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5
The Redheaded
League

Within, the stone of a fair sized room was relieved by rugs and by plastered walls whose frescoes depicted battle scenes. The scarlet pigment used for blood did much to brighten things, for otherwise there was only a shaft of sunlight through a narrow window. A few carved chairs were placed at irregular intervals. In one of them, sat a gaunt middle-aged New Lemurian, his face deeply lined, the blue of his crest sprinkled with gray. He wore a flowing rainbow-striped robe and silver necklace, and his whiskers were gilded.

Mishka clicked heels. "Lord Dzenko, here have brought you, unbeknownst to others as you bade, the fiery-topped person who may be the Deliverer of the Prophecy. Also, for good measure, his guide—my lord will remember Toreg—and, er—"

"Sir Hector MacGregor," said Charlie in haste, before the Hoka could declare himself a commoner. It might be protection against indignities.

Hector was quick to pick up the cue. "Aye," he declaimed, striking a pose, "an ancestor o' mine was ennobled after the Battle o' Otterburn. Let me tell ye. `It fell aboot the Lammas tide, when the muir-men win their hay—' "

Charlie shushed him, "My name is Charles Edward Stuart. My father is captain of the ship which lately flew in from the stars. He expects me back soon."

Dzenko smiled. "I trust we can oblige him. Pity that the strange law of your folk—or perhaps their weakness—binds him from coming after you in force."

Charlie gulped. Living so close to the League's enclave, this baron must be more sophisticated about it than most.

"But do be at ease," Dzenko urged. "My only wish is to welcome you, the Prince of the Prophecy, our rescuer from oppression."

"Huh?" exploded from Toreg. "But, but, Lord—him? Why, he's not even one of our kind!"

"Does the Prophecy anywhere say he must be?" Dzenko purred. "Indeed, have you ever heard of a dweller on our world who has red hair?"

"N-no, Lord," Toreg admitted. Excitement seized him. "Could it really be? Could Olaghi in truth be overthrown, and I get my rightful job back?"

"The councils of the mighty are not for common ears," Dzenko said. "You may go, Toreg, and greet your old comrades." The guide bowed and rushed out. "You stay, Mishka," continued the baron. The gigantic guardsman placed himself at parade rest in a corner.

"You know I'm nothing of the sort," Charlie protested. "This is only a, a coincidence."

"Conceivably. Though a wise saw has it that `Chance is the hand of heaven which hauls us.' " Dzenko rose, to take the human's arm in a confidential manner and lead him across the room. "Upon receiving the news, I, ah, did feel it my duty to investigate further. If nothing else, your presence might cause unrest among the populace."

"Maybe," Charlie admitted. "I suppose I'd better go straight back to the compound."

Dzenko's grasp tightened on his elbow. "On the other hand, perhaps you had better not."

To and fro they paced. Hector stumped behind them. "See you," Dzenko went on, low-voiced, "I say no word against our beloved King Olaghi. He would demand my head on a pikeshaft did I call him aught but a good ruler. Yet is any ruler ever as good as he might be? There are even some who call him a tyrant. Mind you, I say this not myself, but some do. When rumors start flying, a prudent man wants to know whether or not they hold the truth, so he can advise the people who are dependent on him. Now naturally, I don't imagine there's aught to this talk about your being the young Prince who'll perform the Five Feats and dethrone the wicked ruler of legend, but still, at the same time—"

He talked in that vein for several minutes. Charlie got the impression he was really stalling. Meanwhile, a clamor grew below them, shouts, running feet, occasional blasts on the crooked Talyinan trumpets.

"Mishka!" said Dzenko at last. "See what that noise is about and shut them up."

Though sharply spoken, the order had a false sound in Charlie's ears, as if rehearsed well in advance. But the guardsman clattered out at once and down the stone steps.

"The commoners are quite impetuous, you know." The baron sighed. "Get them overheated, and bloodshed is apt to follow."

Mishka reappeared, hustling Toreg along in front of him. The racket from below pursued them, louder than ever, hardly muffled when the door closed.

"Well, Sergeant, what goes on?" Dzenko demanded.

"This clown here went right out and told them the Prince has come," Mishka snarled. He gave Toreg a shake.

"What?" Dzenko's anger seemed more deliberate than genuine, but the guide quailed.

"Y-you didn't tell me not to, lord," he stammered.

"I didn't?"

"Did you? I, I—"

"Stupid lout!"

"Yes, my lord." Toreg cowered.

"Be quiet!" barked Dzenko. He turned on Mishka. "What do they want? And make sure you get things straight."

Stung in his pride, the officer flushed and responded stiffly, "I hope my lord does not confuse me with this yachi-brain."

"Fry and sizzle you, numbwit!" roared Dzenko. "Will you answer a simple question or will you not?"

"Yes, my lord," said Mishka, sulkier yet. "They want to see the Prince shoot the bellfruit off the head of his friend."

Dzenko relaxed. "Well, well," he said. "I was afraid of something like this. That's why I was anxious to handle matters discreetly, Charles. Take an old legend, and the commoners will believe every word of it. Now what is our wisest course?"

"If you sent me away—" Charlie began.

Dzenko shook his head. "No, I fear that won't do."

"Won't do?" asked Charlie, dismayed.

"Won't do," Dzenko emphasized. "I appreciate your not wanting to have any truck with a foolish folk tale. But I have my people to think of. They're wildly agitated. Nought will calm them down again until they see you shoot at the bellfruit. I hate to ask you—"

"I hate to refuse—" Charlie tried.

"But, as I was saying," proceeded Dzenko, "if you do it not, they'll suppose it's because you are an impostor, and the custom around here is to roast impostors over a slow fire. Of course, my guard and I would do our best to defend you. But on Olaghi's orders, they are so few these days that I much fear the peasantry would overwhelm them and take you from us. And really, it's not such a stiff request, is it? All you are asked to do is shoot bellfruit off the head of your best friend, using a crossbow, in the fog at fifty paces."

Charlie's stomach felt queasy. He seized after an excuse. "But my best friend isn't here! He's far off on Earth."

"Come, come," chided Dzenko. "We see your best friend, right at your back. I'm sure he'll be willing to help. What say you, Sir Hector?"

The Hoka's bearlike head nodded vigorously. "What mon dares say Hector MacGregor doesna trust the aim o' his ain true Prince?" he snorted. "Aye—I'll stand target wi' a bellfruit, or an apple, or a walnut, where noo sits my bonnet."

"Tell me, my lord," Charlie asked. "As long as I try to do it, will that satisfy them? I mean, even if I miss?"

"Oh, yes. Should you miss, they will indeed be saddened, to know you are not the Deliverer after all. But none can fairly say you refused to try. What few complainers remain will not be too many for my guardsmen to handle."

"And . . . once I've taken this shot, Sir Hector and I are free to leave? Go back to the compound if we want?"

"My dear boy! Leave? Go back? After shooting the bellfruit off your best friend's head? Certainly not! You must continue to do the other four Feats and liberate the kingdom."

"Sure, sure," said Charlie. "But that's if I shoot the way the legend tells. Suppose I miss."

Dzenko waved his hand. "Why, then you can go wherever you like, do whatever you wish," he replied airily. "Except for their disappointment, it won't matter much to anyone."

"Okay, I'll do it."

"Good!" Dzenko beamed. "I knew we could count on you."

It was necessary to wait for the evening mists to blow in off the sea, in order that every condition of the poem be fulfilled. Charlie and Hector were kept in the upstairs room meanwhile, under guard of Mishka. But servants brought them a sumptuous lunch. And to his surprise, Charlie found that the sergeant was, in his way, both intelligent and decent. He actually apologized for the trouble he had caused.

"In a tide of shmiriz, I roused my lord from slumber," he explained. "Later I bethought me how foolish I had been. Think of my astonishment when I got orders to bring you hither. As my lord's sworn man, I must needs obey." He sighed. "Ah, 'twould be wondrous were you in truth he who shall cast the yoke off us. But though you deny it, I wish you well."

"Dzenko doesn't seem to take the legend seriously," Charlie said. "So why did he want me brought here in the first place?"

"He told you 'twas to make certain matters will not get out of hand."

"Is that the whole truth?" Charlie asked, thinking how calculated the scene this afternoon had appeared.

"Well, he's a deep one, my lord is," Mishka admitted.

"We've need o' craftiness, if we're to avenge Culloden," Hector declared. Charlie knew he referred to the battle in 1746, when the last Jacobite force was defeated, but it seemed late to do anything about that.

Near sunset, an honor guard fetched them. They tramped out of the castle through an awed silence. Every native in the neighborhood had gotten the word and come to watch—close-packed lines of amber-skinned beings in mostly drab clothes, held back by armed troopers in ring mail or jerkins. The procession went to the north shore of the island, where a course had been marked on the beach.

Surf boomed, nearly invisible in a chill, thick fog which tolled over the waters. That mist smelled of salt and seaweed, but the low sun turned it golden. Solemnly, Lord Dzenko removed Hector's cap and placed on the furry round head a purple fruit the size of a clenched fist. The Hoka stood unflinching, nothing but love and encouragement in his beady gaze. Mishka took Charlie's arm and, just as gravely, strode fifty huge paces over the sand before he stopped and turned.

A few trusted warriors accompanied them. Nobody was allowed near Hector and Dzenko. Spectators along the strand were dim blurs in the mist.

"May the gods guide your aim," said Mishka as he put a cocked crossbow in Charlie's hands.

Another soldier whispered, "How sure our baron is of the Prophecy's fulfillment, that he stands right beside the target!" For at this distance, both of them were lost to sight.

Charlie hefted the weapon. Its wooden frame was cold and damp. He was astonished at the weight. The cord that powered it had been wound tight. The short quarrel rested in a groove in the stock. Its razor-sharp steel head would go clear through Hector if it struck him.

The human hesitated. Mishka was standing close, able to see what he did entirely too well. Charlie tried moving the crossbow around, but these warriors were made of stern stuff. Although the deadly quarrel swung past their noses, none of them blinked.

Abruptly a gust of wind brought a streamer of fog which turned everything hazy. Charlie swung the weapon to his shoulder. He had to miss but dared not be obvious about it. Yes, he thought, this must be the right aim, to put his shot safely out into the waves. He squeezed the trigger. The crossbow twanged, banged, and slammed back against him.

For a moment, only the surf spoke. Then to his stupefaction, cheers began to lift from the crowd he could barely see.

"Struck! Struck fair and square! . . . Cloven through the core! . . . A wondrous firing, nay, incredible, miraculous! He is the Prince of the People! Rejoice, rejoice!"

Through the fog loomed the lean figure of Dzenko and the stocky one of Hector. The baron held in his left hand the halves of a bellfruit, in his right a crossbow quarrel.

"Congratulations, my Prince!" he shouted.

"We didna doot ye for a meenute," Hector added.

Night brought clear air and a nearly full moon. The moon of New Lemuria is smaller than that of Earth, but also closer. It shows larger and brighter in the sky and raises higher tides.

Charlie looked out the window of the upstairs room, upon a castle turned to silver and shadows. The hush of night contrasted with the din of evening's celebrations. Charlie was alone with Dzenko.

The nobleman sat near a brazier which glowed to fight off the chill. He toyed with a knife such as every Talyinan carried. Candle flames made the blade shimmer against gloom.

"You faked that test," Charlie accused him. "You knew I'd aim wide and out to sea. You arranged for nobody to be near enough to see what happened. As soon as you heard my bow go off, you palmed the bellfruit on Hector's head and let a split one fall from your sleeve, along with a quarrel."

Dzenko smiled. "Sir Hector believes you struck truly, Prince," he answered.

"A Hoka will believe anything, if it suits his fancy!" The adulation lavished on Charlie the past hours had emboldened him. "Why did you do it? You've visited the League compound often. You know I'm not allowed to meddle in your politics."

"But you are allowed to travel," Dzenko pointed out. "If the natives choose to interpret your actions in special ways, that's scarcely your fault, is it?"

"Do you really mean for me to do those silly Feats—or rig them for me the way you did this one?"

Dzenko stroked his whiskers. "We can but try."

"I won't!"

"I fear you must." Dzenko's tones stayed low and smooth. "The whole of Roshchak has the news. Already boats must be bearing it elsewhere. I warned you what the reaction would be to an impostor. Well, what of the reaction when hopes are blasted? Besides your own life, Charles, think of the other lives that would be lost, as people rose in rebellion and, lacking proper military guidance, got cut down by Olaghi's army. No, face the fact: You have a destiny."

"To do what?"

"To help overthrow a cruel tyrant. I know you Earthlings want to see more freedom in this world. Well, for years Olaghi has been taking away what there was."

"I, well, I have heard—from Toreg and Mishka—some complaining about you barons having to pay heavy tribute and reduce the size of your armed forces. But that's just your class and the professional warriors who feel hurt."

Dzenko shook his head sadly. "Prince, consider. Where can we barons get the means to pay off Olaghi, except out of our commoners? And in addition, his tax gatherers squeeze them directly—heartlessly. Those who are ruined by it must go either into beggary or into Olaghi's immediate service. I suspect that is the real purpose behind the new taxes, not any need of the kingdom. And as for whittling down the household troops of the barons, it does more than make them unable to revolt. It means they can no longer patrol their fiefs well. Thus bandits and pirates are again rising up to prey on the people." He lifted his knife. "Prince," he said, and his voice rang, "by this, my steel, I charge you to help me right these grievous wrongs. If your spirit be true, you cannot refuse."

Charlie understood that he had no real choice. Unless he could somehow give Dzenko the slip, he was in the baron's power. If he didn't cooperate, he could be quietly murdered—or maybe tortured till he yielded.

Yet was Dzenko's cause an evil one? Charlie harked back to various unhappy remarks which Pomfrey had let drop. The Plenipotentiary frankly wished that Olaghi had never been born.

Suppose he, Charles Edward Stuart, did play out this charade of the Five Feats. As clever a leader as Dzenko would find ways to make them come out right. Afterward, Dzenko could be left in charge of the kingdom. He was said to govern his own province effectively, and he should be far more agreeable to suggestions from the League than Olaghi was.

As for Charlie, he saw himself as a liberator, a man on a white horse—no, yachi—riding down the streets of Bolgorka, capital of Talyina, while crowds cheered and threw flowers. Later they would erect statues to him. . . .

"My father will be frantic," Charlie protested weakly.

"I will send him a message that you have decided to accept my offer of a guided tour through the whole realm," Dzenko answered. "He can proceed on his voyage. I have League funds available, to buy passage home for you and your companion after you have completed your mission."

"My father will be furious," Charlie said, but without force. When he heard the facts, Captain Stuart would have to admit that his son could not have behaved otherwise.

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Framed