The Clocks of Iraz
- Автор: Де Камп Лайон Спрэг
- Серия: The Reluctant King #2
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Фэнтези
Электронная книга - «The Clocks of Iraz». Краткое содержание книги:
"Very well. The first try was not very successful. As a result of my year of virtuous conduct, I was like a crossbow on a hair trigger. Sahmet was disappointed, but I told her not to worry; that with a respite I should be able to repeat my performance.
"So, for the next half-hour, we ate and drank and talked of this and that. I told her of some of the deeds of King Fusinian. Then I was ready again, and this time I did a proper fifty-stroke job. The lady flopped beneath me like a fish on a hook. She said it was the first time in years that she had really enjoyed a man; in fact, ever since she had quarreled with Chaluish.
"But think you she was then ready to drop off to sleep? By Vaisus' brazen arse, nay! She lusted for more. After another half-hour, I managed to work up another stand and gave her a proper frigging.
"But then she wanted still more. Becoming weary, I pretended to go to sleep, which in sooth soon became the real thing. But this morn, at the dawn's first light, I was aroused by my holy bedmate, diddling with me in hopes of raising my temple column."
"Did she succeed?"
"Oh, aye, it worked; if anything, too well." Jorian yawned. "I could sleep the clock around. Afterwards she crushed me to her ample bosom with hot words of love. She swore I should never leave Iraz but remain here for ay, to riddle her night and day."
"You could fare further and do worse," said Karadur.
"What? Become a male concubine? And give up my little Estrildis? You must think me a mere tomcat, fornicating about the world as opportunity offers."
"Nay, my son. This is, after all, the lawful consummation of a sacerdotal rite and hence no—ah—fornication."
"Not so lawful. The ram in this holy tupping is supposed to be the king, and I'm not the king. If High Priest Chaluish find out and have a mind to make trouble… No, thank you! These high intrigues are too chancy for a simple fellow like me.
"Besides, who knows what'll happen when Ishbahar dies? With all that fat, he looks not like a good risk. Then the new king and the priestess might decide to have me quietly murdered—they're skillful with poison here—to rid themselves of my awkward presence.
"In any case, whilst I may not be of the stuff of heroes, I care not to be any lady's fancy man. Puttering is good healthy fun, but I'd rather earn my bread with my hands and head than with my prick. Besides, I like it better with my own dear little wife, with whom 'tis an act of love and not of mere lust. Now I have the king's promise of the copper bathtub, all I need is a proper spell from you to make it fly. Then ho for Xylar!"
"The spell is still incomplete," said Karadur.
"Well, hurry it up! Put more men on the job!"
"When I can, I will. But just now we at the House of Learning are occupied with preparations for the grand festival that the king has commanded for five days hence, to celebrate the salvation of Iraz. If you be not too busy with your clocks, I could employ your engineering skills at the House, in the designs of some of our stage effects."
"Glad to help," said Jorian.
Chapter Nine
THE WAXEN WIFE
GUESTS OF THE KING, JORIAN AND KARADUR POLLOWED Ishbahar's litter up the ramp to the royal box. At the top of the ramp, the litter bearers set the litter down. This time, the bearers were slaves —hairy ape-men from the jungles of Komilakh—not aristocrats. King Ishbahar did not trust his poundage to amateurs on such slopes.
The king wriggled out of the litter like a broaching whale. He waved to the crowd and puffed through the entrance to his box, around which guardsmen were drawn up. Jorian and Karadur followed.
"Sit anywhere you like, our dear fellows, anywhere you like!" said the king. "We needs must occupy this cursed throne, albeit it is far from comfortable. Now, where is lunch? Ah, steward, here you are! Doctor Karadur, will you move your chair, pray, to let the table be set up? Master Jorian, we have a real treat for you: minced scarlet monkey from Beraoti, fried in the fat of the giant tortoise of Burang. And wine made from the chokeberry of Salimor. Try it!"
Jorian thought that chokeberry wine was an excellent name for the fluid, but he drowned his potion. The king leaned confidentially towards him. "Are you in fine fettle today, dear boy?"
"As far as I know, sire. Why?"
"We have a little surprise for you later. We are sure that so stalwart a youth as yourself would hardly shriek and swoon with shock; but we thought it well to warn you."
"May I ask the nature of this—"
"Nay, you may not!" The king gave Jorian a heavy wink. 'To tell you now were to spoil the fun, heh heh. You shall see in good time—in good time. Do you dance?"
"I dance some Novarian dances, like the volka and the whirligig. Why, sire?"
"We are planning a grand ball. You can doubtless learn the Penembic steps. It has been years since we gave one; as you can see, dancing is not exactly our forte."
While the king shoveled in the food, and Jorian and Karadur ate modest portions, the stands below them filled. As before, the Pants sat on their left in blue and gold, while the Kilts, in red and white, sat on their right. Nobles and officials occupied the intermediate strip.
"Let us hope that we have not another factional disturbance," said Karadur.
The king swallowed a huge mouthful. "We had the stasiarchs before us just this morning, Doctor. We laid down the law to them, we assure you! They promised to love each other like brothers. Like brothers, they said."
"Brotherly love, sire, cannot always be counted upon," said Jorian, "as in the case of the kings Forimar and Fusonio of my native Kortoli."
"What is this tale, Master Jorian?" asked the king.
"It is called the Tale of the Waxen Wife. King Forimar was a collateral ancestor of the better-known King Filoman the Well-Meaning, who was the father of King Fusinian the Fox. This king was known as Forimar the Esthete. He was noted for his indifference to public affairs and for his passion for the arts, at which he was himself no mean performer. He was a fair architect, an accomplished musician, a worthy composer, a fine singer, and an excellent painter. Some of his poems are the glories of Kortolian literature to this day. He could not, alas, do all these things and at the same time run the kingdom.
"As a result of Forimar's neglect, public affairs in Kortoli got into a frightful mess. The army was a cowardly rabble, crime and corruption prevailed in the city, and the people were on the verge of revolt. Then the army of neighboring Aussar marched into Kortoli. The city was saved by a ruse devised by Forimar's brother Fusonio, who returned in the nick of time from a mission abroad.
"In saving the city, however, Fusonio demanded as his price that Forimar abdicate in his favor. This Forimar did with ill grace; but I will tell Your Majesty that story some other time.
"Anyway, the king was now Fusonio, who was of a very different character. Fusonio had none of his brother's esthetic sensitivities. He was a bluff, hearty, sensual type, whose idea of a large evening was to spend it incognito in some low tavern frequented by the rougher element, swilling ale and roaring ribald songs with unwashed peasants and ruffianly muleteers.
"Whereas Forimar was unwedded, Fusonio had a plump, peasantry, and not at all beautiful wife, named Ivrea, who had borne him five children. The twain would oft argue familial matters at the tops of their voices until the windows rattled; but woe betide the man who thought they were really quarreling and sought to take advantage of the fact! Both would turn upon him like tigers, and the children like tiger cubs.