The Tritonian Ring and Other Pasudian Tales (19 page)

             
A shimmer appeared in the air over the diagram that Kurtevan had drawn. As the recondite syllables rolled on,
the shimmer grew to a rosy brightness. A spindle-shaped mass of flame swayed and rippled in mid-air. Sometimes it looked vaguely man-like; again it reminded Vakar of a writhing reptile. He could feel its heat on his face and hands.

             
Kurtevan paused in his incantation to say: "A fire-spirit makes an admirable means of disposing of garbage. It is unfortunate that you will not be able to appreciate the full effectiveness of the method—Ho, stay where you are!" he barked suddenly at the flame, raising his staff. "They are dangerous, like captive lions, and must be treated with firmness. You should have departed when I first commanded you, foolish boy. The responsibility is entirely yours."

             
Kurtevan began speaking to the flame again in an unknown tongue, evidently giving it orders for the disposal of Vakar and Fual. Vakar strained at his invisible bonds with the strength of a madman.

             
Then, just as Kurtevan was reaching the climax of his conjuration, Vakar saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. Something flew through the air and struck the wizard in the chest, to fall tightly to the floor.

             
Kurtevan stopped, his mouth open to show his blackened teeth. Then his head jerked back and forward in a tremendous sneeze.

             
As he opened his mouth for a second sneeze, the flame left its diagram and swooped upon the wizard. Vakar heard a single frightful scream as the body of the sorcerer disappeared in a mass of flame. Then the flame soared up and up until it licked the ceiling. It washed over the beams and the planks of the floor of the third storey, so that they began to blaze fiercely.

             
The main fire left the smoking body of Kurtevan, now nothing but a twisted black mass of char. The fire-being drew itself up to the ceiling, oozed through the widening cracks between the blazing boards, and disappeared, leaving a roaring fire in its wake.

             
At the instant of Kurtevan's death-scream Vakar had found himself able to move again. A glance showed that Fual was sweeping their trade-goods into the scrip. Vakar
slammed his sword back into the scabbard, bounded forward even before the fire-elemental had entirely disappeared, dug both arms into the open chest beside the burning taboret, and scooped up the mass of
manuscripts piled therein. Some of them were beginning to burn at the edges and corners. Vakar held the papyrus in one arm and batted out the flames with the other as he turned for the exit.

             
He ran down the spiral stairs, Fual behind him. As they raced across the ground-floor chamber, a thunderous crackling above told them that the third-storey floor was giving way. Vakar could see the firelight through the cracks between the planks overhead. They rushed out.

             
In the yard Vakar stumbled over the acephalus lying limp. Evidently on Kurtevan's death the spirit that animated it had fled. They burst through the gate and ran in the direction of their lodgings just as people began to put their heads out to see what was up. Somebody banged a gong to turn out the neighborhood with buckets. Vakar doubled around several corners in case anybody should follow them, while behind him flame and sparks erupted out of the top of the tower of Kurtevan the magician.

             
Fual said: "Sir, these Euskerian wizards are not really gentlemen, or they would be served by proper human retinues and not by these acephali and crabs and such spooks. Why did you pause to gather up that stuff? Are you planning to become a magus yourself?"

             
"Not I. But I hated to see that arcane knowledge perish, and these sheets should fetch a pretty price among Kurtevan's colleagues, which will give us the means to reach Tritonia
...
Damnation, where are we?"

             
When Fual's sense of direction had straightened them out, Vakar continued: "I'm sorry about poor Nichok, but it's too late to drag him back to
his
dwelling now
...
What did you throw at Kurtevan?"

             
"Our rarest spice, sir.
It's from the Farthest East, beyond fabled Thamuzeira. The merchant who sold it to us called it 'pepper'."

-

             
A month later Prince Vakar and Fual arrived in Huperea, the capital of Phaiaxia. They had followed a trade-route that ran up the River Baitis, overland to the headwaters of the Anthemius, and down the latter stream to its issuance into the Thrinaxian Sea. They had had minor adventures: a narrow escape from a Hon; another from a wild bull; another from a war-party of Laistrugonian savages. At last they had entered Phaiaxia, a peaceful smiling land where the language (unlike Euskerian) was closely related to Hesperian, so that after a few days of learning new inflectional endings Vakar could make a stab at it.

             
Where the Anthemius widened out into the Thrinaxian
Sea stood Huperea: a spacious city of we
ll
-built houses
instead of the usual combination of stockaded castle
surrounded by a huddle of huts. Vakar had no trouble
getting through the gates and rode down a broad street
flanked by houses in front of which flowers grew in neat
patterns around painted marble statues of gods and heroes.
Feeling at peace with the world, Vakar sang as he rode:

"In the red sunrise
             
             
stood Vrir the Victorious,

On a cletch of cadavers,
             
splattered with scarlet
,
Declaiming defiance
             
             
in tones triumphant
...

             
"Don't you have poetry in Kerys?" he asked Fual suddenly.

             
"Yes, my lord, but it's quite different from that of Lorsk.
Rhymed triolets instead of this rhythmic al
li
terative verse with sp
li
t
l
ines.
But I never went in for that sort of thing; I was too busy trying to steal the wherewithal for
tomorrow's
, meal."

             
"That's your misfortune, for I find that verse provides one of the cheapest and most harmless of life's major pleasures. But here's somebody who can perhaps give us directions."

             
Vakar pulled up in front of a house where a stocky man sat naked on a bench and worked with adze and saw on a bed-frame. He shouted:

             
"Ho there, my good man, where can I find lodgings for myself and my servant in Huperea?"

             
The man looked up and replied: "Strangers, if you seek a public inn like those of Torrutseish, know that there is none such here. Our custom is to lodge travehers among the citizens of the town, each in accordance with his rank. For three days you will be entertained without cost, except that you shall tell us freely of the land whence you come and of the world outside of Phaiaxia. After that you must be on your way, unless a pressing reason prevents."

             
"An interesting custom," said Vakar. "What is its purpose?"

             
"Thus we receive warning of dangers gathering against us, and also learn of markets affording rich opportunities for our merchants. Now, if you will tell me your name and station, I will make arrangements."

             
The lack of servility in the man's manner suggested to Vakar that the fellow was no slave, as he had supposed, but a citizen of standing. Since his entertainment would be proportioned to his status, Vakar saw no reason to minimize the latter. He said:

             
"I am Vakar the son of Zhabutir, heir to the throne of Lorsk in Poseidon's."

             
The man wagged his full beard sagely. "I have heard of Poseidon's and Lorsk, though no Phaiaxian has ever travelled so far west. Stranger, it is proper that you should lodge with me."

             
The man picked up his cloak, threw it around him, fastened it with an ornate golden pin, and turned to call a servant to take the animals. Vakar was at first taken aback, wondering if the man disbelieved him. Then a horrid thought struck him. He said:

             
"May I ask who you are, sir?"

             
"Did you not know? I am Nausithion." As Vakar continued to look blank the man added: "King of Phaiaxia."

             
Vakar felt his face reddening as he began to stammer apologies for his condescending tone, but King Nausithion said:

             
"Tush, tush, you are not the first to make such a mistake. We are a merchant kingdom and make no great parade of rank and precedence as do the Euskerians. And since I am the most skilled carpenter in Huperea, I prefer to make my own bed rather than to hire it done. But come in. You will wish warm baths and change of raiment, and tonight you shall tell your story to the leading lords of Phaiaxia. We believe that a man who can sing as I heard you do cannot be altogether evil."

-

             
Vakar found that he was enjoying himself among these hearty hedonists more than any time since the party at Queen
Porfia
's palace. He had cautiously watched his host's methods of eating and drinking so as not to commit any gaffes like those at Sederado. Here, for instance, it was customary and proper to convey one's meat to one's mouth on the point of one's
dagger
...

             
The bard Damodox was singing, to the twang of his lyre, a lay about the lusts of the Phaiaxian gods: what happened to Aphradexa, the goddess of love and beauty, when her husband Hephastes learned of her tryst with the war-
god.
Vakar had been told that Damodox was the winner of last year's singing-contest, an event as important in Phaiaxia as athletic meets were in Lorsk. The paintings on the walls were the most vivid and realistic that Vakar had ever seen, and the repouss
é
patterns on the silver plates and beakers were of an incredible delicacy and perfection.

             
When the bar finished, Vakar said: "Master Damodox, you certainly have a fine voice. Mine cannot compare with it, even though at home I too am considered something of a singer."

             
The bard smiled. "I am sure that if you had spent as many years in practice as I, you would far surpass me. But such tricks are no credit to a lord like
yourself
, as they show he has been neglecting his proper business of war and statecraft."

             
"Are you sure your gods do not mind your speaking so frankly of their pecadilloes?"

             
"No, no, our gods are a jolly lot who relish
a
good joke. As
a
matter of fact, Aphradexa visited me only last night. She had
a
message for you from one of your western gods: Akima or some such name."

             
"Okma," said Vakar. "Say on."

             
"It is hard to remember
exactly
-—you know dreams— but I think this Pusadian god was trying to warn you against
a
danger that has pursued you many miles, and that will soon catch up with you if you do not hasten."

             
"Oho! I will bear your warning in mind."

             
Vakar turned his attention back to his wine. Although he still felt that he had lost his heart to Ogugia, he thought that if he should ever have to leave Lorsk for good, and if Ogugia were forbidden to him because of the death of Thiegos, Phaiaxia would be the country for.
him
. While they did not practice philosophy, they certainly lived well. He liked them and they seemed to like him, which for Vakar Zhu was a sufficiently unusual experience for him to treasure it. Could he get a dispensation from King Nausithion, marry some handsome Phaiaxian wench, and settle down here, and to the seven hells with windy Lorsk?