"Hai!" exclaimed Toreg in the same language. "You talk good Peoplespeak!"

Bertram's nose rose slightly in the air. "Come, come, my dear fellow," he said, in English so he could employ certain technical terms. "I speak not good but perfect Talyinan. You will find Master Stuart equally proficient. True, we did not acquire a bally native lingo just for the sake of a week's touring. It was to initiate my pupil in the use of the electronic language inductor."

Toreg's crest and whiskers bristled. His lips curled back, revealing formidable teeth. "Seek you to make fun of me?" he growled in his own tongue. "If so, declare it like an honest male, that we may duel and I cut you in half."

"Oh, piffle." Bertram adjusted his monocle. "I couldn't allow that. Not when I'm responsible for the scion of the Stuart house. Fine sort of guardian I'd look, cut in half. Eh, what? No offense intended, I a.s.sure you. Here, have a drop of sherry and let us revel in the good old rustic scene, what, what, what?" From beneath his coat he produced a silver hip flask uncapped and offered it.

Toreg took the container and sniffed. A broad grin made his mustache tips quiver. No doubt his threat had not been seriously meant, Charlie decided. In a violent culture, a male of warrior stock had to be touchy or at any rate act like it.

Charlie turned his attention from Toreg to the landscape about them. And indeed the landscape was delightful. Tall feather-leaved trees, full of rich fragrance, bright-winged insects and caroling birds, confronted a gra.s.sy slope which led down to sparkling sea waters. Afar he glimpsed a fishing boat, high prowed beneath a red fore-and-aft sail.

Of course, he thought, he probably should avoid words like "insect," "bird," or "gra.s.s." Though life on New Lemuria had close parallels to that on Earth, any biologist could point out innumerable differences. However, for ordinary purposes it was easiest to use unscientific language-for instance, to say "fish" instead of "ichthyoid."

"Ho!" Toreg was exclaiming happily. "Shmiriz!"

"No-" Bertram began. He was too late. Toreg put the flask to his mouth and poured down a healthy swig of the contents. Then he choked. He dropped the liquor and clutched at his throat.

"Ee-ee-aa-aaroo-ooh!" he howled. "I burn! I am on fire! Poisoned! Help!"

Bertram caught the flask in midair and turned around to Charlie. "Now there, young Stuart," he said gravely, "let that be a lesson to you. Note well the effects of a limited education. This disgraceful hullaballoo over a simple drop of sherry."

"That's what you call it," Charlie retorted. "It's really that awful rotgut n.o.body but a Hoka can drink without ruining himself inside."

"Tut-tut," said Bertram. "I see I must coach you in logic. A gentleman drinks sherry. I am a gentleman. Therefore, what I drink is sherry."

Meanwhile Toreg's wails had diminished to grunts, which gradually developed a pleased note. At last he paused, looked at Bertram, and licked his lips. "More sherry?" he asked.

"Within strict limits, old chap," said the Hoka. "You must remain fit to drive, what? And you're accustomed to nothing stronger than that, ah, shmiriz you mentioned." The metabolism of his own race gave him an incredible capacity for alcohol before he was much affected by it.

"Ha, little you know!" Toreg grabbed the flask and took a more careful gulp. "I am a warrior-a household trooper of Lord Dzenko of Roshchak-as mighty at the flowing bowl and the steaming trencher as I am on the field of battle."

Bertram grew interested. "Say on, old bean," he urged.

For an alarmed instant, Charlie wondered if his tutor might decide to switch roles and become a barbaric Talyinan. But no, that would scarcely happen. However volatile on the surface, Hokas kept steadfast in what counted. Besides, they usually adopted characters from human history or literature.

A warrior's life had always tempted Charlie. Everyone seemed to like him well enough, but he had no close friends and often felt lonesome. He would then imagine himself with a wholly changed personality-a man of action, who led other men on great feats of derring-do. . . .

He came back to reality with a start. He must have been daydreaming for quite a while. Toreg had been nipping and talking and had gotten maudlin.

"I was a warrior, a household trooper of Lord Dzenko, mighty at the laden board and on the clanging battlefield. Today I am but a servant of the humans."

"Dear me." Bertram clicked his tongue in sympathy. "Cashiered, eh? Drumhead court-martial, no doubt. Stripped your b.u.t.tons off."

"Huh? What're you hooting about? I was sent away in honor, I was. My good Lord Dzenko-may he live prodigiously-had to reduce the size of his guard. He had to let me go, 'mong a lot of others. But he didn't want to." Toreg waggled a forefinger. "As a matter of fact, fuzzy one, my good Lord Dzenko pers'nally found me the job I've got. He knows the Plenipotentiary. I've heard him more'n once, asking the Plenipotentiary to help us here in his province. He could, you know-the Plenipotentiary, I mean. He could whistle up flying ships and, uh, guns and everything, and make an end of Olaghi. But no, he won't. Keeps quacking about, uhn, noninterference . . . the law of the League-"

"Well, why did Lord Dzenko have to dismiss most of his fighters?" Bertram asked. "High cost of living, perhaps?"

"No," Toreg growled. "Olaghi made him. Olaghi the accursed."

Charlie listened, fascinated, while Bertram got the story. It took hours. Not only was Toreg a little incoherent by now, but centuries of history needed explaining.

However, basically the past of Talyina paralleled many countries on Earth. A conquering warlord had created the kingdom by bringing less powerful chieftains under him, throughout the islands. But while those magnates had to swear service to the king, they kept a great deal of local authority and their own troops of warriors. These they used against bandits, pirates, and foreign enemies. Occasionally this feudal system broke down, but hitherto order had always been restored after a period of chaos.

At last few bandits or pirates were left, and no foreign enemies within ready sailing distance. About that time the League established its Commission. Pomfrey hoped for social progress, the gradual evolution of barons into squires and their councils into a true, democratic Parliament. But he was only allowed to encourage that, not take any direct hand in affairs.

Several years ago, the last head of the old royal house died without heirs. Pomfrey had been preparing for this, urging the barons to elect a new king but limit his powers. Unfortunately, a strong n.o.ble, Olaghi, had been preparing, too. With the help of several of his fellows, he seized the capital and proclaimed himself the ruler. After some fighting, the lords of the islands yielded.

Olaghi thereupon proceeded to make social changes of his own. He replaced as many barons as he was able with his favorites. He forced the remainder to reduce their private troops to mere guardian corps. Besides collecting tribute from them, he imposed high new taxes directly on the common people.

Yet Talyina did not revolt. Apart from the fact that Olaghi had taken care to make a successful revolution look impossible, there was the fact that no Talyinan could really imagine doing without a king. And he was on the throne, however dubious his claim to it.

"Bad to worse, bad to worse," Toreg mumbled. "Time indeed for the Prince of the Prophecy to arrive, if ever he does. . . ."

Sad though the tale was, Charlie didn't let it spoil his enjoyment. The countryside was picturesque, and the natives he saw didn't look unhappy. When he pointed this out, Toreg insisted it had a double cause. First, Shverkadi Island was in the fief of Lord Dzenko, who managed to protect his subjects somewhat, especially since the capital was far from here. Second, more important, the League outpost was on Shverkadi, and Olaghi was too cunning to let the representatives of the stars see daily wretchedness.

What Charlie spied seemed prosperous in a primitive fashion. After a stretch of forest, broken by an occasional camp of charcoal burners, cultivated clearings began to appear. South of Push, the coastal land was nothing but farms.

The stop at the village was a diverting spectacle. Toreg pulled on a brake lever with one hand while he disconnected the gongs with the other. Lacking a beat to guide them, the yachis jumped out of phase, until they stopped altogether. Thus the wheel jerked to a halt. Charlie and Bertram nearly lost their seats. This was at the inn, a long thatch-roofed wooden house near the waterfront. Behind it, a few similar buildings sprawled along dusty irregular streets, where animals wandered about among females, who nearly all carried heavy burdens of one sort or another. In front lay the dock. Most boats were out fishing. Most males not aboard them were in the fields, toiling with hoes and spades. Charlie had thought the Middle Ages atmosphere romantic, but now he started to see why the League felt that everybody had a right to modern machinery as soon as he could safely use it.

In the dirt-floored common room stood a plank table and benches. The travelers sat down and had lunch, paying for it in bra.s.s coins of the kingdom, of which they had an ample supply. They were served by the landlord's wife and daughters. New Lemurian females lacked the cat whiskers of the males and indeed looked still more human except for being completely bald. Their customary dress was a one-piece gown, ankle-length, ornamented with tie-dyeing or beadwork, caught at the waist by a belt from which dangled small tools for their endless tasks.

The food was coa.r.s.e black bread, cheese, meat, and fruits, accompanied by ale or milk. Again he realized he was using English words for things which were never of Earth. Everything had a taste, smell, and texture alien to him, usually flavorful but strange-like the milk, which reminded him of nutmeg and dill pickles. The basic biochemistries were so similar that a human or a Hoka could eat most New Lemurian dishes and get ample nourishment. Yet the variations were such that no native germ could live in their bodies. The Talyinans had barely begun to learn about sanitation-one of Pomfrey's more successful programs-but Charlie and Bertram need not fear getting sick on this planet.

The landlord's sons released the tired yachis. When the moment came to put a fresh team on the wheel, Toreg did the job himself. Charlie soon saw why. It took special skill.

Apparently yachis were not very sharp-witted. Their normal reaction upon being startled or displeased was to leap three or four meters straight up. Twice Charlie had the entertainment of seeing Toreg carried along, clinging to a tether and swearing a blue streak till he thumped back down, rolled over, and sprang erect.

Under the circ.u.mstances, it was surprising how kindly he treated the animals. Aside from sulfurous language, he did not force but coaxed them onto their platforms, working the monster wheel forward so as to bring each position near the ground. In spite of Toreg's bloodthirsty talk about his military prowess, Charlie decided the Talyinans could not be as simple or as brutal as they might appear.

The yachina got going again and rolled south. The road was broader and better. Traffic increased. Regular wagons trundled their loads, drawn by their owners or hirelings. Charlie also saw a few mules at work, another benefit of interstellar trade. An occasional rider bounded by on his yachi, cloak flapping off his shoulders, midriff tightly swathed, and jaws bandaged shut against the continual jolting. Peasants in the grainfields, children herding tame fowl or meat animals, unimpressed when they saw a human go by, gawked at sight of the Hoka. Slowly on the left, at the edge of the sea horizon, grew the dim vision of a neighbor island, and in the channel between, trawlers dragged their nets.

At midsummer in Talyina the days are long. Yet the sun had dropped low when Charlie reached Grushka and his destiny.

t.i.tle: Hokas Pokas Author: Poul Anderson & Gordon R. d.i.c.kson ISBN: 0-671-57858-8 1983 by Poul Anderson & Gordon R.

Copyright: d.i.c.kson Publisher: Baen Books

3.

A Night at an Inn

This town had a population of a few thousand. As at Push, they lived in thatched timber houses, gaudily painted. But these narrow, twisty, littered and evil-smelling streets were cobbled, which made the last part of the yachina ride teeth-rattling, and the docks accommodated quite a number of boats and small ships. The hostel which Toreg had chosen fronted on a market square. Opposite stood the League's gift to a combustible community, a fire station, with horse-drawn wagons and hand-operated water pumps. At their present stage, the Talyinans would have gotten little good from motorized equipment. Where would they find energy charges, replacement parts, or skilled mechanics?

A plump landlord bustled out to greet the arrivals. When he saw Charlie, he rubbed his hands together. The youth suspected that prices went up a hundred percent for a "rich Earthling." The landlord wasn't too surprised by Bertram; a few nonhuman s.p.a.cefarers had already visited New Lemuria.

"Ah," he burbled in English, "welcome, lovely folk, to your every-modern-convenience lodgings at the Sign of the Ritz! Immediate reservations. A gong boy will bring your baggage. Wash off the stench of travel while my wives prepare delicious dainties for your gorging and swilling. How eager are we to listen to your boasts! How few our bedbugs! How silent our fowl in the dawn!"

Inside was a wainscoted rough-raftered taproom, fronds strewn on its clay floor, dimly lit by sconced candles and the flames on the hearth. A chimney conducted away most smoke, another innovation from the stars. The rest of the "modern conveniences" amounted to a compartment where guests were required to check lethal weapons, a bath whose cold-water shower was fed by a cistern, and a couple of overstuffed leather armchairs beside the central table and its benches. Upstairs were bedrooms, on whose straw pallets visitors usually spread their own sleeping bags.

Having cleaned himself, Charlie joined Bertram and Toreg at dinner. This was a thick stew, plus abundant drink served in carved wooden flagons. Word of the newcomers was getting around, and townsmen were coming in to meet them. The landlord beamed at the extra trade. Charlie was hard put to answer the questions which poured over him. With scant organized entertainment, and most of them illiterate, these people were happy to meet outsiders. Charlie's opinion of the Middle Ages went down another notch.

He was tired, however. It had been a lengthy and exciting day. After his meal he curled into one of the big chairs. n.o.body followed him. They cl.u.s.tered around Bertram, who was the real novelty as well as the inexhaustible talker. Charlie was glad of that. He decided he'd just sit and listen for a bit, then go to bed.

The sight before him was exotic, he thought: rude chamber, leaping, sputtering flames and weaving shadows, Talyinan males crowded on benches or squatting on the floor. Bertram sat at the end of the table across from Toreg. His short golden-furred form, now clad in a tuxedo, seemed appealingly helpless among these burly fishers and artisans.

"More sherry?" he invited.

The guide, who had already had some of it, shook his head. "No. You try shmiriz." He thumped a pot of the local brew down onto the planks.

"Tut-tut," reproved Bertram. "A gentleman prefers sherry." He stopped to think. "Or should it be port, at this hour? Yes, by Jove, port. Forgetful of me. Must make a note." His monocle caught a fire gleam as he took forth a penstyl and scribbled on his cuff. "Right-o. Would you care for a spot of port, my good fellow?"

"No," growled Toreg. "You try our shmiriz. Not to insult us."

"Oh, very well," agreed the Hoka. He emptied the pot into his flagon.

"Shmiriz got power," Toreg bragged. "Turns your ears purple."

A gasp of awe rose from the crowd when Bertram drained his huge cup in a single swallow.

"Nonsense," he said. "Do my ears look purple?"

Toreg squinted blearily. "Too much fur on them to tell," he complained.

Charlie's eyelids drooped. . . .

A racket brought him awake. Through the door swaggered half a dozen more Talyinans. They made the rest appear meek. Above their trousers and boots they wore coats of jingling ring mail. Above their scarred faces rode spiked conical helmets with noseguards and chain coifs. Over their backs were slung round shields on which the emblem of a fire-breathing snake had been painted. Besides their swords, two carried battle axes, two crossbows, two pikes whose b.u.t.ts they stamped on the ground. Every belt held at least four knives.

The leader bulked enormous, a full two meters in height. His shoulders filled the doorway. His whiskers, each dyed a separate color, reached nearly as wide.

Toreg stared, leaped to his feet, and shouted in joy, "Mishka! My dear old boss!"

"Toreg!" bawled the giant. "Why, you flop-eared flap-tongue, welcome back!" His green glance fell on Bertram; Charlie, off in the shadows, escaped notice. "Hai! Doom and hurricanes, what pretty doll have you fetched us?"

The group tossed their weapons a-clatter toward the checkroom, for the landlord's family to pick up. When Mishka strode to the table, Charlie felt the earth quiver a bit. Bertram rose. "Lemme . . . innerd.o.o.s.he you." Toreg hiccupped. "Uh, Bertram Smyth-Chum-Chum . . . Chum-m-m . . . from, uh, where's it you said? Meet muh former boss." He got control over his tongue. "Mishka, Sergeant in Chief of Household Guards to Dzenko, dread Lord of Roshchak! Mishka, first warrior of the West, equal to forty in combat, man of unquenchable thirst and appet.i.te!"

"'D'je do," said Bertram politely.

"Let's shake hands like humans," Mishka proposed, not to be outdone in courtesy. Or did he wish to test strength? Muscles rippled and knotted; he must be squeezing hard. Bertram smiled and squeezed back. Astonishment came over Mishka's countenance. He let go at once. His left hand surrept.i.tiously fingered the right.

Still, he held no grudge, simply regarded the Hoka with sudden respect. "Drink!" he clamored while he shucked his helmet. Civilians on the benches scrambled to make room before the warriors should pitch them off.

"And what brings you here, Sergeant, if I may ask?" Bertram inquired.

"Oh, patrol against bandits," Mishka said. "Didn't find any. Plague and shipwreck, what a dull tour! Going home tomorrow. Rather hear about you, fuzzy sir."

Charlie's lids fell down again. . . .

He must have slept for a couple of hours. A roar wakened him. Blinking, he saw that the fire had guttered low and most of the guests had departed. Their work started at sunrise, after all. Mishka's squad and Toreg snored on the floor or, heads on arms, across a table shiny from spilled liquor. Only their outsized chief and the small Hoka had stayed the course, and both of them were finally showing its effects.

"Olaghi!" Mishka trumpeted. He crashed his flagon down. "I'll tell you 'bout King Olaghi, may the Great Ghost eat his liver! Olaghi the Tyrant! Olaghi the Cruel! Olaghi the Meat-Stingy! Woe to the world, that Olaghi rules over Talyina!"

"Not the best sort, I take it?" Bertram asked.

"Best? Worst-worst usurper-"

"Usurper?" Bertram's ears p.r.i.c.ked up. According to Toreg's account during the day, Olaghi had as much hereditary right to the throne as anybody, little though that might be.

"Usurper!" Mishka snarled, and pointed his own ears forward like horns. "Not is he from Bolgorka, the

capital, whence th' ol' royal house sprang. He's b.l.o.o.d.y foreigner-from Nyekh. Not really part of Talyina. Just got dual monarchy with us. And now they've shoved their man onto our backs!"

"Ah." The Hoka nodded. "Of course. I understand. Rather like the first Georges."

"The whats?"

"Quite. Kings of England on Earth. In the eighteenth century of our reckoning, but not English-a Hanoverian line-"

Bertram went on to relate the history. Carried away by it-and, no doubt, liters of shmiriz-he waxed more and more indignant at the wrongs inflicted by the Hanoverian kings, especially on Scotland, after that brave country had risen to restore the rightful dynasty-the Stuart dynasty, from which in fact his own companion could claim descent. . . .

Charlie dozed off. . . .

When next he woke, it was to the sound of singing. Bertram stood on the table. Gone were his monocle,

bow tie, and coat. Rolling his r's in an accent which had nothing of Oxford about it, he bellowed, in his reedy voice, a Jacobite song hastily translated into Talyinan.

"Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling-"

Down on the bench, Mishka regarded him gla.s.sy-eyed and openmouthed.

"-The young Chevalier!" finished Bertram, and added a few steps of the Highland fling. Bouncing