The Clocks of Iraz
L. Sprague De Camp
Chapter One
THE SCARLET MAMMOTH
IT WAS THE HOUR OF THE GOAT, ON THE THIRTEENTH OF the Month of the Unicorn, in the republic of Ir, one of the twelve city-states of Novaria.
In the tavern called the Scarlet Mammoth, in the city of Orynx, a slim, well-dressed young man toyed absently with a glass of wine and watched the door. Although this man wore Novarian garb, there was about him a suggestion of the exotic. His skin was darker than that of most Novarians, although the latter were a mainly brunet folk. Furthermore, his ornaments were gaudier than those of the Land of the Twelve Cities.
Across the common room sat an older man: a chunky fellow of medium height, with a plain, nondescript face, clad in garments of sober black. If the first man looked foppish, the second looked ostentatiously austere.
While the tall youth watched the door, the chunky man, now and then sipping from a leathern drinking jack of ale, watched the tall youth. Sweat beaded the foreheads of both men, for the weather was unseasonably hot.
The door flew open. In stamped six noisy, rough-looking men, covered with sweat and dust and cursing the heat. They seized the largest table in the common room and hammered on it. The tallest man, a burly, ruddy fellow with deep-set dark eyes under heavy black brows and a close-cut black beard, shouted:
"Ho, Theudus! Can't a gang of honest workmen get a drink, when their throats are caked with dust thick enough to raise a crop in?"
"Coming, coming, Master Nikko, if you'll stop that hellish racket," grumbled the taverner, appearing with his fists full of jacks of ale, a thick finger hooked around each handle. As he set the vessels down, he asked: "Be this your last day, working out of Orynx?"
"That's right," said the big man, across whose face a sword-cut had left a scar and put a kink in his nose. "We move to Evrodium on the morrow. Our orders are to make the aqueduct swing south, following the high ground, before reaching Ir City."
"I should think you'd cut directly across to Ir," said Theudus, "to shorten the total length."
"We would, but the Syndicate would have to pay for an arcade several leagues long, and you know how they are with money; they give it out as a glacier gives out heat. When the thing is built, they'll doubtless complain that the grade is too low and the channel clogs up. I warned 'em, but they wouldn't listen. No matter what route we pick, we poor surveyors get blamed."
"They've been talking about this project for years," said the taverner.
"Aye. They should have built it years agone, but I suppose they hoped that Zevatas would send enough rain to fill the old aqueducts. They did nought till water got so scarce that they had to ration baths. You ought to smell the air in that underground city! They could cut it up and sell it for fertilizer. Well, what's for dinner?"
As the men gave their orders, the slim young man approached the surveyors' table. Standing behind the big man, he rapped the latter on the shoulder with a peremptory forefinger. As the chief surveyor looked up, the younger man, speaking Novarian with an accent, said:
"You, there! Are you not Jorian of Ardamai?"
The big man's eyes narrowed, but his face remained blank and his voice level. "Never heard of him. I'm Nikko of Kortoli, as my mates here will attest."
"But that is—well, come over to my table, where we can talk."
"Certes, my unknown friend," said the surveyor in no friendly tone. Carrying his ale, he rose and followed the other back to his table. He sat down beside the younger one, while his hand strayed to the knife at his belt. "Now, sir, what can I do for you?"
The other gave a high-pitched giggle. "Come, good my sir. Everyone has heard of Jorian of Ardamai, once king of Xylar, who fled his official decapitation and has been hiding—ow!"
"Be quiet," murmured the big man, who had slid an arm around the younger man's waist and then, with his other hand, had thrust his knife so that its point gently pricked the skin of the other's belly.
"How—how dare you!" cried the slim young man. "You cannot order me around! You durst not harm one of my rank!"
"Want to find out? An you'd not mess up Theudus' nice clean floor with your guts, you shall do exactly as told."
"B-but, my dear Jorian, I know you! Doctor Karadur said that Nikko of Kortoli was one of your false names, and that is how I tracked you hither—eh, stop that!"
"Then shut up, idiot! What has Karadur to do with this? Keep your voice down!"
"He gave me a letter to you—"
"Who are you, anyway?"
"M-my name is Zerlik son of Doerumik son of—"
"An uncouth name, if ever I heard one. Whence come you? Penembei?"
"Precisely, sir. The great city of Iraz, in fact. Now—"
"And Karadur is in Iraz?"
"Aye, Master Jor—ow!"
"The next time you speak that name aloud, I'll let you have it up to the hilt. Let's see this letter."
Zerlik looked down his long, hooked, high-bridged nose. "Really, sir, a gentleman like myself is not accustomed to such unmannerly—"
"The letter, your lordship, unless you want steel in your guts. Did Karadur hire you as messenger?"
"Really, good my sir! Persons of my quality do not work for pay. It is our duty to serve the court, and my task is that of royal messenger. When His Majesty, knowing me fluent in Novarian, commanded me to bear Karadur's missive…"
During this speech, the big man had pried the seal off the letter and unfolded the sheet of reed paper. He frowned at the spidery writing on the crackly, golden-brown surface, then called:
"O Theudus! A candle, if you please."
When the candle had been brought, the big man read the following epistle:
Karadur the Mulvanian to his stout comrade in the adventure of the Kist of Avlen, greetings.
If you would recover your little Estrildis, and if you remember enough of your early training in clockmaking to put in order the clocks on the Tower of Kumashar, then come to Iraz with Master Zerlik. The task should not be difficult, for I understand that these clocks were installed by your sire in the first place. Farewell.
Jorian of Ardamai murmured: "The old fellow has better sense than you, Zerlik my boy. You'll notice he mentioned no names—"
He broke off as a movement on the other side of the room caught his eye. The man in plain, dark clothing laid a coin on his table, rose, and walked quietly out. Jorian caught a glimpse of his profile against the darkening sky, and then the door closed on the man.
"Theudus!" Jorian called.
"Aye, Master Nikko?"
"Who was that who just left?"
The taverner shrugged. "I know not. He's been here all afternoon, sipping a little ale and watching about him."
"Could you place him by his speech?"
"He said little; but what he said was, meseemed, with a southern accent."
Jorian grunted. "With those clothes and a southern accent, he has 'Xylar' written all over him, as surely as if he bore the crimson hourglass on his tunic."
"Are you not jumping to conclusions on scant evidence?" said Zerlik.
"Mayhap, but in my position one becomes sensitive to such things. If it make you happy, Master Zerlik, know that you're not the only stupid man in the room. I should have noticed this wight as soon as I came in, but I was thinking of other things."
"Mean you the Xylarians are still fain to cut your head off and throw it up for grabs, by way of choosing the next king? A beastly custom, I always thought."
"You'd find it even beastlier if it were your head. Well, I shall have to accept Karadur's invitation instanter. But travel costs money, and I have but little of the precious stuff."