank!" he screeched. "Offspring of a demon and a sow! Incondite meddler!" He added several more epithets, for which Jorian's limited Penembic was inadequate. "So your plot finally came to a boil, eh? And you think I'll show this young mountebank how these clocks work, so that he can steal the credit for starting them and cozen me out of my post, eh? Well, not one word of help shall you have from me! If the twain of you get caught in the gears and ground to sausage, so much the better. May the gods piss on you!"

  Yiyim vanished down the stairs. The sounds of the lift told of his departure.

  "Something tells me I had better not stand at the base of the tower whilst that fellow's at the top," said Jorian, "where he could drop something on me."

  "Oh, he is harmless. If you succeed, Ishbahar will pension him off; and he surely would not risk loss of his pension by fomenting trouble."

  "Yes? Umm. I've seen what happened before when you trusted somebody to be upright and reasonable." Jorian picked up the hammer. "Here's one tool, anyway. There's a tool rack on yonder wall, but with nary a tool in it."

  "They have all been mislaid or purloined over the years," said Karadur. "You needs must furnish your own."

  "I shall, when I've looked over the works…"

  For an hour, Karadur sat cross-legged on the floor, absorbed in meditation, while Jorian tapped and pried and fingered the clockwork. At last he said:

  "I haven't worked on clocks for years, but it is plain as your whiskers why this machine won't run."

  "What is the cause, my son?"

  "Causes, you mean. For one thing, one of the pallets of the escapement is bent. For another, somebody must have struck this gear in the train a heavy blow and marred one of the teeth. For three, the oil in the bearings has been allowed to dry and get sticky, so the wheels wouldn't turn even if all the other faults were righted."

  "Can you rectify these deficiencies?"

  "I think so. But first I must order tools. Who would be the best man in Iraz for that?"

  On the twenty-third of the Month of the Stag, a procession arrived at the courtyard of the Tower of Kumashar. First marched a musical band. Then came a company of the royal guard, consisting of one p
latoon each of pikemen, swordsmen, and arbalesters. Then came the royal litter, borne on the shoulders, not of slaves, but of the leading gentlemen of the court, half of them in kilts and half in trousers. A squadron of cavalry brought up the rear.

  The courtiers set down the litter in front of the main entrance. As the curtains of the litter parted, the soldiers clanged to salute, while the civilians dropped to one knee.

  An enormously fat man in a gold-embroidered white robe, with a curly wig on his head and a serpent crown on top of that, emerged slowly from the litter. The effort made him puff and wheeze.

  When King Ishbahar had caught his breath, he made an upward gesture, so that the sun flashed on the huge ruby seal stone on the middle finger of his left hand. In a high, wheezy voice he said:

  "Rise, good people! Ah, Doctor Karadur!"

  The king waddled forward. In his path lay a puddle from yesterday's rain, but one of the gentlemen quickly threw his mantle over it.

  Karadur bowed. The king said: "And is this your young—ah—Master—ah—"

  "Jorian, Your Majesty," said Karadur.

  "Master Jorian? A pleasure to know you, young sir, heh heh. Axe the clocks running?"

  "Aye, O King," said Jorian. "Would you fain see the works?"

  "Indeed we would. Is the lift working?"

  "Aye, sire."

  "We trust all its parts are sound and solid, for we are not exactly a sylph, heh heh! Let us go; let us go."

  The king puffed his way through the portal. Inside, the ground floor of the tower had received a hasty sweeping and cleaning. A pair of mules walked the boom of the mill around, while a muleteer from time to time cut at one or the other with his whip. The gears and shafting grumbled. The king stepped aboard the lift.

  "Doctor Karadur!" he said. "It were inconsiderate to ask one of your years to climb thirty flights, so you shall ride with us. You, too, Master Jorian, to answer technical questions."

  "Your Majesty!" said one of the gentlemen—a tall, thin man with a pointed gray beard. "No offense to Messires Karadur and Jorian, but it were risky to entrust yourself to the car without a bodyguard."