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4
Kidnapped

Charlie woke late and alone. Having donned undergarments, tunic, trousers, and stout shoes, he went downstairs in search of breakfast. Toreg sat brooding over the remnants of his. "Good morning," the human said in Talyinan. "I'm sorry I overslept."

"Oversleep all you want," mumbled his guide. "Oo-ooh, my head! Worst is, that fuzzy demon was up at dawn—cheerful."

"Where is Bertram?" As Charlie seated himself, a wife of the landlord brought him a dish of scrambled native eggs (they had green yolks) and a cup of hot herb tea.

"I know not," Toreg answered. "He asked me where to find a tailor and a swordsmith and bounced off. Never did I get back to sleep."

"That's too bad," Charlie said. "Uh, we will go for that ride you mentioned yesterday, won't we?" Toreg had promised a trip into the hills behind town, to see their forests and wildlife.

The guide nodded. Immediately he clutched his brow and groaned.

The fresh cup of tea seemed to make him feel a trifle better. When Charlie had eaten, they went outside. Hitched to a rail stood three saddled horses. "I didn't know there were any of these here, except for the fire department," said Charlie.

"It rents them to tourists," Toreg explained.

"What? But suppose a fire broke out!"

"Which is more important, some smelly fishermen's cabins or the mayor's treasury?"

Charlie's view of the Middle Ages sank still further. To be sure, he thought, these simple wooden houses probably weren't too hard to replace, while off-planet money could buy modern tools and materials of improvement. But did the mayor spend it on his community? Nothing in sight suggested that he did.

"Gr-r-reeting, my Prince!" resounded behind him.

Charlie jumped at the unexpected, squeaky burr. Turning, he saw Bertram. The Hoka was not dressed in the outdoor clothes he had brought along, tweed jacket, plus-fours, deerstalker cap, and so forth. Instead, he must have commissioned the tailor and smith he found to do hurry-up jobs for him.

Upon his head was a flat tam-o'-shanter sort of cap with a long feather in it. From his shoes, heavy stockings of native wool rose to his knees. Upon his body he wore a great piece of coarse red-green-and-black plaid cloth, pleated, folded, bunched, and belted to form a kilt whose end draped across torso and left shoulder. Below his stomach dangled a furry pouch. Various sizes of daggers were thrust under belt or stocking tops. Slung scabbarded over his back was a broadsword nearly as long as he was tall. This type was not unknown in Talyina, though curved sabers were generally preferred, but he had added to it a basket hilt.

"Bertram!" Charlie cried.

"Bertram?" said the Hoka. "Nay, Hieness, nae Sassenach I, but your ain Hector MacGregor—a rough, untutored Hieland mon, 'tis true, but loyal to my Prince, aye, loyal to the last wee drappie o' bluid. Ah, Charlie, 'tis lang and lang we've awaited' your coming, lad."

Struck by a dreadful suspicion, Charlie tried to bring the Hoka back to his senses. "Bertram Cecil Featherstone Smyth-Cholmondoley," he said in as stern a tone as possible, "you were supposed to come along on this trip in case of trouble—"

"Aye!" With a bloodcurdling yell, the little being whipped out his sword and whirled it till the air whistled. "Let any dar-r-re lay hand on my Pr-r-rince, and the claymore o' Hector MacGregor wull cleave him for the corbies!"

Charlie leaped back. The blade had almost taken his nose off. Toreg was unimpressed and still in a sour mood. "Come along, if we're to finish our ride ere nightfall," he grumbled. "Or like you the thought of riding in the dark when ilnyas prowl?"

The Hoka sheathed his weapon and scrambled to the saddle, whose stirrups had been adjusted for him. "Aye, come, my Prince," he chirped. "And ne'er fear for your back whilst Hector MacGregor rides to guard it."

Numbly, Charlie mounted too. Toreg did likewise, doubtless glad in his present condition to be on a horse instead of a jolting yachi. Hooves clopped on cobblestones, and the group rode out of town, followed by the stares of passersby.

It was another beautiful day, breezes full of the scents of green growth, brilliant sunlight, warbling birds. The road through the countryside soon became a mere trail, left farmsteads behind, and wound into ever steeper, wooded hills. From these Charlie had magnificent views across the island and the blue-glittering strait to its neighbor. On a headland there he spied the walls and towers of a castle. That must be Roshchak, the seat of Lord Dzenko.

As he rode, Charlie figured out what had happened to his companion. Inspired by warlike company and that curious folk poem which Mishka rendered, the typical Hoka imagination had flared up. It had seized on the coincidence of Charlie's name—well, not entirely coincidence. Captain Malcolm Stuart was of Scots descent and he named his son after the Bonnie Charlie of romantic memory, the prince whose Highland followers had tried to restore the Stuarts to the throne. The soldiers of Hanoverian King George defeated them, and Charles Stuart was forced into exile. His supporters—Jacobites, they were called—could do little more than compose sentimental songs about their Prince.

Yes, of course that part would appeal to a Hoka. Away with dull old Bertram! Up with the wild clansman Hector MacGregor!

No appeal to common sense would reverse Bertram's change. The Hoka knew perfectly well that this wasn't the eighteenth century or even the planet Earth.

Charles Edward Stuart decided not to waste breath denying his royalty. Let him play along with Bertram's—no, Hector's—fancy. It could do no harm, he supposed, and might even be fun. When they got back to the ship, his father could doubtless find some way to straighten matters out.

He had spent a couple of hours in these meditations while the horses plodded onward, Toreg nursed his hangover, and Hector recited endless border ballads. The gloomier they were, the happier the Hoka got. Charlie had almost settled down to enjoy his outing, when they met the warriors of Dzenko.

They were passing through a ravine. Its brush-covered walls blocked off vision away from the trail. Rounding a bend, the travelers confronted half a dozen armed New Lemurians.

Charlie recognized the patrol from last night. Now they were yachi-mounted. The horses shied when a couple of the kangaroolike chargers bounded past them, to cut off retreat.

"Good day. May all your enemies welter in gore," Sergeant Mishka said in conventional politeness. "How pleasant to meet you here."

Toreg, who knew them, snapped, "Belike not by chance. Methinks you waited for us, having asked in Grushka about our plans."

"Well, yes, after I returned from Roshchak before dawn and shook my squad awake," Mishka admitted. he smiled at Charlie. "When my lord Dzenko heard of you, who are red-haired and a prince—"

"I'm not really."

"Aye, Bonnie Prince Charlie and none ither!" cried Hector. "And who are ye to question the Royal Per-r-rson?"

"I question him not," Mishka replied. "I do but bear word that my lord would be honored did his Highness pay a call."

"Why, uh, I, I meant to," Charlie stammered. He did not like the way these armored males crowded near or the set expressions on their faces. "Later."

"Today," Mishka said. "We have a boat ready."

"Thanks," Charlie said. "but I'd rather—"

"I must insist."

Hector sprang from the saddle. Down on the ground, he put one foot on a boulder which protruded from the soil, drew his sword, and swung it in whining arcs. The nearby yachis edged away.

"Inseest, do ye? Nae mon shall force the Prince tae any place whaur he doesna weesh tae gae, ne'er whilst Hector MacGregor lives."

Mishka growled. His own sword flew free. His men lifted weapons.

"Hold it!" Charlie screamed. "I—I do want to see Lord Dzenko. Very much. I can't wait." To Hector he added, "Take it easy, clansman. I, uh, I will honor Lord Dzenko with my presence."

"Weel, weel," muttered the Hoka as he sheathed his blade. "But 'tis nae true Scots name, yon Dzenko."

"Oh, he's a Lowlander, I'm sure," Charlie improvised.

"Lowlander?" For a second the Hoka frowned, as if he were about to be Bertram and declare that Dzenko was not a name from anywhere on Earth. Luckily, however, he recalled that he was Hector, who didn't know any better. "Aye, nae doot, syne your Hieness says so."

The Talyinans relaxed. "Come," snapped Mishka. "We ride."

An hour's stiff travel downhill brought them to a cove, a notch in the wilderness where nobody dwelled. A large rowboat or small galley lay beached. They shoved it off and climbed aboard. One soldier stayed to tend to the animals. These were seldom transported across water; yachis bounced too much.

Mishka had spoken little. Now he ordered Charlie and Bertram into the cabin. The boy knew the reason. It explained his having been accosted in the ravine, rather than openly in town. Lord Dzenko must want everything kept secret.

Oars creaked and splashed. The boat drove forward at a good pace. Charlie wished he could look out, but the cabin had no portholes. "Ah," said Hector shrewdly, "noo I see! Yon laird be a closet Jacobite, and ye're aboot tae conspire wi' him against the usurper." He sighed. "If ainly I'd wits tae help ye twa plot! I'm nobbut a rough, unlettered Hielander, though, wi' naught tae offer save his steel and bluid." He fumbled in his pouch. "And, aye, my sporran holds money, and a sandwich, and"—he drew out his flask—"a wee bit whisky, should my prince hae hunger or thirst."

"No, thanks," Charlie whispered.

The boat docked at a village below the castle. Mishka gave hooded cloaks to the human and the Hoka, and his guardsmen surrounded them closely while they went up the path to the stronghold.

In spite of his worries, Charlie was gripped by what he saw. Here was no medieval ruin or restored museum piece. This was a working fortress.

Gray stone blocks were mortared together to form a high wall. On its parapets tramped men-at-arms in mail, archers in leather jerkins. At intervals rose turrets. From flagpoles on their tops blew banners which were not merely ornamental, but which told who the owner and his chief officers were and identified battle stations for each member of the garrison.

Behind a main gate of heavy timbers and strap iron, a flagged courtyard reached among several stone buildings. Greatest of these was the keep, a darkling pile whose windows were mere slits. Wooden lean-tos edged the curtain wall, wherein the manifold workaday activities of the castle went on.

Porters carried loads; grooms tended yachis; blacksmiths and carpenters made the air clamorous; bakers and brewers filled it with odors which blended with woodsmoke and the smell of unwashed bodies. Females and children were present, too, as well as small domestic animals and fowl walking freely and messily about. Everybody seemed to have a task, though nobody seemed in a hurry about it. Voices chattered, laughed, swore, shouted, sang snatches of song; wooden shoes thumped on stones.

Mishka dismissed his troopers at the entrance to the keep and himself conducted Charlie, Hector, and Toreg inside. The walls of an entry room bore tapestries and hunting trophies. The floor was carpeted with broad-leaved plants, whose sweetness relieved the reek of smoke from a gigantic feasting chamber where an ox-sized carcass was roasting.

By the dim interior light, Mishka pointed to a spiral staircase off the entry. "Follow that, if it please you."

At the fourth-floor landing, he received the salutes of two guards and opened the door "Come," he said, "and meet my lord Dzenko."

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Framed