Alexander, Lloyd - Vesper Holly 01 (2 page)

" 'But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems,* " exclaimed Vesper.

She leaned over the railing of our coastal freighter, shaded her eyes, and peered at the Bay of Zenta: a half moon of bright blue, the clustering buildings of the port dazzling white in air that was Grecian in its clarity.

"I wonder if Shakespeare ever saw Illyria," she said. "Brinnie, it's marvelous. Or it will be, once we're off this floating coal scuttle."

The freighter had turned out to be the grimiest, most unseaworthy vessel in nautical history, evil-smelling even by local standards. Vesper, nevertheless, had proved an excellent sailor. She gained her sea legs the first day out of Philadelphia, explored our steamer from the top deck to the hold, from stem to stern. She suffered not a moment of seasickness, never missed a meal as an honored passenger at the captain's table. This last leg of our voyage was enough to turn a hardy seaman into a devout landlubber. Vesper merely shrugged it off.

For myself, my misgivings multiplied the closer we drew to Illyria. I put them aside, concentrating on the duties awaiting me in Zenta, the capital. I would have to locate our equipment in one of the warehouses, deal with bills of lading, arrange proper storage, then obtain certificates and several dozen other permits—the smaller the country, the greater the amount of paperwork.

At first, it seemed unlikely that Vesper would get beyond the dockside. She caused a stir the moment we set foot inside the customs shed.

"What are they muttering about.^" Vesper indicated the port officials and police constables. "We haven't done anything wrong. We haven't been here long enough."

I reminded her that until quite recently the Illyrian women had been obliged to wear black veils and shapeless robes in public. Vesper's trimly cut pantaloons and short overskirt, her hair flying loose, without the token modesty of a hat, would attract a measure of attention.

"Time they got used to it." Vesper smiled sweetly at the customs guard, who scowled and grumbled about farenkis —a word applying to any sort of outlander—but who finally let us pass.

We made our way through the horde of ragged urchins and gawking onlookers. Vesper put two fingers in her mouth and gave an earsplitting whistle.

In addition to shattering my eardrums, her signal brought a rattletrap carriage about the size of a dogcart, which somehow hauled us and our baggage to the hotel: hardly more than a lodging house with a small restaurant whose menu threatened gastric disaster. I suggested seeking accommodations elsewhere.

"It's fine," said Vesper. "We won't be here long anyway."

She engaged the entire second floor—both rooms—and had the proprietor convert it into a kind of suite. She wished to call immediately on King Osman. 1 insisted on notifying the American consul and transmitting our formal request for an audience through proper official channels. This I did in the course of the day, as well as attending to other details.

Vesper, nevertheless, sent a note to the palace, announcing our arrival.

"Osman probably knows already," she said. "Word gets around. Still, it's only common courtesy."

Vesper got me up at the crack of dawn the next day. We were, she announced, going to visit the Old Town, the Illyrian quarter of Zenta.

"No use wasting time," she said. "We'll have a look around before we hear from Osman,"

The Old Town, the lower part of the city, was extremely picturesque. In Philadelphia, it would have been called a slum. The ethnic Illyrians had no choice about living there. Zentan law barred them from any other part of the city, and forbade them owning more than the smallest property or doing anything but the meanest work.

"Half the population's Illyrian," said Vesper. "That's not fair to them. It's plain wrong. I'll have to talk to Osman about it."

As gently as possible, I told Vesper that the likelihood of seeing the king in person was remote—in fact, nil.

Though it distressed me to dampen her spirits, I explained that a ruler like Osman simply did not receive unknown foreigners.

"Unknown?" said Vesper. "Hardly. I told him all about us."

By then, we had reached the heart of the Old Town: a quarter of poor dwellings, narrow streets, and in the center, a kind of bazaar filled with pot sellers, coppersmiths, hawkers of unidentifiable objects, peddlers bawling their wares, and what seemed to be as many donkeys as people.

Vesper had gone into one of the tiny shops when the trouble started.

I heard what sounded like pistol shots, followed by a terrible racket, and, above the din, voices shouting, "Vartan! Vartan!"

Within moments, a crowd of men and women came running down the street. There were screams and more cries of "Vartan!" Vesper, despite my warning, hurried out of the shop.

The press swirled around us. A number of Zentan police had caught up with the crowd. Swinging their truncheons, the officers waded in, flailing right and left. The Illyrians who stood their ground were clubbed and left lying where they fell.

Vesper was no longer at my side. To my consternation, I saw her in the middle of the street.

"You there!" Vesper pointed at one of the constables. "What's this about.**"

The officer gaped, taken aback at being addressed in Zentan by an obvious farenki. By way of an answer, he tightened his grip on his cudgel and started for Vesper.

By then, I had reached her. I called out that we were citizens of the United States of America and the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Instead of halting, the officer quickened his approach. No doubt he misunderstood my Zentan.

"This is outrageous," Vesper declared. "These people aren't fighting back. They don't even have weapons."

The middle of a riot was not the moment to discuss the rights and wrongs of it. I seized Vesper and joined the fleeing crowd.

My goal was to escape the confines of the Old Town. At the first chance, I pulled Vesper into a side street. We were no better off; a number of Illyrians had taken the same route.

A flight of ancient stone steps rose ahead of us. I hurried Vesper toward it, hoping it would lead to the Zentan area. Vesper suddenly cried out. Also, at that moment, I felt myself assaulted from the rear. I spun around, expecting a Zentan constable. I came face to face with one of the ever-present donkeys.

What the creature was doing there and how it came upon me so suddenly, I was not inclined to guess. The beast was more annoyed than frightened, resentful at finding its way blocked. Braying at the top of its voice, it attempted to push past me.

I fell back, lost my footing, and went sprawling under the hooves. The creature, unable to move one way or the other, could only tread back and forth, marking time, as it were, on whatever portions of my anatomy became available.

Vesper was more stubborn than any Illyrian donkey. By sheer might and main, she succeeded in shoving the beast aside and dragged me clear.

She hustled me up the steps. We did not slow our pace until safely in the Zentan area.

"Are you all right, Brinnie?"

I was, I replied, as well as could be expected.

"Wait a minute then."

Vesper examined her sleeve, which had been torn along much of its length. "That's odd. My jacket's ruined too."

At first, I assumed that she had also been attacked by the ferocious donkey. A closer look showed me that her arm had been slashed and was bleeding copiously.

"It felt like something stung me." Vesper frowned. "It happened when you fell."

My handkerchief was gone. I flung off my coat and ripped my shirt to strips, despite the astonished glances from the passers by.

"Dear girl," I cried, trying to improvise a bandage, "you've had a frightful accident."

"No accident," said Vesper. "Somebody tried to stab me."

"Don't cluck, Brinnie," said Vesper. "I'll be fine. The medical kit's in the hotel room, that's all I need."

The incident, I said, should be reported as soon as possible to the police.

Vesper snorted. "Those head crackers? They don't inspire much confidence. No, I'll deal with this myself."

She whistled up the Zentan translation of a hansom cab. I had, by then, calmed enough to examine her injury more closely. It was unmistakably a knife wound. Had Vesper not moved to help me, the blade would have plunged into her ribs.

"Who'd want to kill me.^" said Vesper as we rattled along toward the hotel. "And why.^"

I confessed I had no idea. I could imagine no reason at all for such an attack.

"No reason is what bothers me," said Vesper. "There must be a reason. Only we don't know what it is. But somebody had a very good reason. I'll have to think about it."

Once in the privacy of our suite, I hurried to fetch the medical kit. The wound, I was relieved to see, was not as serious as I feared. Vesper was in no way upset by it. She had already turned her mind to another question.

"Why were they shouting 'Vartan'. For the police, it was a red rag to a bull. What riled them so much?"

I had no answer. The whole deplorable business only demonstrated that the country was hardly safe for Illyrians, let alone travelers. While Philadelphia has its shortcomings, riots and assault do not figure prominently in the social scene.

Just then our landlord appeared at the door.

"Hahnoom!" he cried—the first time the fellow had used this title of respect. “Hahnoom, this is for you."

With much bowing and scraping, he presented a large envelope sealed with red wax. He was fairly jiggling with curiosity, hoping Vesper would examine the contents then and there. She thanked him and waved him away.

"No wonder he was polite," Vesper said. She tore open the envelope and glanced at the letterhead. "It's from the palace. Here, Brinnie, see for yourself."

I expected one of two things: a denial of out firman, or at best, some official formality sent by a minor functionary.

It was neither.

Written in excellent English, it granted us a personal audience with His Sublime Majesty, Osman, King of Illyria. There was a postscript penned by the king himself.

It will be a pleasure to greet the charming daughter of an illustrious father.

Vesper grinned all over her face. "I don't like to say I told you so, Brinnie. So I won't. Put it this way: I knew Osman would be delighted to see us."

The following afternoon, adding to the reflected glory of our landlord, a royal carriage pulled up in front of the hotel. In the wake of further bowings and scrapings from the entire hotel staflf, it bore us to the palace.

I use the word palace, but it was more like a city in itself: parks, fountains, gardens, a Turkish-style harim —occupied only by female relatives, for the king was still a bachelor— and a golden-domed central building.

Vesper would have admired its splendors at length, but we had no opportunity, being promptly taken in tow by relays of functionaries, each higher in rank.

At last, we were handed over to a gaunt, hawk-faced individual in a long-skirted black frock coat: Ergon Pasha.

This gentleman was no less a personage than the grand vizier. As chief minister, he occupied the highest office of state next to the king himself. After greeting us with formal courtesy, he left us to cool our heels in an antechamber twice the size of our entire hotel suite.

"I've seen happier undertakers," Vesper said. "I don't think we filled his day with joy."

She broke off at the arrival of a chamberlain wearing a tarboosh as tall as a stovepipe, billowing pantaloons, and a gorgeously braided jacket. I expeaed him to lead us to a hall of state or audience chamber. Instead, he ushered us to one of the king's private apartments: a cool, airy room with a little fountain sparkling at one end.

Ergon Pasha was already there, standing with his hands behind his back and a sour look on his face. King Osman reclined on a divan. Unlike his vizier, he seemed genuinely pleased to see us.

The ruler of Illyria was quite young; a neatly trimmed, dark mustache set off his pale and very handsome features. He did not wear traditional Zentan costume but an excellently tailored lounging suit. He acknowledged my bow with an informal nod. Vesper stepped toward him, not to curtsy but to shake hands; Osnian, however, brought her fingertips to his lips—a gesture a Philadelphian would consider a little too familiar. Vesper seemed to enjoy it.

"My dear Miss Holly and Professor Garrett." The king chose to speak in English, as a courtesy to us. "I have met the renowned Dr. Holly only through his publications, but was impressed by him as I am now charmed by his daughter. I trust your stay in my country is proving interesting and pleasant."

"Interesting, yes," replied Vesper. "Pleasant? Well, for one thing, Brinnie nearly got squashed by a donkey in the Old Town. There was a riot going on at the time."

"A small disturbance. Your Majesty," put in Ergon Pasha.

"Indeed." said Osman. "I was not informed."

"A minor matter. The police dealt with it efficiently. I regret that our distinguished visitors chose that moment to observe the Illyrian quarter." Ergon Pasha tried to look apologetic.

"And something else," Vesper went on. "Not pleasant but very interesting. Somebody tried to kill me."

"Dear Miss Holly, this is most alarming." Osman turned to his vizier. "How can this be? I had assumed—" He broke off and spoke rapidly in Zentan.

"You had us watched?" asked Vesper.

Osman turned to her, embarrassed. Obviously, he had not realized we understood the language. "Your well-being occupied a foremost position in my thoughts. I wished only to provide—what is the term?—a guardian angel."

He frowned at Ergon Pasha. "How could this happen? You assured me our guests would be kept from harm."

"Circumstances made it impossible, Majesty," Ergon Pasha answered smoothly. "The complaint will be thoroughly investigated. This regrettable incident, Majesty, is further proof of the need for strongest measures against these ethnic troublemakers."

Ergon Pasha might have looked like a mortician, but he had not risen to the rank of vizier for nothing. He had, I realized, not only sidestepped his monarch's criticism but also turned it to advantage.

"These rebellions must be stamped out once and for all," Ergon Pasha went on, "without delay, as soon as a punitive force can be raised. As Your Majesty has so wisely agreed."

"Wisely, perhaps," Osman said, "but not willingly."

"You're sending troops against your own people?" put in Vesper.

"Against Illyrians," the vizier corrected.

"This turmoil cannot be allowed to continue," said Osman. "We must have peace. It is vital to my kingdom."

"So you'll crack down on half the population?" Vesper said. "What's peaceful about that?"

"The Illyrians stand in the way of progress," replied Osman. "We desperately need the development of our natural resources, the construction of railroads, of schools and hospitals.

"My vizier has urged me to entrust such projects to the hands of outsiders, to grant concessions to foreign interests. This I absolutely refuse. Foreign concessions would not enrich us; they would drain us. We would have no control over our own destiny. If we are to keep our independence, we must carry out these projeas ourselves."

"What's stopping you?" asked Vesper.

"We cannot," said Osman. "Not while these rebels constantly harass us and destroy all our efforts. They attack our work parties; they tear down what we try to build. They demand what they consider their rights."

"If you ask me," said Vesper, "the answer's obvious."

"His Majesty does not need instruction in government," said Ergon Pasha.

Osman raised his hand. "I shall be interested in Miss Holly's views."

"It's simple," said Vesper. "Give your Illyrians what they want. Why shouldn't they have the same rights as your Zentans.-^ It's their country, too, isn't it? I'd call that plain, ordinary justice."

"Justice?" replied Osman. "You do not understand our Zentan spirit. Here, the king gives justice. He does not allow it to be forced from him."

Vesper had struck a nerve with Osman. His face burned —with pride or anger. I hesitated to guess.

"I speak in the name of all my ancestors," Osman declared. "Not one, from the time of King Ahmad himself, has given way to threats. Honor is as important as justice. Generosity, grace—these are gifts a king bestows of his own will. They can only be granted, never demanded. Such is our Zentan code of honor. I follow it, as I follow in the footsteps of King Ahmad. I will not betray his blood that runs in my veins."

"As I remember the Illyriad," Vesper said, "after he captured Ahmad, Vartan generously let him go free."

"You prove my point, my dear Miss Holly," replied Osman. "I am happy that you know our literature, but I remind you, Ahmad refused to beg for mercy. He disdained to offer a ransom to save his life. Nor did Vartan bow to threats. He released Ahmad willingly. He was truly a noble enemy, which cannot be said for Vartan today."

"Today?" asked Vesper. "He's been dead for centuries."

"On the contrary," said Osman. "Vartan is alive."