The Undesired Princess (13 page)

14

There was no sign of Kai, though they looked. Hobart surmised: “Probably remembered to disappear. These stings are the very devil. Any get you?”

“No, they didn’t touch me,” said Argimanda. “Can I do aught for yours, dear Prince?”

“Thanks, but I’ll stand them until we get back to camp.”

“Camp? You mean one of the tent-cities of the Marathai?”

“Uh-huh.” Hobart gave the princess a brief account of recent events. He finished: “I’m taking you back there now, and I’ll ship you off to your father first thing.”

She sighed a little. “I owe you life a second time, Rollin. There is nothing I would not do for you if I could. But—you have not changed your mind?”

“Nope. Sorry,” muttered Hobart, becoming suddenly very busy at reloading his musket. But she did not embarrass him by discussing their relationship further. Not the least painful part of his predicament was the fact that Argimanda was so considerately obliging that she never gave him an excuse for getting angry with her.

She put down Theiax, who trotted mournfully behind them, misjudging distances and bumping into things. His voice was a shrill wail as he protested: “I am insulted! I am humiliated! Prince, can you no get my size back?”

“Nope, old fella; not my department.”

“You should not kill Laus! He could restore me.”

“Didn’t kill him, really. He committed suicide. Matter of fact,” Hobart continued, turning to Argimanda, “I haven’t done any of the noble deeds that you and the other people of this cockeyed world insist on crediting me with. It’s been just dumb luck, plus my ignoble and selfish efforts to save my own neck.”

Argimanda smiled. “Your fairy godmother must have given you modesty along with your heroism, Rollin.”

“I’m not a hero!” cried Hobart despairingly. “I’m just an ordinary, practical engineer, and not a very nice guy at that! I’m self-centered and set in my ways; my friends think I’m dull and pedantic—”

“A scholar as well as a hero!” breathed the princess rapturously. “I would not have believed such a combination of virtues possible! If you would only let me serve you, however humbly—”

“Please, let’s not discuss it!”

“Very well, my prince.” There was a trace of moisture in her eye, but she blinked it away and smiled with heartrending bravery. “I shall be happy enough, just being near you for a few hours!”

Hobart clenched fists and teeth, torn between desires to yell “Shut up!” to run off and leave this infuriatingly lovely person, and to grovel in apologies. In the end he marched briskly straight ahead, musket on shoulder and glower on face. His pace did not bother Argimanda, who swung along easily on her superb long legs. Thus they reached the escort in less time than it had taken Hobart and Kai to find the wizard’s lair.

Somebody called “Hi!” from the top of one of the hills and clumped down toward them. It was Gorvath. “I did not expect to see you so soon; or ever, for that matter! You have the lady?” The barbarian doffed his kalpak and bowed to Argimanda. “I am dazed by her beauty!” Gorvath staggered a little to show that when he said dazed, he meant dazed. He recovered and said to Hobart in a stage-whisper: “She would make a wonderful shami!”

“No doubt,” answered Hobart drily. “But we’re in a hurry; round up the boys.”

Gorvath started to go, then caught sight of Theiax, who tried to hide behind a shrub. The Marathaian stared, then burst into uncontrollable laughter. “Hahahahaha—the noble beast has shrunk! Did you wash him in too hot water, or what?” Gorvath staggered off, still laughing and holding his midriff.

Theiax caterwauled: “If I get my size back, I teach that ignorant one not to rickidule me!”

When Hobart had seen Argimanda mounted, he swung aboard his own horse, and called down to Theiax: “Think you can hold on without scratching me or the horse? Okay; jump!”

When Theiax had settled himself across the saddle, he turned his small yellow eyes up to Hobart, and asked: “What is this about you not marrying Argimanda?”

“That’s right.” Hobart repeated the protest that had now become automatic from frequent use, about not giving a damn for all the pomp an alien world had to offer.

Theiax glowered and spat: “If I get my size back, you do not walk out on my princess so nanchaloncy!”

“I know it,” chuckled Hobart. “Look here, old man, you wouldn’t want to force Argimanda into a loveless marriage, would you?”

“Not loveless. She loves
you.”

“An unhappy one, then.”

“If she loves you, she is happy with you no matter. You should make her happy, just as I make happy lionesses who love me. But not anymore,” he concluded mournfully, twisting his head to inspect his diminutive shape.

“Well, damn it, an inequitable one then!”

“Inetiquable—ineq—oh, tea leaves! You are too smart man for me. Where do you go after you leave my princess?”

“Back to my own world, I hope.”

“Are there lions in that world?”

“Yes, but not where I live. They’re not allowed in the streets and houses.”

Theiax made a gentle buzzing noise that presumably indicated thought, then came out with: “I love Argimanda, but I love my dignity, too. I must not go back to Oroloia; every dog in city hears about my new size and waits to chase and humiliate me. Could I go with you?”

“I’ll think about it,” replied Hobart. “I’d have to pass you off as just an unusual kind of pussy-cat, you know.”

“I know.” The social lion dropped the subject, and spent the rest of the trip reminiscing about his love affairs with assorted wild lionesses. Hobart found the stories very rare indeed, for Theiax, being a feline, had no inhibitions in such matters. But the engineer tried not to laugh, not wishing to insult his little friend’s melancholy. Come to think of it, a confirmed bachelor ought to have some sort of pet, and Hobart’s last dog had died a couple of years previously. Theiax would have to be taught to confine his conversation to the privacy of the apartment . . .

“Sham!” cried Gorvath. “Somebody has a preceded us to the camp. Look!” He indicated a swath of trampled grass that even Hobart could see marked the passage of a large body of horsemen.

“What do you make of it?” the engineer inquired.

“I do not know, but it might be Sham Khovind and his son.”

“Suppose they attacked the camp?”

“They might have, though they could hardly have surprised it in daylight.” Gorvath with a sweep of his arm indicated the featureless plain whose grass would not have concealed anything larger than Theiax.

“Guess we’ll have to go see,” Hobart announced. Another hour’s ride brought the tent-city up over the skyline, in the form of a little dark irregularity between the blue sky and the yellow sea of grass.

“Should we scout?” asked Gorvath.

Hobart privately wished the barbarians would not consult him on matters of military strategy and tactics, but he replied: “If we go any closer they’ll see us sure. And I don’t propose to crawl ten miles on my belly through the grass. Suppose we send Theiax. He’s small enough—ouch! You little devil—”

The social lion had dug a claw sharply into Hobart’s thigh, then jumped down. He mewed: “You make fun of me! I do not let people make fun of me! I am lion, even if small!”

“Okay, okay, I wasn’t making fun of you. I was saying that your size makes you just perfect for reconnoitering the camp; there’s not another man or beast in this world that could do it as well!”

“Oh, that is different. I am sorry I scratch.” Mollified, Theiax set off at an easy lope through the grass, with which he blended to invisibility after a few leaps.

The rest of the party disposed themselves to await the lion’s return; some dismounted, others remained slouched in their saddles, eating, smoking, or snoozing. The horses cropped contentedly. Hobart pointedly avoided conversation with Argimanda and Gorvath, fearful lest he should somehow get committed to more deeds of derring-do. He snatched some sleep, but as the hours dragged by, he became concerned. The sun was well down when Theiax reappeared, trotting with lolling tongue.

“Horses!” gasped the pussy-lion. “Horses, horses, all around camp! Parathai horses, Marathai horses, even some horses from Logaia! I reckonize bridles.”

“Now what,” Hobart asked the clear atmosphere, “would Logaian horses be doing there? Any sign of fighting, Theiax?”

“No; everything is peaceful. People sing in camp.”

Hobart sighed with bafflement. “Guess we’ll just have to go see for ourselves. Hey, everybody, mount! When we get near the tent-city, stand by to run like hell if they act hostile.”

They had to skirt several herds of stock whose herdsmen waved languidly to them. There was certainly no sign of blood and tumult here. As Theiax had described, there were horses all around the camp, pegged out in orderly rows. As they threaded their way among the herds, Hobart recognized one of the royal Logaian grooms.

“Hi!” he called. “What are you doing here, Glaukon?”

“I don’t know, lord,” responded the youth. “I came with King Gordius as I was told to, that’s all.”

Hobart continued toward the main gate at the head of his party. As he approached it he must have been sighted, for there were trumpet blasts from within. The singing and other sounds of revelry within ceased, and out from the gate boiled a crowd of people on foot.

Hobart tightened his grip on the reins, prepared to whirl his animal around on its haunches; but the people were evidently not hostile. In the front rank were four: Sanyesh, King Gordius, ex-General Valangas in barbaric costume with short blond fuzz sprouting from his scalp, and a very old barbarian who limped forward on a stick. They were flanked and followed by assorted retainers and standard-bearers. Then what Hobart feared worse than a fight came to pass: the four dignitaries with one voice bellowed, “Hail, Rollin, King of Kings!”

Hobart had a chance of perhaps five seconds to bolt, but he lost it while making up his mind. Then they were all around him, Argimanda in her father’s arms, the others fairly hauling him off his horse.

When the tumult of acclaim died, King Gordius wrung Hobart’s hand, explaining: “I knew you’d save her, my boy! And since you’re now King of all Logaia, and Sham of the Parathai, Sham Khovind—this is he,” (he indicated the old man on the stick)—“Sham Khovind and his son agree that the only sensible thing to do is to make you King of Kings, Sham Shamzen, over all three realms!”

“But,” wailed Hobart, “I don’t
want
to be King of Kings—”

“Nonsense, son! You’re just the man for it!” The king took Hobart’s arm and began to walk him back through the gate. “You see we could never manage it before, because the Marathai wouldn’t accept a Parathaian or Logaian ruler; a Logaian wouldn’t take a Parathaian or Marathaian, and so on, heh-heh. But you’re neither one thing nor the other: a stranger with barbarian hair and civilized manners; as my son Alaxius rudely put it, an impossible person, wearing clothes of a non-existent color, and a puissant hero to boot. You’re the one man who can take charge of our countries, stop these silly internal wars, and make one mighty realm out of them!”

Sham Khovind added in a guttural voice: “We can make it beeger than just the three keengdoms, Sham Shamzen; we can conquer the wild Theoiri—”

“And,” Gordius broke in, “I’m sure the Psythoris will join us if invited—”

“And eef they do not, we take them anyway—”

“And we really should seize the golden city of Plakh; it controls the trade routes to Gan Zheng—”

“And we need the Buryonoi Mountains, for a—how you say eet—strategic frontier—”

Hobart heard in thin-lipped silence. When they reached the sham’s tent, he asked with quiet grimness: “While you men plan how I can conquer the whole planet, will you excuse me? I want to be alone for a while.”

Of course, they clamored, he could be alone as long as he wished; he was King of Kings, and what he said went. Hobart retreated to one of the smaller compartments which he had used as sleeping quarters the night after the battle. He grasped the rodent skull and called for Kai.

The yellow man popped into view, glancing about nervously at the sounds of celebration that filtered through the tent-walls. His bare hide bore a score of large red lumps.

“Hornets get you?” asked Hobart sympathetically. “Too bad, old boy; can’t you cure ’em by magic?”

Kai spread his hands helplessly. “I buy spell from magic peddler; does not work. Peddlers always cheats poor fish-eaters. Can you stop them, Sham Shamzen?”

“Maybe. I see you’ve kept up with the news. Look, when you do that disappearing act, can you take somebody else with you?”

“Sure; you take me by the hand, I pull you along,
foosh-whush
.”

“Okay. Know where Nois hangs out?”

“You mean Baaa, master of all?”

“Nois or Zhav or Baaa, whichever you prefer.”

“I know,” said Kai, apprehension growing on his dish-face.

“Well, I want you to take me there. Now!”

Kai was seized with violent trembling, and sank to his knees. “Oh, Sham Shamzen Shamzen! I am afraid! Baaa is lord of everything! Very powerful! Why you want to see him?” he wailed.

“He’s been up to some more tricks, and I don’t like it. He and I are going to the mat. Come on, give me your hand!” As Kai continued to ululate his fears, Hobart snatched one dirty hand and shook the savage roughly. “Get going!” he roared.

“Y-you take care of my poor people when I am gone?”

“Yes! Damn it, get—” At this instant Kai dissolved into dusty opaqueness; Hobart felt a violent tug on the hand he held. He gripped it more tightly, and felt himself pulled along, though he knew not what. Everything was roaring confusion.

“Here we are,” squeaked Kai. The surroundings crystallized into shape, and Hobart gasped.

They were standing in a huge bowl of sleek black rock, miles across. There were no steps or other irregularities in the sides of the bowl. Hobart did not see how anyone, having once slid into the depression, could get out with neither wings nor magic.

The floor of the bowl was circular and flat; they stood at its edge, where the obsidianlike rock began to curve up. In the center of the floor, which was perhaps half a mile across, rose a great white pyramid, unnaturally bright, since the rays of the evening sun slanted across the bowl above the pyramid’s apex.