"For some years, the tower bore the name of King Shashtai. But then the plaster softened in the brumal rains and peeled away, exposing the name of the architect.
"King Shashtai was furious when he learnt how he had been flouted. It would have gone hard with Kumashar had he not—fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon how one looks at it—already died of natural causes.
"So the king commanded that the offending inscription be chiseled out and one more to his liking substituted. But his officials had esteemed Kumashar highly and did not much like Shashtai the Crotchety, who was by this time old and infirm himself. So they politely acceded to the king's commands but then found endless pretexts for delaying the work. There was never quite enough money in the treasury, or unforeseen technical problems had arisen, or something. And soon King Shashtai died in his turn, leaving the inscription still unmodified."
"Showing that the power even of these mighty monarchs is limited by human factors," said Jorian. "I went all through that as king of Xylar. Tis one thing to say to one's minion: 'Do this,' and have him reply:
'Yes, sire; I hear and obey'; and quite another to follow one's order down the chain of command and see that it be not mislaid along the way. What sort of king have you now?"
"King Ishabar?" Zerlik's features took on a stiff controlled expression. He gave a mechanical smile, such as Jorian had often seen on the faces of courtiers and officials during his own reign in Xylar. "Oh, sir, what a splendid monarch he is! Quite a paragon of wisdom, justice, courage, morality, prudence, dignity, generosity, and nobility."
"Sounds too good to be true. Has he no faults?"
"Ughroluk preserve us! Nay, not a fault. Of course, he is a bit of a gourmet. He sensibly devotes himself to the harmless pleasures of the table and leaves the details of running the state to experts, over whom he merely exercises a benevolent supervision. Moreover, he is too prudent to risk his precious person by buzzing about the kingdom, forcing heavy expenses upon the locals to entertain him and upsetting the provincial officials and military commanders by importunate interference. Like a good king, he stays home in his palace and minds his business."
In other words, thought Jorian, the fellow is a lazy, self-indulgent hog who sits gorging in his gilded sty and lets the kingdom shift for itself.
The hills leveled off into the broad valley of the river Lyap, at the mouth of which sprawled vast Iraz. The Flying Fish sailed serenely past the suburb of Zaktan, on the northern side of the river. Zerlik pointed to a large, many-spired building, on whose gilded domes and turrets the midday sun flashed.
"The temple of Nubalyaga," he said.
"Who or what is Nubalyaga?"
"Our goddess of the moon and of love and fertility. The racecourse lies behind it. There is supposed to be a secret tunnel under the river, joining that temple with the royal palace. It is reported to have been dug at vast expense in the reign of King Hoshcha, to serve the king on the occasions of the Divine Marriage; but I know of none who will admit having actually seen it."
"If it ever existed, it must have filled up with water," said Jorian. "Those things always leak, and it would take an army with mops and buckets to keep it dry. But what's this Divine Marriage?"
"On the' night of the full moon, the temple of Nubalyaga celebrates the wedding of Nubalyaga to Ughroluk, the god of the sun, of storms, and of war. The king plays the rdle of Ughroluk and the high priestess, that of Nubalyaga. Chaluish, the high priest of Ughroluk, and High Priestess Sahmet are nominally husband and wife, as required by their offices; but they have long been at bitter enmity, each trying to rape away some of the other's power. They fell out over the Prophecies of Salvation, a decade agone."
"What prophecies were these?"
"Oh, Sahmet announced that Nubalyaga had revealed to her in a dream that the salvation of Iraz depended on a barbarian savior from the North." Zerlik looked sharply at Jorian. "Would you qualify as a barbarian savior from the North?"
"Me? By Astis' ivory teats, no! I'm no barbarian, and I have all I can do to save my own hide, let alone a city's. But the other prophecy?"
"Well, not to be outdone, Chaluish proclaimed that all this about barbarian saviors was nonsense. His god Ughroluk had appeared to him in a trance and avouched that the salvation of Iraz depended on keeping the clocks in Kumashar's Tower running. And there things rest—albeit 'rest' is not the word I want, since the twain have continued to plot and intrigue against each other from that day to this."
They sailed past the mouth of the Lyap, where scores of ships, large and small, lay at anchor. There were high-sided merchant galleons, smaller caracks and caravels, little coasters and fishermen, barges and wherries, and the long, low, lethal, black-hulled forms of war galleys. Preeminent among these were several huge catamarans, capable of carrying thousands of rowers, sailors, and marines in each twin-hulled ship. The sun gleamed on the gold-plated ornaments of the galleys. The Penembic flag, with a golden torch on a blue field, flew from their jacks taffs.
"I shouldn't think Algarthian pirates would venture near Iraz, in the face of that fleet," said Jorian.
Zerlik shrugged. "It is not, alas, so formidable as it looks."
"Wherefore so?"
"The costs of labor have been rising, so that His Majesty has been unable to afford full crews. And one of those monster double-hulled battleships, if its oars be not fully manned, is too slow and unwieldly to cope with pirates. There have in fact been several piracies within a few leagues of Iraz during the past year. Now there is talk of ships of black freebooters from Paalua, across the ocean, joining in the game. They once invaded Ir, did they not?"
"Aye, and not so long past."
The cries of sailormen came faintly across the water as some ships furled sails and were towed to their anchorages by tug-wherries. Others were towed out, broke out their sails, and put to sea.
The Flying Fish sailed past the river mouth and reached the waterfront of Iraz proper. Here, ships pushed off from the piers and quays, while others sought places at them, with much shouting and cursing.
Along the shore, wooden cranes slowly rotated and raised and lowered their loads, like long-necked water birds. They were powered by huge treadwheels, which in turn were manned by convicts. Behind them rose the sea wall guarding the city, and over the wall could be seen the domes and spires of Iraz. The hot sun flashed on roof plates of copper, or of copper plated with silver and gold. Beyond the city, on a ridge of higher ground, a row of windmills turned lazily in the gentle breeze.
"Where should we dock?" asked Jorian.
"I—I believe the fishing wharves are at the south end," said Zerlik.
The Flying Fish passed the Tower of Kumashar, soaring up over a furlong. Halfway up, on all four sides, the circle of a clock face interrupted the sweep of the buff-colored masonry. The single hand of all four clocks showed the Hour of the Otter. Jorian took out a ring with a short length of fine chain, held it suspended, and turned it slowly against the sun. A pinhole in the upper part of the ring let a tiny shaft of light through to illumine the hours marked on the inner side of the lower half of the ring.
"As I thought, 'tis past the Hour of the Turtle," said Jorian.
"If that be designed for measuring times in Ir," said Zerlik, "you must needs correct it for the distance you have come southward."