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3
A Night at an Inn

This town had a population of a few thousand. As at Push, they lived in thatched timber houses, gaudily painted. But these narrow, twisty, littered and evil-smelling streets were cobbled, which made the last part of the yachina ride teeth-rattling, and the docks accommodated quite a number of boats and small ships. The hostel which Toreg had chosen fronted on a market square. Opposite stood the League's gift to a combustible community, a fire station, with horse-drawn wagons and hand-operated water pumps. At their present stage, the Talyinans would have gotten little good from motorized equipment. Where would they find energy charges, replacement parts, or skilled mechanics?

A plump landlord bustled out to greet the arrivals. When he saw Charlie, he rubbed his hands together. The youth suspected that prices went up a hundred percent for a "rich Earthling." The landlord wasn't too surprised by Bertram; a few nonhuman spacefarers had already visited New Lemuria.

"Ah," he burbled in English, "welcome, lovely folk, to your every-modern-convenience lodgings at the Sign of the Ritz! Immediate reservations. A gong boy will bring your baggage. Wash off the stench of travel while my wives prepare delicious dainties for your gorging and swilling. How eager are we to listen to your boasts! How few our bedbugs! How silent our fowl in the dawn!"

Inside was a wainscoted rough-raftered taproom, fronds strewn on its clay floor, dimly lit by sconced candles and the flames on the hearth. A chimney conducted away most smoke, another innovation from the stars. The rest of the "modern conveniences" amounted to a compartment where guests were required to check lethal weapons, a bath whose cold-water shower was fed by a cistern, and a couple of overstuffed leather armchairs beside the central table and its benches. Upstairs were bedrooms, on whose straw pallets visitors usually spread their own sleeping bags.

Having cleaned himself, Charlie joined Bertram and Toreg at dinner. This was a thick stew, plus abundant drink served in carved wooden flagons. Word of the newcomers was getting around, and townsmen were coming in to meet them. The landlord beamed at the extra trade. Charlie was hard put to answer the questions which poured over him. With scant organized entertainment, and most of them illiterate, these people were happy to meet outsiders. Charlie's opinion of the Middle Ages went down another notch.

He was tired, however. It had been a lengthy and exciting day. After his meal he curled into one of the big chairs. Nobody followed him. They clustered around Bertram, who was the real novelty as well as the inexhaustible talker. Charlie was glad of that. He decided he'd just sit and listen for a bit, then go to bed.

The sight before him was exotic, he thought: rude chamber, leaping, sputtering flames and weaving shadows, Talyinan males crowded on benches or squatting on the floor. Bertram sat at the end of the table across from Toreg. His short golden-furred form, now clad in a tuxedo, seemed appealingly helpless among these burly fishers and artisans.

"More sherry?" he invited.

The guide, who had already had some of it, shook his head. "No. You try shmiriz." He thumped a pot of the local brew down onto the planks.

"Tut-tut," reproved Bertram. "A gentleman prefers sherry." He stopped to think. "Or should it be port, at this hour? Yes, by Jove, port. Forgetful of me. Must make a note." His monocle caught a fire gleam as he took forth a penstyl and scribbled on his cuff. "Right-o. Would you care for a spot of port, my good fellow?"

"No," growled Toreg. "You try our shmiriz. Not to insult us."

"Oh, very well," agreed the Hoka. He emptied the pot into his flagon.

"Shmiriz got power," Toreg bragged. "Turns your ears purple."

A gasp of awe rose from the crowd when Bertram drained his huge cup in a single swallow.

"Nonsense," he said. "Do my ears look purple?"

Toreg squinted blearily. "Too much fur on them to tell," he complained.

Charlie's eyelids drooped. . . .

A racket brought him awake. Through the door swaggered half a dozen more Talyinans. They made the rest appear meek. Above their trousers and boots they wore coats of jingling ring mail. Above their scarred faces rode spiked conical helmets with noseguards and chain coifs. Over their backs were slung round shields on which the emblem of a fire-breathing snake had been painted. Besides their swords, two carried battle axes, two crossbows, two pikes whose butts they stamped on the ground. Every belt held at least four knives.

The leader bulked enormous, a full two meters in height. His shoulders filled the doorway. His whiskers, each dyed a separate color, reached nearly as wide.

Toreg stared, leaped to his feet, and shouted in joy, "Mishka! My dear old boss!"

"Toreg!" bawled the giant. "Why, you flop-eared flap-tongue, welcome back!" His green glance fell on Bertram; Charlie, off in the shadows, escaped notice. "Hai! Doom and hurricanes, what pretty doll have you fetched us?"

The group tossed their weapons a-clatter toward the checkroom, for the landlord's family to pick up. When Mishka strode to the table, Charlie felt the earth quiver a bit. Bertram rose. "Lemme . . . innerdooshe you." Toreg hiccupped. "Uh, Bertram Smyth-Chum-Chum . . . Chum-m-m . . . from, uh, where's it you said? Meet muh former boss." He got control over his tongue. "Mishka, Sergeant in Chief of Household Guards to Dzenko, dread Lord of Roshchak! Mishka, first warrior of the West, equal to forty in combat, man of unquenchable thirst and appetite!"

"'D'je do," said Bertram politely.

"Let's shake hands like humans," Mishka proposed, not to be outdone in courtesy. Or did he wish to test strength? Muscles rippled and knotted; he must be squeezing hard. Bertram smiled and squeezed back. Astonishment came over Mishka's countenance. He let go at once. His left hand surreptitiously fingered the right.

Still, he held no grudge, simply regarded the Hoka with sudden respect. "Drink!" he clamored while he shucked his helmet. Civilians on the benches scrambled to make room before the warriors should pitch them off.

"And what brings you here, Sergeant, if I may ask?" Bertram inquired.

"Oh, patrol against bandits," Mishka said. "Didn't find any. Plague and shipwreck, what a dull tour! Going home tomorrow. Rather hear about you, fuzzy sir."

Charlie's lids fell down again. . . .

He must have slept for a couple of hours. A roar wakened him. Blinking, he saw that the fire had guttered low and most of the guests had departed. Their work started at sunrise, after all. Mishka's squad and Toreg snored on the floor or, heads on arms, across a table shiny from spilled liquor. Only their outsized chief and the small Hoka had stayed the course, and both of them were finally showing its effects.

"Olaghi!" Mishka trumpeted. He crashed his flagon down. "I'll tell you 'bout King Olaghi, may the Great Ghost eat his liver! Olaghi the Tyrant! Olaghi the Cruel! Olaghi the Meat-Stingy! Woe to the world, that Olaghi rules over Talyina!"

"Not the best sort, I take it?" Bertram asked.

"Best? Worst—worst usurper—"

"Usurper?" Bertram's ears pricked up. According to Toreg's account during the day, Olaghi had as much hereditary right to the throne as anybody, little though that might be.

"Usurper!" Mishka snarled, and pointed his own ears forward like horns. "Not is he from Bolgorka, the capital, whence th' ol' royal house sprang. He's bloody foreigner—from Nyekh. Not really part of Talyina. Just got dual monarchy with us. And now they've shoved their man onto our backs!"

"Ah." The Hoka nodded. "Of course. I understand. Rather like the first Georges."

"The whats?"

"Quite. Kings of England on Earth. In the eighteenth century of our reckoning, but not English—a Hanoverian line—"

Bertram went on to relate the history. Carried away by it—and, no doubt, liters of shmiriz—he waxed more and more indignant at the wrongs inflicted by the Hanoverian kings, especially on Scotland, after that brave country had risen to restore the rightful dynasty—the Stuart dynasty, from which in fact his own companion could claim descent. . . .

Charlie dozed off. . . .

When next he woke, it was to the sound of singing. Bertram stood on the table. Gone were his monocle, bow tie, and coat. Rolling his r's in an accent which had nothing of Oxford about it, he bellowed, in his reedy voice, a Jacobite song hastily translated into Talyinan.

"Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling—"

Down on the bench, Mishka regarded him glassy-eyed and openmouthed.

"—The young Chevalier!" finished Bertram, and added a few steps of the Highland fling. Bouncing back to his seat, he refilled both cups. "Beautiful, is it no? Aye, beautiful!"

Since the translation had necessarily involved phrases like "the young yachi rider," the present Charles Edward Stuart felt doubts about that. Mishka didn't.

"Beautiful." The guardsman wiped a tear from an eye. "Reminds me—you listen now." He began to chant rather than sing:

Woe is the world, when for Talyina's weal
Reigns no true ruler, but only a rascal.
Sorrow and sadness make sour the shmiriz.
Weary are Westfolk who wobble 'neath burdens—

"Wobble? I dinna ken the trope, lad," Bertram said, or the native equivalent thereof.

"Shut up," Mishka grunted. "You listen. This is the Holy Prophecy. Hun'erds o' years old."

He went on at some length, describing a period during which a murrain was on the yachis and eggfowl, cooking pots stood empty everywhere, and the hearts of warriors were grieved, for a false king had brought down the anger of the gods upon the realm. But then—his basso rose in volume, causing a few of the sleepers to stir and mutter—then came hope.

When all feel forsaken, and fell is the hour,
Wildly and welcome from out of the west,
Royally red-haired, and riding in leaps,
The Prince of the people comes pounding
to save them—

"Red hair, aye, aye!" shouted Bertram. "Like my ain young Chevalier yonder!"

Charlie shook his head in bewilderment. The entire scene had taken on an eerie, dreamlike character.

Mishka chanted relentlessly:

Five are the Feats that his followers wait for.
Many will meet then to marvel and join him,
The wonders he worked having proven him worthy.
Hear, under heaven, the hero's five doings!

It took concentration to sort out, from interminable verses loaded with elaborate figures of speech, just what was supposed to happen. But Charlie gathered that this prince would establish his identity by accomplishing five things impossible for anybody else.

First, with a crossbow, in a fog and at fifty paces, he would shoot a bellfruit off the head of his best friend. Next, he would slay something unspecified but dreadful known as the Sorrow of Avilyogh. Thereafter he would sail ("Singing and swigging while other lie seasick") to Belogh, where he would fight and overcome three invincible warriors, brothers, whom that town maintained. His fourth deed, on the island of Lyovka, was of a more intellectual type. It seemed that three Priests of a certain god dwelled there, who challenged all comers to answer three riddles. Those who tried and failed, as everyone did, were cast into a fiery furnace. But the prince gave the correct replies with scornful ease. His last feat was to enter the Grotto of Kroshch, wait out the high tide which completely submerged it, and emerge unharmed—even playing his horpil, whatever that might be.

When he had thus proved himself, warriors would flock to his standard. Mishka concluded triumphantly:

In terror, the tyrant who caused all the trouble,
The false king, goes fleeing, unfollowed, in shame.
Tall over Talyina towers the mighty.
Righteous, the red-haired one rules us forever!

He slammed his flagon back down on the table. It broke, while a fountain of shmiriz leaped up over him. He didn't notice. The landlord did and made a notation on his score.

"There!" Mishka exclaimed, thick-voiced. "Wha'd 'you say to that, hai?"

The equally befuddled Hoka leaped to the floor and struck a pose, right arm flung outward, left hand clutching breast. "I say rise for the Young Prince!" he piped. "Ride, mon! Ride, and carry the wor-r-rd that Bonnie Prince Charlie has come back to his ain!"

With a whoop that shook the rafters, Mishka also sprang erect. "I go! Take rowboat . . . cross channel . . . rouse m'Lord Dzenko—for freedom!" He snatched his helmet off the table. The padded lining was still within the outer coif of mail, and he clapped the whole unit over his head. Unfortunately, he clapped it on backwards and spent a minute choking and blundering about until he got it right.

Enthusiasm undimmed, he grabbed a sword from the checkroom and staggered off into the night. His war calls echoed among the darkened houses.

Bertram was not much steadier on his feet as he approached Charlie. "Hoot, mon," he said in English, "are ye awake the noo?"

"I—gosh, I don't know," Charlie faltered.

"Aweel, 'tis time ye waur abed." The Hoka scooped him up in strong but gentle arms and bore him away, while crooning:

Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing.
"Onward!" the sailors cry.
Carry the lad who is born to be king
Over the sea to Skye. . . .

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Framed