Alexander, Lloyd - Vesper Holly 01 (3 page)

"Alive? He'd be seven hundred years old." Vesper gave the king a slantwise look. "Don't mind me saying so, but that's hard to swallow."

"I am speaking figuratively," said Osman. "The real Vartan is long in his tomb, wherever that may be. As for the legendary Vartan, the Illyriad tells that he found refuge in the Petrosias Mountains. There, he fell into a deep sleep and has been slumbering in his cave ever since. But these Illyrians are like children, with all their superstitions and folklore. They devoutly believe he will return."

"When his people need him, he'll come back and save them," said Vesper. "Like King Arthur. Or Charlemagne and Barbarossa."

"Those worthies have stayed sleeping," replied Osman. "Vartan has returned many times. What I mean, Miss Holly, is that any hothead who stirs up the Illyrians against us is looked on as Vartan himself. The name alone is a rallying cry."

"Brinnie and I heard people shouting 'Vartan' in the Old Town. Was he there?"

"I doubt it," said Osman. "That was merely an excuse to make trouble. Our police have yet to learn his real identity, but they assure me he would hardly dare to venture this far south. We have been plagued with a number of so-called Vartans over the years. This newest one is the most dangerous."

"Why should one Vartan be any different from another?"

"He is the most dangerous because he has been the most successful," replied Osman. "He has rallied the peasantry, persuaded them to burn their crops rather than turn them over to their Zentan landlords. He has inspired gangs of brigands to attack our military posts, to steal weapons. He plans no less than a full-scale rebellion against us.

"You understand, Miss Holly, the urgent need for us to move against him and all his followers with utmost severity. The cost, I fear, will be high in money, which my country can ill afford, and in Zentan lives."

"Illyrian lives don't count?"

"They have brought it on themselves," Osman said. "Rebellion cannot go unpunished." He smiled bitterly. "I have often wished for that magical army which our Illyriad describes. Alas, I must sacrifice real warriors of flesh and blood, and deal with facts, not fairy tales."

"My father didn't believe that army was a fairy tale."

"As your letter to me suggested. An intriguing notion, Miss Holly. What evidence have you to prove it more than a legend?"

"None," said Vesper. "We came here to find it."

"Your confidence is admirable," said Osman. "How do you propose to do so?"

"I don't know yet," Vesper admitted. "My father mentioned a place called Alba-Collia. We'll stay there."

"I am not familiar with it," said Osman.

"I believe it is in the north. Your Majesty," put in Ergon Pasha. "A village in the foothills of the Petrosias. It would be in the Vitora military district."

"Quite so." Osman nodded. "Yes, I recall now there were some disturbances in the region. It is a very backward, superstitious area, and in no way a peaceful one. It would be most unwise for Miss Holly to venture into it."

At this, I broke in to say that we appreciated the dangers of the situation and quite understood why our request for a. firman must be denied.

"Miss Holly is a courageous young woman," said Osman. "I deplore the risk, but if she wishes to take it, how can I deny her? The firman is granted."

Vesper gave me an enormous wink as Osman ordered his vizier to have the document issued.

"I must remind Your Majesty," said Ergon Pasha, "the firman requires endorsements and countersignatures from several department heads. The procedure is lengthy."

"We needn't wait," said Vesper, after thanking Osman. "We can leave for Alba-Collia right away. Why lose time? You can send the firman to us."

"As you wish," said Osman. "My vizier will make sure it reaches you promptly. I only ask that you communicate with me frequently, for I shall be eager to know of your discoveries. Whatever else you may need, whatever favor, you have my word I shall grant it.

"Perhaps I may assist you further," Osman added. "I have allowed a distinguished scholar to examine and catalog our ancient archives. He is at work in the palace now. Dr. Desmond Helvitius. Do you know him, Professor Garrett?"

I did not recognize the name but answered that I was always eager to meet a colleague.

"So you shall." Osman ordered his vizier to have Dr. Helvitius summoned, then addressed himself again to Vesper.

"Dr. Helvitius is studying our early history, with a view to writing a book on the subject. His research may have uncovered information helpful to you. i

"It is unusual for my small country to attract scholarly interest, and I am grateful for it. You see. Miss Holly, I am concerned with our culture as well as with our present difficulties. In time, I hope to bu'l ' n museum and library. The efforts of Dr. Helvitius will be invaluable."

Osman continued on that topic. I had the impression he preferred it to the unhappy and expensive task of stamping out rebellious ethnics. Vesper offered some suggestions, and the king appeared quite taken with them. Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of refreshment trays and Dr. Helvitius.

Garbed in heavy tweed knickers and a shooting jacket, he was a large, looming sort, who looked as if he spent more time outdoors than poring over manuscripts. His great shock of white hair added an air of benevolence and good nature. He seemed altogether at ease with Osman and on the best of terms with Ergon Pasha.

"Your father is known to me," Dr. Helvitius told Vesper, "but by reputation only. I never had the pleasure of meeting him. I gather that you share his interest in Illyrian folklore."

Osman explained the purpose of our visit and asked if Dr. Helvitius could shed any light on Holly's theory.

"I have studied the Illyriad very closely in connection with my own research." Helvitius spoke with the faintest shadow of an accent I could not identify. "There is no question. The epic does reflect many historical events. I have found proof in His Majesty's archives, which are as complete as any I have seen."

"You are, sir, an archivist. A historian?" I asked. "May I inquire as to the nature of your specialty?"

"I have many specialties." Helvitius smiled with becoming academic modesty. "Geology, botany, chemistry among others. At the moment, I find the study of Illyrian manuscripts especially stimulating."

"You said you found proof," put in Vesper. "That's what I'd like to know about."

"Proof there is," replied Helvitius, "to convince me that this so-called magical army is pure invention, no more than a marvelous literary fancy. Had there been any real basis in actual history, the documents would have made some reference to it."

"I'd like to see those documents for myself," said Vesper.

"I assume, doctor," Osman said to Helvitius, "that would not interfere with your own work?"

"Not at all." Helvitius inclined his head toward Vesper. "But I assure you. Miss Holly, your magical army is sheer folkish fantasy. Nothing even remotely resembling it ever existed. Of that, I am entirely satisfied."

"You are," said Vesper. "I'm not."

It was agreed that Vesper would return the next day. Helvitius would have all the documents prepared for her scrutiny. While Vesper was at the palace, I would see to having our equipment sent to Vitora, the administrative center nearest Alba-Collia. Colonel Zalik, the local commander, would be notified of our arrival.

"Because, Brinnie," Vesper declared, "we'll go there no matter what the archives show."

Osman now indicated our audience was over. "I have duties less agreeable than conversing with Miss Holly."

With another royal hand-kiss, he reminded Vesper of his promise to help in every way, then added, "Dear Miss Holly, if only it were possible to settle this strife as you suggested; if only I had the means or some basis allowing i me to grant an honorable peace. This is my personal wish. As king, I have no choice. I must pursue our campaign against these rebels with vigor, and with deepest regret."

We were escorted to our carriage. "Osman's not a bad fellow," remarked Vesper, as we rode back to our hotel. "He really doesn't enjoy fighting. That's happy news for the Illyrians—the ones who survive."

Next morning, while Vesper rooted among the palace archives, I went to the portside storage warehouse to have our equipment recrated, to make out labels for delivery to Vitora, and to complete the rest of the paperwork. The inspectors and other officials took no pains to conceal their opinion. Afarenki, or anyone who chose to venture into the Illyrian backlands, was certifiably a lunatic. By then, I had come to share that view.

I was glad, at last, to return to the relative comfort of our lodgings. I had scarcely sat down when Vesper hurried into the room.

"Brinnie, I found something," she began. "Two things, in fact. One of them is Nilo."

"What, for heaven's sake, is a nilo?" I asked.

"Not what," said Vesper. "Who."

She beckoned to a figure standing in the doorway. "Come in. It's all right. Brinnie's a tiger, but he won't bite you."

The object of Vesper's invitation sidled into the room. He was a gangling, large-framed fellow, his oversized feet encased in scuffed leather boots, one of those Illyrian pillbox caps on the back of his head, his hair tumbling into his eyes. His gait was something between a slouch and a skulk. He halted in front of me and made a disjointed son of bow.

"I found him in front of the hotel," said Vesper.

"You should have left him there," I said. "Dear girl, why ever did you bring him here?"

"He needs work, Brinnie. He wants to be our dragoman. He can drive, cook, do odd jobs. So I hired him."

I replied that she had best unhire him. It was out of the question to employ a total stranger, let alone one picked up like a stray cat.

"Effendi, " Nilo ventured to put in, bobbing his head up and down, "stray cat, truest companion. That is an old Illyrian proverb."

"I forgot to tell you," Vesper said. "He knows English."

Nilo grinned sheepishly. I suppose I did likewise.

"He speaks Illyrian and Zentan," Vesper went on. "Best yet, he was born up north. Near Alba-Collia itself. He knows the whole countryside around there, Brinnie. How's that for luck? He's exactly what we need."

What I needed was a little more confidence in the fellow. This Nilo struck me as a feckless specimen. Yet, if he did indeed know the locality, he might be of use. With some reluctance, I agreed he could work for us. I emphasized the word work.

Nilo bowed and made grateful Illyrian gestures. "Now I shall take the horses and carriage to a stable for the night, and stay there to watch over them."

There was, I replied, one difficulty. We had neither horses nor carriage.

"We do now," said Vesper. "I didn't see Osman, but he left orders for that chief undertaker of his to give us a royal coach and pair. That saves us having to find our own, which means we can leave first thing in the morning."

Osman's generosity had relieved me of an added chore, for which I was thankful. Nilo, assuring me he was an excellent driver with a deep understanding of horses, ambled off to attend to his duties. Vesper flung herself into a chair.

"I found something fascinating in the archives," she said.

Here, my interest roused. Had she actually turned up some documentary proof of her father's theory.

Vesper shook her head. "What I found was a gap. Plain as a missing tooth. That's interesting, Brinnie. Very curious. The palace records go back centuries: royal orders, letters, every kind of detail. Except for the year when the magical army would have been sent against Vartan."

I reminded Vesper that Dr. Helvitius had said as much.

"No, he didn't. He told us he'd never seen such complete archives."

How then, I asked, did Helvitius explain it?

"All he said was there'd never been any documents for that year. I don't believe him."

A respected scholar, an academic, I replied, would certainly not tell an untruth,

"Maybe. Maybe not," said Vesper. "All I know is that there are plenty of records before, and plenty of records after. Nothing in between. I think somebody took them. Who? When?"

As for when, I answered, they could have been removed any time within the past half-dozen centuries. Or merely lost. Or thrown out by accident. Such things often happened. As for why, that would be impossible to guess. One thing we could be sure of: Neither Dr. Helvitius nor anyone in the palace would deliberately get rid of priceless historical documents.

"I suppose not." Vesper chewed on a thumbnail. "Unless there was a good reason. I can't imagine what. It puzzles me, Brinnie. Well, so much for the archives. They're no help. We'll have to scratch for ourselves. And I mean to keep scratching till I find what we're looking for."

Early next morning, Vesper pounded on my door, urging me to hurry. She goaded me downstairs and into the street. In front of the hotel, Nilo perched on top of a vehicle that looked like a huge packing crate slung between iron-bound wheels. It promised all the comfort of an oxcart.

"This isn't from the palace," explained Vesper. "Nilo sold that one."

"Sold it?" I burst out. "Yes, I'm sure he did—and pocketed the money."

"No, no, effendi. I traded it." Nilo spread his hands to fend me off, for I would have collared the wretch then and there. "I kept the horses; they were very fine. But the fancy carriage— effendi, believe me, it would fall apart in two days. Less, even. The axle was already half-broken. Very dangerous."

"It was clever of Nilo to see that." Vesper beamed at him. "We might have broken our necks. You should thank him."

As I climbed into that horse-drawn torture chamber, my feelings were not those of gratitude. Later, as we lumbered our way out of the city into the countryside, I admitted that Nilo had acted wisely. We lurched along rutted roads that would have ripped the underpinnings from a less sturdy vehicle. Our bones were rattled by potholes deep as volcano craters. I calculated one bruise per half mile and estimated that by the time we reached Alba-Collia, we would have turned entirely black and blue.

The following days, as we jolted northward past little patchwork quilts of tenant farms, it grew apparent that we had come into a different sort of country.

No doubt the region included a Zen tan population, but the look and atmosphere were ethnic Illyrian: the women handsome, bold in their glances, dressed in bright over-skirts; the young men, mostly big, lanky fellows, wearing knee-length vests and embroidered pillbox hats; the oldsters sporting enormous handlebar mustaches.

The Illyrians, by and large, seemed good-natured and spirited and tended to laugh uproariously at their own obscure jokes. I also perceived an underlying edginess. They glowered and muttered among themselves in smouldering surliness whenever a detachment of Zentan troops passed through—not an infrequent occurrence.

As for Nilo, he was never there when he could have been useful and always there when we had no need of him. Otherwise, he mainly spent his time lounging about with the locals.

In Trajana, a village where we stopped to have our horses reshod, Nilo struck up an acquaintance with a big, hard-bitten Illyrian who looked as trustworthy as a highway robber. A scruffy beard covered half his face; the other half was weathered almost black. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and alarmingly muscular. His eyes, deep-set, burned with what could have been some intense, inner fire or simply a bad disposition. A clean shirt would not have harmed him.

Vesper and I chanced upon this individual sitting with Nilo at a rickety table in the kaffenton-tavierna, a kind of public house found in even the smallest hamlet.

"I present to you Milan." Nilo bobbed his head and waved an introduction. Milan only muttered and stared us up and down.

"And Silvia." Nilo indicated Milan's companion, an attractive, dark-haired young woman who looked too intelligent to have any dealings with a desperado like Milan.

I was not keen on pursuing the acquaintanceship. Nilo, in my opinion, had fallen into dubious company. But Vesper insisted on sitting down with them and treating them to coffee and honey pastries. Within moments, the dear girl was happily chatting away as if she and Silvia had been childhood friends.

Vesper, indeed, had become more Illyrian than Philadelphian. During our journey, she had acquired the local garb: an embroidered vest, a gaudy kerchief, a pair of threadbare trousers. She looked half-brigand, half-gypsy. I hoped the effect would not be permanent.

After a time, Milan and Silvia left the kaffenion. Nilo tagged along with them. He reappeared eventually to announce that the blacksmith had run into some sort of difficulty. By then, it was too late in the day to set out again.

"But I have arranged everything," Nilo assured us. "The hahnoom and you, effendi, will have rooms above the kaffenion. I shall be comfortable in the stable. We have a proverb, effendi: To a tired head, straw is as soft as goose down."

If that were true, Illyrian geese must resemble porcupines, for I tossed and turned on my mattress that night. Vesper had taken the delay in good part. To me, it was the latest in a series of mishaps. I had lost count how many times our dragoman had followed a wrong road or taken a shortcut leading us to the middle of nowhere.

Our journey, in consequence, was far longer than I had reckoned. At the end of it, I feared, there was every likelihood that the dear child would discover nothing at all.

It also occurred to me that if Osman launched his troops against Vartan in the near future, Vesper and I might well be caught in a hornet's nest.

With these disturbing thoughts in mind, I finally drifted into a doze. A vague sense of some presence roused me. I sat up in bed.

I had only a moment to become aware of a looming shadow. Then a hand was clapped over my mouth.