“You fool!” Gartasian made the whispered accusation as he put the binoculars away. “What new folly is this? Are you so excellent a commander that you can afford to handicap yourself with winedreams?”
As he made ready to ride forward he reminded himself of two pertinent facts—his advancement in the army had been hindered by the ambivalence springing from his guilt; and fate had now given him an unparalleled opportunity to compensate by placing him close to the landing site of the enigmatic skyship. The sunwriter message from Prad had said that King Chakkell was on his way with all possible speed, and that in the meantime Colonel Gartasian was empowered to deal with the situation and take any steps he considered necessary. A good showing on this occasion could yield incalculable benefits in the future.
“Remain here,” he said to Lieutenant Keero, who was just returning to his starting point. He nudged his bluehorn into a walk which he deliberately kept slow, demonstrating to the visitors that his intentions were not hostile. As he neared the ship he was uneasily aware that his cuirass, moulded from boiled leather, would provide little protection if he were to be fired upon, but he remained upright in the saddle, presenting the appearance of one who was satisfied with his ability to deal with the situation.
Those aboard the ship, observing his approach, ceased their activities and came to stand at the near side of the gondola. Gartasian looked for an identifiable commander, but the crew all seemed to be of an age—not much more than twenty—and were wearing identical brown shirts and jerkins. The only visible insignia were small circles of different colours sewn to the lapels of the jerkins, but the variations had no significance for Gartasian.
He was surprised to note that the men were sufficiently alike to have been mistaken for brothers—each with a narrow forehead, close-set eyes and narrow jutting jaw. As he entered the shadow of the balloon he saw, with a sudden sense of disquiet, that the four had dark jaundiced complexions and a peculiar metallic sheen to their skins. It was an appearance which would have suggested a recent brush with some cruel disease, except that the men also exuded that unconscious arrogance which can arise from being superbly fit. They regarded Gartasian with expressions which to him seemed both amused and contemptuous.
“I am Colonel Gartasian,” he said, halting his bluehorn a few yards from the gondola. “On behalf of King Chakkell, the planetary ruler, I welcome you to Overland. We were greatly surprised by the sight of your ship, and many questions clamour in our minds.”
“Keep your questions and your welcome to yourself.” The man on the right, tallest of the four, spoke in oddly accented Kolcorronian. “My name is Orracolde, and I am the commander here, but I also have the honour of being a royal courier. I come to this world with a message from King Rassamarden.”
Gartasian was shocked by the speaker’s immediate and overt hostility, but he decided to control his temper. “I have never heard of a King Rassamarden.”
“That is hardly surprising under the circumstances,” Orracolde said, smiling disdainfully. “Now, I expected that Prad would be dead by this time, but how did Chakkell become King? What of Prad’s son, Leddravohr? And Pouche?”
“They too are dead,” Gartasian said stiffly, realising that the deliberate challenge in Orracolde’s manner would have to be taken up for the sake of honour. “And for your further enlightenment, I intend that this meeting will henceforth be conducted along different lines. I will provide the questions, and you the answers.”
“And what if I decide otherwise, old warrior?”
“My men have your ship surrounded.”
“That fact had not escaped my attention,” Orracolde said. “But unless their flea-infested mounts can soar like eagles they pose my ship no threat. We can be airborne in an instant.” He turned away from the rail and a second later the skyship’s burner discharged a burst of hot gas into the balloon which loomed overhead, maintaining its buoyancy. Gartasian’s bluehorn, startled by the echoing blast, half-reared and he had to act quickly to bring it under control, much to the amusement of the four onlookers. It came to him that for the present the visitors were in a greatly superior position, and that unless he devised a better method of dealing with them he could be humiliated. He glanced at the sparse circle of mounted soldiers, now seeming so distant, and chose new tactics.
“Neither of us has anything to gain by quarrelling,” he said reasonably. “The message you spoke of can be relayed to the King through me, or—if you would prefer it—you can wait until his Majesty arrives in person.”
Orracolde tilted his head. “How long will that take?”
“The King is already on his way and could be here within the hour.”
“Giving you ample time in which to draw up long-range cannon!” Orracolde scanned the brush-covered terrain as though expecting to find evidence of troop movements.
“But we have no reason to bear you ill will,” Gartasian protested, dismayed by the other man’s irrationality. What kind of envoy was this? And what kind of a ruler would entrust such a man with diplomatic responsibility?
“Do not take me for a fool, old warrior—I will deliver King Rassamarden’s message without delay.” Orracolde stooped, momentarily disappearing behind the gondola’s side, and when he came into view again he was removing a yellowish scroll from a leather tube.
Gartasian had time in which to find his thoughts seizing on a triviality. Orracolde derogated him with every sentence he spoke, but he uttered the word “old” with a particular venom, as though it was one of the most insulting in his vocabulary. It was a minor mystery compared to the other puzzling aspects of what was happening, even though Gartasian had never considered himself as being old, and he resolutely pushed it aside as he saw Orracolde unroll a square sheet of heavy paper.
“I am an instrument of King Rassamarden, and the following message must be regarded as issuing directly from his lips,” Orracolde said.
“I, King Rassamarden, am the rightful sovereign of all men and women born on the planet of Land, and of all their offspring, wherever they may be. In consequence, all new territories on the planet of Overland are considered to have been occupied on my behalf. I therefore proclaim myself sole ruler of Land and Overland. Be it known that I intend to exact all tributes which are rightfully mine.”
Orracolde lowered the paper and stared solemnly at Gartasian, awaiting his response.
Gartasian gaped at him for a few seconds, then began to laugh. The sheer preposterousness of what he had heard, combined with the pompous style of the delivery, had abruptly translated the entire scene into farce. Release of the tension which had been growing inside him fuelled his mirth, and he had genuine difficulty in bringing his breathing back under control.
“Have you lost your reason, old man?” Orracolde leaned over the rail, bronzed face thrust forward, like a snake spitting venom. “I see nothing to laugh at.”