The Unbeheaded King

by L. Sprague DeCamp

  Margalit exclaimed over the crown's beauty, saying: "Jorian, are you sure you wish to give it up to get your Estrildis back?"

  "Of course I'm sure!" snorted Jorian. "That's what I said, is it not?" He looked down at the dead robber. "It behooves me to carry this rogue afar off, lest the corpse draw beasts of prey. He will soon stink in this heat anyway."

  "Jorian!" said Karadur. "Ere you remove the body, should we not report this manslaying to someone in authority?"

  'To whom?" said Jorian.

  "Are we in Othomae or in Xylar?"

  Jorian shrugged. "The boundary has never been surveyed so far south. When I was King of Xylar, I tried to persuade the Othomaeans to set up a joint boundary commission. But they suspected some swindle and made so many difficulties that I gave up. In sooth this lieu has no government and hence no law."

  He relieved the body of its purse and weapons, hoisted it to his shoulders, and carried it back up the trail for a tenth of a league before dropping it and returning to the wagon.

  During the rest of the day and all of the next, the cart was bedizened with bright paint and astrological symbols. Jorian shaved his face, and he and Margalit were turned a deep brown all over.

  When it came Margalit's turn to be dyed, she said: "Jorian, I pray you, go off and hunt something. I care not to have you staring whilst I stand nude before Father Karadur to be painted."

  Jorian grinned. "If you insist; although he is a man, too."

  "At his age, I do not feel the same as I should about you. You know wizards; he is probably centuries old."

  "Folk exaggerate so!" said Karadur. "True, I may have somewhat lengthened my span by austerities and occult arts; but I have not yet reached a hundred."

  "A wizard's life may or may not be centuries long," said Jorian. "But with so few amusements, it doubtless seems so in any case. Congratulations, Doctor. Here you are, at ninety-odd, looking like a Umber lad of seventy!"

  "Mock me not, saucy boy!" said Karadur. "Now take your crossbow and shoot us a hare or something, whilst I transform the lady."

  The next morning they set out on the main road from Othomae to Xylar. Karadur took the name of Mabahandula, which he had used before. He wanted to give Jorian an equally polysyllabic Mulvanian name, but Jorian balked, saying: "It is all I can do to remember yours. Should we not feel silly if, when asked my own name, I had forgotten it?"

  So Jorian became Sutru, while on Margalit was bestowed the name of Akshmi. Jorian wore a turban, a crimson jacket with many glass buttons, and baggy trousers gathered at the ankles, all bought from Hen vin the Costumer. Margalit's Mulvanian garment was a broad, twenty-cubit length of thin material, wound round and round and over in a complicated way.

  At a leisurely pace, they traveled through Xylar, stopping to pick up a few pence by fortune telling, juggling, and dancing. Margalit performed the dances that Jorian and Karadur had taught her, clattering finger cymbals while Karadur tapped a little drum and Jorian tweedled on a flute. His wound had become inflamed, making use of his left arm painful.

  Jorian played such musical phrases as he could remember from Mulvan, repeating them over and over. Although Karadur muttered that generations of Mulvanian musicians would rise from their graves in fury at Jorian's treatment of their art, the villagers found nothing amiss.

  As Jorian pointed out, they had no standards of comparison. With practice the trio improved. The result, if not authentic Mulvanian art, was at least a good show.

  On a day of heavy overcast, Karadur asked: "How far to the next village, my son?"

  Jorian frowned. "That should be Ganaref, as I remember. By my reckoning, 'twill take us till after dark. I could get there sooner by spurring Cadwil, but Filoman shows signs of lameness. He needs a new off-front shoe; the smith in Othomae botched the job."

  "Must we camp out again?" said Margalit.

  "Belike not. The road to Castle Lore branches off near here, and the castle would afford some shelter." He glanced up. "An I mistake not, we may have rain."

  Karadur said: "Didst tell me, Jorian, that Baron Lore's castle was haunted?"

  "So it was reputed; I never looked into the matter. I pay little heed to such legends."

  "Betimes you pay too little," said Karadur. Thunder rumbled.

  Margalit and Karadur broke into speech at the same time. The Mulvanian urged that they turn off the road at once and rig their tent; the girl demanded that they press on to Ganaref. They were still arguing when Jorian said:

  "Here, methinks, is the road to Castle Lore."

  Margalit peered from the cart. "It is half overgrown. Does none use it?"

  "I suppose not. Here comes the rain!" A few large drops struck the canvas top of the cart. "That settles it; we spend the night in the castle. Hand me my cloak, somebody." Cloaked, he turned his horse on to the weedy track.

  "I lust not to meet my ancestor's ghost," said Margalit.

  "Are you a descendant of Baron Lore?"

  "Aye."

  "Then, if ghost there be, it should be friendly. Come along!"

  Trotting through the weeds and avoiding occasional small trees that had grown up in the road, they clopped through the forest up a long, easy slope. The rain began in earnest. Jorian was soon so wet that he decided it would serve no useful purpose to crawl into the cart.

  At the top of the hill, the forest opened out into an area of low, thin second growth, where a wide greensward around the castle had been abandoned. Over the spindly little trees, black against the clouds, loomed the broken walls of the castle.

  The front gate, fallen to pieces, admitted them to the courtyard. The yard was not only overgrown with weeds and a few saplings, which in their growth had pried up the cobblestones, but was also dotted with man-made pits, which the travelers had much ado to avoid.

  "Treasure hunters have been here," said Jorian. "The folk of Ganaref have been here, too. They have taken the portcullis and a lot of the loose stones for their own uses. Let's see if enough roof is intact to keep off the rain. Wait whilst I search."

  Jorian dismounted, handed the reins to Margalit, and strode into the castle, whose doors sagged on broken hinges. Inside, he had to climb over heaps of rubble where parts of the roof had fallen in. He moved warily.

  At last he emerged, saying: "I've found a chamber that seems tight enough. Tie the anirpals to the statues around the fountain and come on in."

  Jorian pulled the blankets and other gear out of the cart and carried the heaviest items in on his shoulders. He and his companions were no sooner settled than the rain stopped. The setting sun turned the undersides of the breaking clouds to crimson and purple.

  "Damn it!" said Jorian, sneezing. "I wish I could get dry. Belike one of these fireplaces still draws. Luckily for us, the chimney had been invented in Lore's time."

  Jorian returned to the cart, got out the ax, and as twilight fell reappeared with an armful of slender logs. "This stuff is green and wet," he said. "You may have to use your fire spell again, Doctor."

  They were still trying to light the fire when sounds from outside brought Jorian up. "Visitors," he muttered, rising and tiptoeing to the door. Returning, he whispered:

  "Seven or eight, with horses; either robbers or treasure hunters. I could not be sure in this light, but two looked like those who ran from us near Moru. Margalit, would you get my sword? It is in the chamber with the rest of our gear."

  "What good is one sword against eight rogues?" said Karadur. "You might earn a hero's death, but what would that avail us?"

  "We must do something! They are standing about the wain and the beasts. Soon they'll come seeking us. Even if they fail to find us, they will take the cart and the animals."

  "Here is your sword," said Margalit.

  Karadur said: "Methinks we shall do better to afright them. Lady Margalit, pray fetch a blanket… Here!" He draped the blanket over Jorian's shoulders. "When they enter, do you impersonate the baron's ghost. Come back to the chamber, Margalit."

  So
on, several armed men crowded into the crumbling hall. They glanced nervously about, looking up at the broken ceiling and the gallery that ran around the second story.

  Draped in his blanket, Jorian stepped down the bottom steps of the stairway. As he emerged, he became barely visible in the deepening dark. In a sepulchrally deep voice, he said: "Who disturbeth the rest of Baron Lore?"

  As he spoke, he gripped the hilt of his sword beneath the blanket. If they saw through his disguise, they would not find him helpless. On the stair, they could not come at him more than two at a time.

  The seven looked around with a hiss of sudden breaths. One uttered a low cry.

  "Who violateth the demesne of Baron Lore?" moaned Jorian, advancing a step.

  The foremost man gave back. Another, turned and ran for the door, crying "Fly!" He stumbled over a loose stone, falling and scrambling up again.

  In a trice, the other six also ran, tripping and stumbling. Jorian advanced by slow steps, in case one should look back in. From without came sounds of men hastily mounting, and a dwindling clatter of hooves. When Jorian got to the door, the courtyard was empty but for his horse, mule, and cart.

  Jorian shrugged off the blanket and drew his forearm across his sweat-pearled forehead. "Come on out! They have fled!"

  "I congratulate thee, young sir," said a voice behind Jorian. Jorian's hair prickled, for the voice was neither Karadur's high, nasal whine nor Margalit's clear contralto. Though faint and whispery, its tone was as deep as Jorian's own. He whirled, half drawing his sword.

  A few paces away hovered a shadowy, translucent shape. It became the semitransparent figure of a short, stout, elderly man, clad in garments as antiquated as his speech.

  Jorian started violently; his tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth. At last he croaked: "Are—are you Baron Lore? I m-mean, his ghost?"

  "Aye, aye; in good sooth I am both. Thou hast most featly put to flight yon gang of scroyles and saved thy possessions. Had I not—"

  The ghost broke off as Karadur and Margalit emerged from the stair passage. Jorian heard Margalit's catch of breath. Having somewhat regained his composure, Jorian remembered his current persona. Assuming his Mulvanian accent, he said:

  "Exalted sir, these are traveling friends of me, dancer Akshmi and Doctor Mana—Mabahandula of Mulvan. I Sutru of Mulvan are. This Baron Lore is."

  Staring in the gloom, Margalit managed a wordless curtsey. The ghost smiled. "Thou seekest to cozen me to believe ye be Mulvanians. But I have harkened to you since ye entered my dilapidated manse, and I wot ye speak Novarian as do those born to the Twelve Nations. So I take it ye be merely Novarians in garb oriental. Now wherefore this imposture?"

  Jorian sighed. "Well, I did but try. We are earning our way as entertainers from afar. Permit me to present the Lady Margalit of Totens, who tells me she is a descendant of yours; and Doctor Karadur, who is truly a Mulvanian."

  The ghost bowed, saying: "Indeed, it rejoiceth me to meet a kinswoman. I cannot kiss thy hand, for my form is insufficiently material; but I prithee, take the intention for the deed. I thank Zevatas that, after all these years, he hath allowed me visitors who flee not in terror from my aspect. Know that I am a harmless phantom, who findeth the lot of haunter a wearisome sameness. Will ye remain the night, keeping this lonesome wraith company and telling me somewhat of what hath befallen in the world of late? Since my friend Alaunus died, I have had no mortal copemate."

  "Who was he?" asked Jorian.

  "Alaunus was an aged drunkard, who lived by begging and promiscuous employment in Ganaref. Betimes he came hither to down a bottle and gossip with me. He was the only mortal for leagues hereabouts who feared me not."

  "Why must you haunt this ruin, instead of going on to the after-world?" asked Jorian.

  " Tis a long and heavy-footed tale. Were it not wiser to ignite your blaze and prepare your even's repast whilst I do speak? I were a poor host, to keep you standing. Take seats, an ye can find any that the tooth of time hath not destroyed."

  When Jorian at last got the fire going and Margalit had spread out their modest supper, the baron resumed: "Now, where was I? Ah, yea; I was to relate the tale of my being bound to this place. Know ye that, in the last year of my mortal life, a wonderworker, clept Aurelion, appeared at the castle begging shelter. He was, he said, a wizard and alchemist. My health being bad, with disturbances of the heart, Aurelion said that, for a modest sum of gold, he would transmute lead into gold of ten times the quantity. Moreover, this alchemical gold was of such potency that, reduced to powder, it would cure all my ills and enable me to live on indefinitely.

  "When my daughter and her husband came to visit, she warned me that the wight was but a charlatan. But so convincing was Aurelion's presence and so beguiling his mien that I gave him the gold and commanded him to proceed forthwith.

  "For the greater part of a twelvemonth, the alchemist dwelt in the castle, making, he said, his preparations. Ever he required more money to procure rare ingredients, some of which he went to Xylar City to obtain. He studied ancient books he had with him. He practiced magical operations in the tower of the castle that I had set aside for his use.

  "As time passed, I became impatient with Aurelion's neverending flow of promises. At last I told him plain, either produce his gold or get himself hence, ere he eat me out of house and home. At last he announced that the final operation would take place the following night.

  "That he was a true wizard or sorcerer as well as a cheat I have no doubt, the terms not being mutually exclusive. He evoked an authentic demon to assist him. Hath any of you witnessed a sorcerous evocation? Yea? Then I need not recount all the tedious details of the pentacle, the suffumigations, the chants, the gestures, and so forth. Suffice it to say that this fellow did place a hundredweight of bars of lead upon a table and performed a mighty conjuration thereover. When the smoke and flames cleared away, the bars did gleam with the aureate hue of authentic gold.

  "Delighted was I with this addition to the familial fortune and even more so with the prospective banishment of the ills the flesh is heir to. Thinking but to test the softness of the gold, I stepped forward as soon as the metal had had time to cool, and thereupon did scratch one of the bars with my dagger. Ye may conceive my dismay when, at the touch of the steel, the bar instantly resumed the glaucous tones of lead. Fearing the worst, I speedily touched the other bars with my blade, and as I did so they in turn did lead once more become.

  " 'Hah, sirrah, what is this?' I shouted at Aurelion, who in turn bawled at his demonic assistant: 'What's this, thou noodlehead? Thou hast cheated us!' The demon roared back: 'I did but follow thy commands, as I have done many a time and oft before! Tis not my fault that this mortal detected thy cozening ere we had won clear!'

  "Both wizard and demon screamed at each other until the demon vanished with a flash of light and a clap of thunder. I summoned the guards and bade them whip the alchemist from the castle.

  "As he was being led, bound with ropes whilst two lusty guardsmen belabored his bare back till the blood flew, he snarled back at me: 'Baron Lore, I curse thee with the curse of Gwitardus! When thou diest, thy spirit shall be bound to this castle until thou canst persuade a queen to scrub thy castle floor!'

  "That was the last I saw of Aurelion. A few months later, my heart worsened, and one morn I arose to find I was looking down upon myself lying stark and still upon the bed. Then I wist that I had died in my sleep. I soon discovered that the alchemist's curse had come to pass, for my shade could not leave the castle.

  "My daughter and her husband returned hither to carry out the funeral and the execution of my will. They moved into the castle for a time, since she was my principal heir. But, alas, whenever I sought converse with any person, that one became palsied with fright. My shade cannot be seen by full daylight; but as ye do observe, it becometh visible at night.

  "Day or night, howsomever, none would linger to befriend a lonely old phantom. By day, they would hear a disembodied voi
ce and run witlessly hither and yon, like unto a yard of fowls befrighted by the swoop of an eagle. At night they would run at the mere sight of me, whether or no I spake. Little by little the guards and other retainers departed to seek employment elsewhere. At last my daughter and son-in-law followed them forth, leaving me alone.

  "At first I was not altogether discontented, for my wife had predeceased me, and I feared to encounter her in the afterworld. This prospect pleased me not a whit, by which hint ye may judge our state of marital felicity whilst she did live."

  "You need not worry," said Karadur. "According to our savants, one is born into the afterworld virtually without memory of life in this one. Moreover, I am told that the people in that world number in the thousands of millions, wherefore the chances of your encountering your whilom spouse were too small to consider."

  "Thou relievest my mind," said the ghost. "But, lacking a queen to scrub the floor, I know not how I shall ever attain that plane. I am like to spend all eternity here, whilst the castle crumbleth about me. Had I material hands, I would, an all else failed, make the repairs myself to stay the gaunt hand of decay. But as things be, what time doth not disintegrate, the treasure seekers rend asunder."

  As the others ate, the ghost launched into a long account of his experiences in life: the year of a famine; his defense of the castle against a free company; and notable hunts in which he had taken part. He seemed a good-natured person of modest intelligence, limited experience, and somewhat narrow interests. He and Margalit got into a long discussion of genealogy, tracing her descent from him. There was talk of "Third Cousin Gerion."

  "Great-Aunt Bria," and other relatives whose names meant nothing to Jorian.

  Then the garrulous ghost got off on the revolution in Xylar, several generations back, which had deprived the nobility of its feudal privileges. "A monstrous folly!" said the ghost. The baron spent the next hour fulminating against the injustice done his fellow lords and against the iniquities of the Regency Council, the true ruler of the nation ever since.

  Jorian found the baron a nice enough fellow but a terrible bore. It took simultaneous yawns by the three travelers to remind the baron that, unlike him, mortals did from time to time require sleep.