The Continent Makers and Other Tales of the Viagens (19 page)

“Now,” he said, “what do we need for this corporation? The officers of the Order and I have agreed that to start, the treasury shall advance the sum of 245,000 karda, for which the Order shall receive forty-nine percent of the stock of the company. The remaining fifty-one percent will naturally remain with the promoter and director of the company; that’s the arrangement we’ve found most successful on Earth. However, before such a large sum can be invested in this great enterprise, we must in accordance with the constitution let you vote on the question. First, I had better stop our little wheel here, lest the noise distract you.”

The clicking stopped as Borel put his hand against the wheel. Zerdai broke the thread with a quick jerk, gathered it all in, and slipped away from her hiding place.

Borel continued: “I therefore turn the meeting back to our friend, guide, counselor, and leader, Grand Master Sir Juvain.”

The grand master put the vote, and the appropriation passed by a large majority. As the knights cheered, Kubanan led a line of pages staggering under bags of coins to the stage, where the bags were ranged in a row on the boards.

Borel, when he could get silence again, said: “I thank you one and all. If any would care to examine my little wheel, they shall see for themselves that no trickery is involved.”

The
Garma Qararuma
climbed up
en masse
to congratulate Borel. The adventurer, trying not to seem to gloat over the money, was telling himself that once he got away with this bit of swag he’d sell it for World Federation dollars, go back to Earth, invest his fortune conservatively, and never have to worry about money again. Of course he’d promised himself the same thing on several previous occasions, but somehow the money always seemed to dissipate before he got around to investing it.

Sir Volhaj was pushing through the crowd, saying: “Sir Felix, may I speak to you aside?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“How feel you?”

“Fine. Never better.”

“That’s good, for Shurgez has returned to Mishé with his mission accomplished.”

“What’s that?” said Kubanan. “Shurgez back, and my spies haven’t told me?”

“Right, my lord.”

“Oh-oh,” said the treasurer. “If he challenges you, Sir Felix, you will, as a knight, have to give him instant satisfaction. What arms own you besides that sword?”

“Gluk,”
said Borel. “N-none. Doesn’t the challenged party have a choice of weapons?” he asked with some vague idea of specifying boxing gloves.

“According to the rules of the Order,” said Volhaj, “each fighter may use what weapons he pleases. Shurgez will indubitably employ the full panoply: lance, sword, and a mace or ax in reserve, and will enter the lists in full armor. As for you—well, since you and I are much of a size, feel free to borrow aught that you need.”

Before Borel could say anything more, a murmur and a head-turning apprised him of the approach of some interest. As the crowd parted, a squat, immensely muscular, and very Mongoloid-looking knight came forward. “Are you he whom they call Sir Felix the Red?” asked the newcomer.

“Y-yes,” said Borel, icicles of fear running through his viscera.

“I am Sir Shurgez. It has been revealed to me that in my absence you’ve taken the Lady Zerdai as your companion. Therefore, I name you a vile traitor, scurvy knave, villainous rascal, base mechanic, and foul foreigner, and shall be at the tournament grounds immediately after lunch to prove my assertions upon your diseased and ugly body. Here, you thing of no account!”

And Sir Shurgez, who had been peeling off his glove, threw it lightly in Borel’s face.

“I’ll fight you!” shouted Borel in a sudden surge of temper.
“Baghan! Zeft!”

He added a few more Gozashtandou obscenities and threw the glove back at Shurgez, who caught it, laughed shortly, and turned his back.

“That’s that,” said Kubanan as Shurgez marched off. “Sure am I that so bold and experienced a knight as yourself will make mincemeat of yon braggart. Shall I have my pages convey the gold to your chamber while we lunch?”

Borel felt like saying: “I don’t want any lunch,” but judged it impolitic. His wits, after the first moment of terror-stricken paralysis, had begun to work again. First he felt sorry for himself. What had he done to deserve this? Why had he joined this crummy club, where instead of swindling each other like gentlemen, the members settled differences by the cruel and barbarous methods of physical combat? All he’d done was keep Zerdai happy while this blug was away . . .

Then he pulled himself together and tried to think his way out of the predicament. Should he simply refuse to light? That meant skinning alive. Could he sprain an ankle? Maybe, but with all these people standing around . . . Why hadn’t he told that well-meaning sap Volhaj that he was sick unto death?

And now how could he get away with the gold? It was probably too heavy for the buggy; he’d need a big two-aya carriage, which couldn’t be obtained in a matter of minutes. How could he make his getaway at all before the fight? With his dear damned friends clustering round . . .

They were filling him with good advice: “I knew a man who’d begin a charge with lance level, then whirl it around his head as ’twere a club . . .” “When Sir Vardao slew that wight from Gozashtand, he dropped his lance altogether and snatched his mace . . .” “If you can get him around the neck with one arm, go for his crotch with your dagger . . .”

What he really wanted was advice on how to sneak out of the acropolis and make tracks for Novorecife with a third of the Order’s treasury. When he had gulped the last tasteless morsel, he said: “Good sirs, please excuse me. I have things to say to those near to me.”

Zerdai was crying on her bed. He picked her up and kissed her. She responded avidly; this was an Earthly custom on which the Krishnans had eagerly seized.

“Come,” he said, “it’s not that bad.”

She clung to him frantically. “But I love only you! I couldn’t live without you! And I’ve been counting so on going with you to far planets . . .”

Borel’s vestigial conscience stirred, and in a rare burst of frankness he said: “Look, Zerdai, it’ll be small loss no matter how the fight comes out. I’m not the shining hero you think I am; in fact some people consider me an unmitigated heel.”

“No! No! You’re kind and good . . .”

“. . . and even if I get through this alive I may have to run for it without you.”

“I’ll die! I could never companion with that brute Shurgez again . . .”

Borel thought of giving her some of the gold, since he couldn’t hope to get it all away himself. But then with the Guardians’ communistic principles she couldn’t keep it, and the Order would seize all he left in any case. Finally, he unpinned several of his more glittery decorations and handed them to her, saying: “At least you’ll have these to remember me by.” That seemed to break her down completely.

He found Yerevats in his own room and said: “If the fight doesn’t go my way, take as much of this gold as you can carry, and the buggy, and get out of town fast.”

“Oh, wonderful master must win fight!”

“That’s as the stars decide. Hope for the best but expect the worse.”

“But master, how shall pull buggy?”

“Keep the aya, too. Volhaj is lending me his oversized one for the scrap. Tell you what: when we go out to the field, bring one of those bags inside your clothes.”

###

An hour later, Yerevats buckled the last strap of Borel’s borrowed harness. The suit was a composite, chain-mail over the joints and plate armor elsewhere. Borel found that it hampered him less than he expected, considering how heavy it had seemed when he hefted before putting it on.

He stepped out of the tent at his end of the field where Volhaj was holding the big aya, which turned and looked at him suspiciously from under its horns. At the far end Shurgez already sat his mount. Borel, though outwardly calm, was reviling himself for not having thought of this and that: he should have hinted that
his
weapon would be a gun; he should have bought a bishtar and sat high up on its elephantine back, out of reach of Shurgez, while he potted his enemy with his crossbow . . .

Yerevats, bustling about the animal’s saddle, secured the bag he had brought with him. Although he tried to do so secretly, the jingle of coin attracted the attention of Volhaj who asked: “A bag of gold on your saddle? Why do you that, friend?”

“Luck,” said Borel, feeling for the stirrup. His first effort to swing his leg over his mount failed because of the extra weight he was carrying, and they had to give him a boost. Yerevats handed him up his spiked helmet, which he carefully wiggled down on to his head. At once the outside noises acquired a muffled quality as the sound was filtered through the steel and the padding. Borel buckled his chin strap.

A horn blew. As he had seen the other knights do the day of the previous battle, Borel kicked the animal into motion and rode slowly down the field towards his opponent, who advanced to meet him. Thank the Lord he knew how to ride an Earthly horse! This was not much different save that the fact that the saddle was directly over the aya’s intermediate pair of legs caused its rider to be jarred unpleasantly in the trot.

Borel could hardly recognize Shurgez behind the nasal of his helmet, and he supposed that his own features were equally hidden. Without a word they wheeled towards the side of the field where the grand master sat in his booth. They walked their animals over to the stand and listened side by side while Sir Juvain droned the rules of the contest at them. Borel thought it an awful lot of words to say that, for all practical purposes, anything went.

Beside the grand master sat Kubanan, stony-faced except at the last, when he tipped Borel a wink. Borel also caught a glimpse of Zerdai in the stands; catching his eye, she waved frantically.

The grand master finished and made motions with his baton. The fighters wheeled away from each other and trotted back to their respective tents, where Volhaj handed Borel his lance and buckler, saying: “Hold your shaft level; watch his . . .” Borel, preoccupied, heard none of it.

“Get you ready,” said Volhaj. The trumpet blew.

Borel, almost bursting with excitement, said: “Good-bye, and thanks.”

The hooves of Shurgez’s mount were already drumming on the moss before Borel collected his wits enough to put his own beast into motion. For a long time, it seemed, he rode towards a little figure on aya-back that got no nearer. Then all at once, the aya and its rider expanded to life size and Borel’s foe was upon him.

Since Shurgez had started sooner and ridden harder, they met short of the mid-point of the field. As his enemy bore down, Borel rose in his stirrups and threw his lance at Shurgez, then instantly hauled on the reins braided into the aya’s mustache to guide it to the right.

Shurgez ducked as the lance hurtled toward him, so that the point of his own lance wavered and missed Borel by a meter. Borel heard the thrown spear hit sideways with a clank against Shurgez’s armor. Then he was past and headed for Shurgez’s tent at the far end. He leaned forward and spurred his aya mercilessly.

Just before he reached the end of the field, he jerked a look back. Shurgez was still reining in to turn his mount. Borel switched his attention back to where he was going and aimed for a gap on one side of Shurgez’s tent. The people around the tent stood staring until the last minute, then frantically dove out of the way as the aya thundered through. Yells rose behind.

Borel guided his beast over to the main road towards Novorecife, secured the reins to the projection on the front of the saddle, and began shedding impedimenta. Off went the pretty damascened helmet, to fall with a clank to the roadway. Away went sword and battle ax. After some fumbling he got rid of the brassets on his forearms and their attached gauntlets, and then the cuirass with its little chain sleeves. The iron pants would have to await a better opportunity.

The aya kept on at a dead run until Mishé dwindled in the distance. When the beast began to puff alarmingly, Borel let it slow to a walk for a while. However, when he looked back he thought he saw little dots on the road that might be pursuers, and spurred his mount to a gallop once more. When the dots disappeared he slowed again. Gallop—trot—walk—trot—gallop—that was how you covered long distances on a horse, so it should work on this six-legged equivalent. Oh, for a nice shiny Packard! After this he’d confine his efforts to Earth, where at least you knew the score.

He looked scornfully down at the bag of gold clinking faintly at the side of his saddle. One bag was all he had dared to take for fear of slowing his mount. It was not a bad haul for small-time stuff, and would let him live and travel long enough to case his next set of suckers. Still, it was nothing compared to what he’d have made if the damned Shurgez hadn’t popped up so inopportunely. If, now, he’d been able to get away with the proceeds both of the stock sale and of the lottery . . .

###

Next morning found Borel still on the aya’s back, plodding over the causeway through the Koloft Swamps. Flying things buzzed and bit; bubbles of stinking gas rose through the black water and burst. Now and then some sluggish swamp-dwelling creature roiled the surface or grunted a mating call. A shower had soaked Borel during the night, and in this dank atmosphere his clothes seemed never to dry.

With yelping cries, the tailed men of Koloft broke from the bushes and ran towards him: Yerevats’ wild brethren with stone-bladed knives and spears, hairy, naked, and fearful-looking. Borel spurred the aya into a shambling trot. The tailed men scrambled to the causeway just too late to seize him; a thrown spear went past his head with a swish.

Borel threw away his kindness-to-animals principle and dug spurs into the aya’s flanks. The things raced after him; by squirming around he could see that they were actually gaining on him. Another spear came whistling along. Borel flinched, and the spearhead struck the cantle of his saddle and broke, leaving a sliver of obsidian as the shaft clattered to the causeway. The next one, he thought gloomily, would be a hit.

Then inspiration seized him. If he could get his money bag open and throw a handful of gold to the roadway, these savages might stop to scramble for it. His fingers tore at Yerevats’ lashings.