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:
"Later, when there were no regular customers in the museum, Regent Forimar arrived. Standing before the royal trio of images, he nervously asked Zevager what was up. 'Are our plans discovered?' he panted.
" 'Nay, my lord, not to my knowledge,' said the showman. 'True, there have been rumors that King Fusonio set out on some mysterious quest but never reached his destination. He vanished off the earth, they say.' Zevager glanced at the effigy of the king and chuckled. 'Of course, my lord, you and I know that he is in plain sight still—if one know where to look.'
" 'Hush up, you fool!' said Forimar. 'Even walls have ears. I may have to strike sooner than I expected. Therefore we may have to scrap one of your waxen images.' He in his turn looked at Fusonio. 'A pity, but we cannot risk having him turn up alive and vigorous.'
"The twain walked slowly down the loft, talking in low voices, so that Queen Ivrea could no longer hear them. But she knew enough. Zevager saw his royal guest out and came back up the stairs.
"As he stepped out on the floor of the loft, a movement made him turn. He had just time to glimpse the queen's effigy, as he thought, swinging the ax from the tableau of the execution of Roskianus the rebel. He gave one horrified shriek ere the blade split his skull. Luckily for I vrea, who was a strapping wench, the ax in the tableau was real and not an imitation of painted wood. Zevager had prided himself on authenticity.
"The showman's apprentice was at the door below to collect admission fees. When he heard the disturbance, he hurried up the stairs. When he saw Ivrea with a bloody ax in her hand and Zevager lying dead, he gave an even louder shriek and took to his heels.
"With the death of Zevager, the spell he had cast upon Fusonio quickly wore off. The king blinked and rubbed his eyes and began to breathe normally.
" 'Where am I?' he said. 'What in the forty-nine Mulvanian hells is going on?'
"When things had been explained, he said 'Hand me the ax, my dear. My reach is longer than yours.' And the pair marched post-haste back to the palace. The guards gaped at the sight of their king and queen approaching the palace unescorted, the king with a bloody ax on his shoulder; but none barred their way.
"Presently Fusonio came upon his brother, practising a flute solo in his study. Seeing what was toward, Forimar fell to his knees and begged for his life.
" 'Well,' said Fusonio, swinging the bloody ax about his head, 'I ought to give you what our ancestor gave Roskianus. No headless man has ever yet caused his sovran trouble.
" 'But then, we have our tradition of keeping a united front to the world, which I am loath to breach. So you shall depart forthwith as my ambassador to Salimor in the Far East. And I shall send a message to my old friend the Sophi of Salimor, that if he is fain to keep our profitable trade, he must hold you there for the rest of your days.'
"And so it was done. Face was saved by the appointment of Forimar as ambassador, none but a very few knowing that he was going into exile and genteel captivity. It is said that he wrought revolutions in several of the native arts of Salimor, but that I cannot vouch for."
"What of Forimar's poetry contest?" asked the king.
"Since the judges had been chosen, the announcements had been made, and the submissions were already pouring in, Fusonio forbore to cancel the event, lest in so doing he dishonor the government of Kortoli and bring to light the discord betwixt him and his brother. A few sennights later, after Forimar's departure, the judges announced their awards. First prize, they said, should go to Vatreno of Govannian for his poem, Demonic Downfall This verse began:
'The judges brought the manuscripts of all the prize-winning poems to King Fusonio for his approval. He was supposed to bestow the prizes the following day. Fusonio read Vatreno's poem and said:
" 'What is this? Some kind of joke?'
" 'Oh, no, Your Majesty,' quoth the chief judge. 'It is a serious poem, very soul-revealing.'
" 'But,' said Fusonio, 'the thing has neither rhyme nor rhythm. Moreover, meseems it makes no sense. It is not my idea of a poem at all.'
" 'Oh, that!' said the judge. 'One can see that Your Majesty, with all due respect, has not kept up with late developments in the art of poesy. Rhyme and rhythm have been abandoned as archaic, artificial fetters on the artist's creativity.'
" 'But still, one expects a poem to make sense!'
" 'Not today, sire; one does not. We live in chaotic times, so poetry should reflect the chaos of the times. If the world fail to make sense, one cannot expect a poem to do so.'
" 'Perhaps you feel chaotic, messires,' said the king, 'but I do not. In fact, to me the world makes very good sense indeed.'
" 'Would that your humble servants had Your Majesty's divine omniscience!' said the chief judge with sarcasm.
" 'I claim no omniscience,' said Fusonio with ominous calm. The world is far too complicated for any one mortal mind to encompass in its entirety. The few things I do claim to understand seem to follow orderly natural laws—including the follies of my fellow men.' He flicked the paper with a linger. 'If you ask me, Master Vatreno composed this thing by opening a dictionary at random and pointing to words with his eyes closed.'
" 'Well, ah,' said the judge, 'as a matter of fact, sire, that is just what he did. Afterwards he added a few auxiliary words like "the" to give it grammatical form. We thought it a brilliant poetical innovation. It is the coming thing.'
"Pusonio glanced through the poems to which the judges had awarded the lesser prizes, but they pleased him no more than did Demonic Downfall At last he said:
" 'And I am supposed to pay ten thousand good marks out of my straitened treasury for this garbage! Well, when I order beer in a tavern, I at least expect beer for my coin and not horsepiss.' With that, he tore the manuscripts across with one wrench and roared: 'Get out, you dolts! Asses! Noodleheads!'
"The judges ran from the chamber with their robes flying and King Fusonio after them, thwacking their rumps with his scepter. The poetry contest was called off on the ground that nought worthy of award had been submitted. This act caused much discontent among the artists and the advanced thinkers, who called Fusonio a low-browed tyrant and a crass vulgarian. But Fusonio paid no heed and had, in fact, a long and successful reign."
King Ishbahar laughed heartily. "Luckily for us, perhaps, we have no brothers; nor has poetry in Penembei ever reached such a pitch of refinement that none but the poet can ever understand one of his own compositions. But now the program is due to begin." To his secretary he said: "Herekit, hand us our reading glass and the proclamation."
Ishbahar stood up and read, while the crier bellowed his words through the speaking trumpet. The speech was the usual amass of cliches, and then the parades and clownings and races began.
Chapter Ten
THE CROWN OF PENEMBEI
THE WESTERN HALF OF THE HIPPODROME WAS IN SHADOW when the last race had been run. King Ishbahar stood up to announce the winners. As before, the crier relayed his words.