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:
"Leave not early, good people," said the king. "When the formalities are over, we shall have somewhat to say that will interest you."
The king went down the list of winners. As the crier called each name, the winner marched up the steps to the royal box, bent the knee, and, to general applause, received his prize from the king. For once, the rivalry of the Pants and the Kilts seemed in abeyance.
Then King Ishbahar cleared his throat. "Loyal subjects of the Penembic crown!" he said. "Amidst the turmoils of the last month, we have been delayed in bringing up a matter of moment to all of you: to wit, the succession.
"You are all aware that we have no heirs of our body, legitimate or otherwise, living. Therefore, as our reign nears its destined end, it behooves us, to assure an orderly succession, either to search amongst our more distant kinsmen for a suitable candidate or to resort to the extreme measure of adoption.
"Be not astonished at the mention of adoption, our friends. True, the succession has not passed by adoption for over a century. But some may have forgotten that the great King Hoshcha was an adopted son of his predecessor, Shashtai the Third. Hoshcha had not a drop of the blood of Juktar the Great in his veins. To retain the crown within our divine family, he wedded both of his predecessor's daughters, and the first of their sons to reach maturity was his successor.
"Now we are confronted by a similar situation. True, we have living male relatives, but amongst them we have failed to find any who qualify for the duties of king.
"The gods, however, have sent us a true hero—a man young enough to give the throne many years of vigorous occupancy, yet old enough to be past his youthful follies; a man of mighty thews, active mind, and solid character. He has already saved holy Iraz from the horde of miscreants who lately assailed her. Moreover, the fatidical and astrological indications agree that he was born on a lucky day.
"We have, therefore, this day signed and sealed the documents adopting this hero as our son and designating him as our lawful successor. Anon, we shall arrange for his marriage to one or more of our kinswomen, amongst whom are several of nubile age and winsomeness.
"This done, we shall abdicate the throne in favor of our adopted son, ere the holy father Chaluish find it needful to wait upon us with the sacred rope."
Sounds of disturbance began to swell from the throng.
"Nay, nay, good people," said the king, "be not surprised at talk of abdication! Jukar II did it, as historical records attest. Quiet, please! Quiet! We have not yet told you the name of our chosen successor."
Jorian, having inferred what was coming next, gave Karadur a desperate glare. The old Mulvanian only spread his hands helplessly.
"The hero in question," continued Ishbahar, "my adopted son and your next king, is Jorian the son of Evor! Rise, my son!"
Leaning towards Karadur, Jorian hissed: "Oi! Get me out of this, curse it!"
"I cannot," murmured Karadur. "I was surprised, also. Stand up as the king commands!"
"But I don't wish to be king—"
"Later, later. Stand up now!"
Jorian stood up. A slight pattering of applause was quickly drowned in a storm of boos and catcalls. From the benches occupied by the Pants arose a chant, growing louder with each repetition: "Dirty foreigner! Dirty foreigner! Dirty foreigner/ DIRTY FOREIGNER!"
On the other side, the Kilts took up the cry until the Hippodrome rocked with it. The stasiarchs, Vegh and Amazluek, could be seen standing amid their factions, beating time like orchestra conductors. The chant spread to the rest of the audience until it became deafening.
King Ishbahar stood beside Jorian with tears running down his fat cheeks. "P-pray, good subjects—" he stammered. The crier shouted his words but was unheard in the din of "Dirty foreigner."
Missiles began to fly. Royal guardsmen rushed towards the royal box to protect the king. Colonel Chuivir appeared at the rear of the box.
"Your Majesty!" he shouted. "Come quickly, or all is lost! The factions have united in sedition against your throne. You must get back to your palace!"
"Come, our friends," said Ishbahar to Jorian and Karadur. The king waddled out of the box to the top of the ramp. His gilded litter lay, smashed, on one side.
"How shall we return to the palace without a conveyance?" he quavered.
"Walk!" said Chuivir.
Another guardsman rushed up clanking and spoke into the colonel's ear. Beyond the crowd of gleaming guardsmen, Jorian glimpsed a scud of mob, missiles flying, and weapons whirling. Chuivir said:
"The insurgents have seized the waterfront of Zaktan. Your Majesty will have to use Hoshcha's Tunnel."
"Must we climb that dreadful hill afoot?"
"It is that, or else," said the colonel with visible impatience.
"Ah, us! Let us hasten, then."
Followed by Jorian and Karadur and protected by a mass of guardsmen, the king puffed his way down the ramp. In the concourse, screams of rage and defiance and a rain of cobblestones, bricks, potsherds, and other missiles assailed the guardsmen. A knot of citizens rushed at the guards with clubs and knives. The guards easily beat off the attack, leaving a wrack of tumbled bodies. A few guards who bore crossbows began methodically shooting into the swirling, screaming crowds.
"This way!" yelled Chuivir.
Stumbling over corpses, they pushed across the street surrounding the Hippodrome and started up the slope to the Temple of Nubalyaga. After a few steps, the king halted, panting.
"We can no more," he moaned.
"Help me with him, Master Jorian," said the colonel.
Each of them draped one of the king's fat arms around his neck. With help on either side, the king dragged his monstrous weight slowly up the hill.
At the top, the eunuch guard was already drawn up behind their gate with crossbows ready. They opened the gate to admit the king and his escort.
At the temple, High Priestess Sahmet came running out. After a quick explanation, she said: "Follow me, sire!" and led the way towards the Tunnel of Hoshcha.
"Hold!" cried Colonel Chuivir. "I shall come with you as soon as I appoint a commander of the local detachment."
"Why?" asked the king.
"If I can regain the palace and take command of the main body of the Guard, belike I can keep the sedition from spreading across the river. Captain Saloi!"
"Aye, sir?"
'Take command of the guardsmen in Zaktan. Try to guard the main points, like this temple. If you have enough men, send a flying squad to patrol and break up gatherings of rebels." He turned to the king. "If it please Your Majesty, we are ready to go now."
Sahmet clutched Jorian's arm and whispered: "You shall see me again at the next full moon!"
Four men moved through the Tunnel of Hoshcha: Jorian in front, bearing a lanthorn; then King Ishbahar, puffing and panting; then Karadur; and lastly Colonel Chuivir, with another lanthorn. To Jorian it seemed an eternity, for the king toddled along with tiny steps at a snail's pace.
They had come, he supposed, halfway across and were under the deepest part of the Lyap, when he saw something that made his hair rise. From the side of the tunnel, a tiny jet of water sprayed out, shooting halfway across at waist height before breaking up into discrete drops.
"Gods and goddesses!" he exclaimed. "Look at that, Karadur!"
"Here is another," said the wizard, pointing to the overhead, whence another trickle of water descended.
Everywhere they looked, forward and back, water appeared in drips and leaks and spurts. The floor of the tunnel became wet and slippery.
"What befalls, Doctor Karadur?" wheezed the king. "Have your hydrophobic spells failed? Should we have ordered pumps installed after all?"
"It must be," said Karadur, "that a mob has invaded the House of Learning and snatched my wizards Goelnush, Luekuz, and Firaven from their task. I hope they have not done the poor fellows to death."