The Clocks of Iraz

"No longer than I must," said Jorian. "I wanted no crown. Ishbahar was a fool to name me without first making sure of political support for the move."

"A well-intentioned wight, but no monarch," said Chuivir. "Well, that relieves my mind. You may be the lawful sovran; but as a foreigner you are unpopular. Even if I threw my full weight behind you, I know not if I could keep you on your throne. How long is no longer than you must?"

"As long as it takes Doctor Karadur and me to take off in our flying bathtub." ,

"Eh? What is this?"

"Ishbahar promised me that great copper tub of his as an aerial vehicle."

"How will you make it fly?"

Jorian nodded towards Karadur, who was rewinding his turban. "The good doctor has in his ring a demon, who will bear us aloft."

"But, Jorian!" protested Karadur. "I told you I did not wish to liberate Gorax save in direst emergency, since this will be his last labor—"

Jorian snorted. "If this be not a dire emergency, with the whole city buzzing about our ears, then I know not an emergency when I see it Wouldst rather be torn to bits by a mob whipped up to hatred of foreigners?"

"Oh. But, my son, think of all the good you could effect if you retained the crown! You could introduce those reforms that Mazsan preached. You could provide the House of Learning with adequate financial support—"

"Not when half the people I saw would wish to shoot, stab, or poison me. They've made it plain that they want no foreigner for king. This must be that 'second crown' whereof Nubalyaga warned me in the dream. The first was the crown of Xylar, which you and I buried near the Marshes of Mom."

"The Irazis would soon forget their xenophobia," persisted Karadur, "once you were firmly ensconced in power and demonstrated what a good king you could be and how well you adapted to their ways. You already speak better Penembic than I do. After all, Juktar the Great was not only a foreigner but also a barbarian, and this is a cosmopolitan city."

Jorian shook his head. "I tried to show the Xylarians what a good king I could be, too, but that didn't stop them from trying to cut off my head. Besides, how should I ever get firmly ensconced in power, without some foreign mercenary army at my back?"

"Surely there are loyal elements in the Guard and in the Frontier Army on whom you could rely. Once you dompted the factions—"

"And suppose I did, then what? Spend my life humping Her Sanctity Sahmet until the priests arrived with the sacred rope? No, thank you!"

"You could abolish that custom, as did that Kortolian king."

"Doubtless. But 'tis useless to try to argue me round, old man. I've had my taste of kinging it. Whilst 'twas fun in a way, I have no wish to go back to it. Many lust for the wealth, power, and glory that kingship entails, but I harbor no such lordly ambitions. A simple life, with a respectable trade, a snug house, plenty to eat and drink, a loving family, and congenial cronies will suffice me.

"Nor do I covet an Irazi wife. I already have one spouse, and that's a plenty. Besides, the more I travel, the better I appreciate my native land.

"Oh, some like the mountains, rugged and grim,
Where the sleet storms howl and the low clouds skim,
And you hang by your toes from a ledge's rim,
But I'll warble a rondeau and carol a hymn
To Novaria, dear Novaria.

"And some seek the desert, barren and dry,
Where the hot sun hangs in a cloudless sky
And your camel sways and your eyeballs fry,
But I to the land of my birth will hie:
To Novaria, my Novaria.

"While some love the spires of vast Iraz
And admire its domes with oh's and ah's
And go to the races to shout hurrahs,
But the bonniest land that ever there was
Is Novaria, fair Novaria.

"So let the factions fight it out; 'tis no affair of mine. To the forty-nine Mulvanian hells with the Penembic crown! I'm for Xylar to rescue my little darling, and that's that."

Looking worried, Chuivir passed a hand across his forehead. "Well then, sire, I wonder—ah—perhaps you can advise me. With you gone, the leading contenders for the crown will be the stasiarchs. But I deem neither Vegh nor Amazluek a man of kingly quality; whiles, of the late king's sister's sons, one is a wastrel and the other a halfwit. General Tereyai, to whom I have sent messengers, is old and soon to retire. Admiral Kyar is dead. Have you any thought as to whom I should back?"

Jorian stared at Chuivir. "Why not be king yourself? Methinks you would make not a bad one."

Chuivir's mouth fell open. "Really? You offer me the crown?"

"Why not? I thought you a harmless, feckless fop, but since the rebel assault you have learnt fast."

Chuivir shrugged. "I do my poor best."

'To make it legitimate, fetch writing materials, and I will sign over the sovranty, to take effect when we leave in our flying tub. Whether you can make it good is your problem."

Chuivir rose. "I thank you, sire, and will try to deserve your trust. Now I must go to command my men; but I shall soon return to see you off."

As Chuivir clanked out, Jorian raised his voice: "Servants! Hither, pray. I want a change of clothing—warm woolens, suitable for roughing it; not these pretty silky things. And fetch a dry robe for Doctor Karadur."

"Oh, my son, I need no—"

" Tis cold aloft, and I can't have you catching a tisic. You there, find the chief armorer and tell him to fetch me some weapons and armor to make a choice from. And where did King Ishbahar keep his privy purse? You! Tell the cook to whip up a dinner for the doctor and me. Not fancy, but substantial, and tell him to waste no time about it."

While the servants scurried, a guardsman entered, saying: "A courier named Zerlik would fain see Your Majesty."

"Send him in," said Jorian.

The young man entered and dramatically dropped to one knee. "Your Majesty!" he cried. "I have just returned from bearing the king's letter to Othomae. Nominating you was the best thing King Ishbahar ever did. My sword is at your service; your every wish is my command!"

"That is fine, but I fear I shan't be here long enough to profit from your loyalty."

"You are leaving? Take me with you as your s-squire!"

"Alas, our vehicle cannot carry three. Colonel Chuivir is my deputy and chosen successor, so transfer your loyalty to him."

"But there must be something, sire—"

"I will tell you. You have a big house. Set aside one small room as a refuge for me, should I ever have to flee Novaria and go into hiding here."

"It shall be done! May the gods bless Your Majesty!"

"Better ask them to bless Chuivir; he will need it. Farewell!"

An hour later, the streets of Iraz resounded to the tramp of feet, the roar of mobs, the clash of arms, and the screams of the stricken. Chuivir and several of his guardsmen stood on the roof of the palace, watching the bathtub carrying Jorian and Karadur wobble off into the heavens. The rays of the setting sun gleamed redly on the copper of the tub. The vehicle shrank until it became a mere crimson spark in the deepening blue of the heavens.

Chuivir, wearing the serpent crown of Penembei instead of his helmet, sighed and murmured: "There goes the man who should really have been king, were he not debarred by popular prejudice. Ah, well." He turned to the officers around him and began to receive reports and issue commands.