back to his seat, he refilled both cups. "Beautiful, is it no? Aye, beautiful!"

Since the translation had necessarily involved phrases like "the young yachi rider," the present Charles Edward Stuart felt doubts about that. Mishka didn't. "Beautiful." The guardsman wiped a tear from an eye. "Reminds me-you listen now." He began to chant rather than sing: Woe is the world, when for Talyina's weal Reigns no true ruler, but only a rascal.

Sorrow and sadness make sour the shmiriz.

Weary are Westfolk who wobble 'neath burdens-

"Wobble? I dinna ken the trope, lad," Bertram said, or the native equivalent thereof.

"Shut up," Mishka grunted. "You listen. This is the Holy Prophecy. Hun'erds o' years old."

He went on at some length, describing a period during which a murrain was on the yachis and eggfowl, cooking pots stood empty everywhere, and the hearts of warriors were grieved, for a false king had brought down the anger of the G.o.ds upon the realm. But then-his ba.s.so rose in volume, causing a few of the sleepers to stir and mutter-then came hope.

When all feel forsaken, and fell is the hour, Wildly and welcome from out of the west, Royally red-haired, and riding in leaps, The Prince of the people comes pounding to save them-

"Red hair, aye, aye!" shouted Bertram. "Like my ain young Chevalier yonder!"

Charlie shook his head in bewilderment. The entire scene had taken on an eerie, dreamlike character.

Mishka chanted relentlessly: Five are the Feats that his followers wait for.

Many will meet then to marvel and join him, The wonders he worked having proven him worthy.

Hear, under heaven, the hero's five doings!

It took concentration to sort out, from interminable verses loaded with elaborate figures of speech, just what was supposed to happen. But Charlie gathered that this prince would establish his ident.i.ty by accomplishing five things impossible for anybody else.

First, with a crossbow, in a fog and at fifty paces, he would shoot a bellfruit off the head of his best friend. Next, he would slay something unspecified but dreadful known as the Sorrow of Avilyogh. Thereafter he would sail ("Singing and swigging while other lie seasick") to Belogh, where he would fight and overcome three invincible warriors, brothers, whom that town maintained. His fourth deed, on the island of Lyovka, was of a more intellectual type. It seemed that three Priests of a certain G.o.d dwelled there, who challenged all comers to answer three riddles. Those who tried and failed, as everyone did, were cast into a fiery furnace. But the prince gave the correct replies with scornful ease. His last feat was to enter the Grotto of Kroshch, wait out the high tide which completely submerged it, and emerge unharmed-even playing his horpil, whatever that might be.

When he had thus proved himself, warriors would flock to his standard. Mishka concluded triumphantly: In terror, the tyrant who caused all the trouble, The false king, goes fleeing, unfollowed, in shame.

Tall over Talyina towers the mighty.

Righteous, the red-haired one rules us forever!

He slammed his flagon back down on the table. It broke, while a fountain of shmiriz leaped up over him.

He didn't notice. The landlord did and made a notation on his score.

"There!" Mishka exclaimed, thick-voiced. "Wha'd 'you say to that, hai?"

The equally befuddled Hoka leaped to the floor and struck a pose, right arm flung outward, left hand clutching breast. "I say rise for the Young Prince!" he piped. "Ride, mon! Ride, and carry the wor-r-rd that Bonnie Prince Charlie has come back to his ain!"

With a whoop that shook the rafters, Mishka also sprang erect. "I go! Take rowboat . . . cross channel . . . rouse m'Lord Dzenko-for freedom!" He s.n.a.t.c.hed his helmet off the table. The padded lining was still within the outer coif of mail, and he clapped the whole unit over his head. Unfortunately, he clapped it on backwards and spent a minute choking and blundering about until he got it right.

Enthusiasm undimmed, he grabbed a sword from the checkroom and staggered off into the night. His

war calls echoed among the darkened houses.

Bertram was not much steadier on his feet as he approached Charlie. "Hoot, mon," he said in English, "are ye awake the noo?"

"I-gosh, I don't know," Charlie faltered.

"Aweel, 'tis time ye waur abed." The Hoka scooped him up in strong but gentle arms and bore him away, while crooning: Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing.

"Onward!" the sailors cry.

Carry the lad who is born to be king Over the sea to Skye. . . .

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

4.

Kidnapped

Charlie woke late and alone. Having donned undergarments, tunic, trousers, and stout shoes, he went downstairs in search of breakfast. Toreg sat brooding over the remnants of his. "Good morning," the human said in Talyinan. "I'm sorry I overslept."

"Oversleep all you want," mumbled his guide. "Oo-ooh, my head! Worst is, that fuzzy demon was up at dawn-cheerful.""Where is Bertram?" As Charlie seated himself, a wife of the landlord brought him a dish of scrambled native eggs (they had green yolks) and a cup of hot herb tea.

"I know not," Toreg answered. "He asked me where to find a tailor and a swordsmith and bounced off.

Never did I get back to sleep."

"That's too bad," Charlie said. "Uh, we will go for that ride you mentioned yesterday, won't we?" Toreg had promised a trip into the hills behind town, to see their forests and wildlife.

The guide nodded. Immediately he clutched his brow and groaned.

The fresh cup of tea seemed to make him feel a trifle better. When Charlie had eaten, they went outside.

Hitched to a rail stood three saddled horses. "I didn't know there were any of these here, except for the fire department," said Charlie.

"It rents them to tourists," Toreg explained.

"What? But suppose a fire broke out!"

"Which is more important, some smelly fishermen's cabins or the mayor's treasury?"

Charlie's view of the Middle Ages sank still further. To be sure, he thought, these simple wooden houses

probably weren't too hard to replace, while off-planet money could buy modern tools and materials of improvement. But did the mayor spend it on his community? Nothing in sight suggested that he did. "Gr-r-reeting, my Prince!" resounded behind him.

Charlie jumped at the unexpected, squeaky burr. Turning, he saw Bertram. The Hoka was not dressed in the outdoor clothes he had brought along, tweed jacket, plus-fours, deerstalker cap, and so forth. Instead, he must have commissioned the tailor and smith he found to do hurry-up jobs for him.

Upon his head was a flat tam-o'-shanter sort of cap with a long feather in it. From his shoes, heavy stockings of native wool rose to his knees. Upon his body he wore a great piece of coa.r.s.e red-green-andblack plaid cloth, pleated, folded, bunched, and belted to form a kilt whose end draped across torso and left shoulder. Below his stomach dangled a furry pouch. Various sizes of daggers were thrust under belt or stocking tops. Slung scabbarded over his back was a broadsword nearly as long as he was tall. This type was not unknown in Talyina, though curved sabers were generally preferred, but he had added to it a basket hilt.

"Bertram!" Charlie cried.

"Bertram?" said the Hoka. "Nay, Hieness, nae Sa.s.senach I, but your ain Hector MacGregor-a rough, untutored Hieland mon, 'tis true, but loyal to my Prince, aye, loyal to the last wee drappie o' bluid. Ah, Charlie, 'tis lang and lang we've awaited' your coming, lad."

Struck by a dreadful suspicion, Charlie tried to bring the Hoka back to his senses. "Bertram Cecil Featherstone Smyth-Cholmondoley," he said in as stern a tone as possible, "you were supposed to come along on this trip in case of trouble-"

"Aye!" With a bloodcurdling yell, the little being whipped out his sword and whirled it till the air whistled. "Let any dar-r-re lay hand on my Pr-r-rince, and the claymore o' Hector MacGregor wull cleave him for the corbies!"

Charlie leaped back. The blade had almost taken his nose off. Toreg was unimpressed and still in a sour mood. "Come along, if we're to finish our ride ere nightfall," he grumbled. "Or like you the thought of riding in the dark when ilnyas prowl?"

The Hoka sheathed his weapon and scrambled to the saddle, whose stirrups had been adjusted for him. "Aye, come, my Prince," he chirped. "And ne'er fear for your back whilst Hector MacGregor rides to guard it."

Numbly, Charlie mounted too. Toreg did likewise, doubtless glad in his present condition to be on a horse instead of a jolting yachi. Hooves clopped on cobblestones, and the group rode out of town, followed by the stares of pa.s.sersby.

It was another beautiful day, breezes full of the scents of green growth, brilliant sunlight, warbling birds. The road through the countryside soon became a mere trail, left farmsteads behind, and wound into ever steeper, wooded hills. From these Charlie had magnificent views across the island and the blue-glittering strait to its neighbor. On a headland there he spied the walls and towers of a castle. That must be Roshchak, the seat of Lord Dzenko.

As he rode, Charlie figured out what had happened to his companion. Inspired by warlike company and that curious folk poem which Mishka rendered, the typical Hoka imagination had flared up. It had seized on the coincidence of Charlie's name-well, not entirely coincidence. Captain Malcolm Stuart was of Scots descent and he named his son after the Bonnie Charlie of romantic memory, the prince whose Highland followers had tried to restore the Stuarts to the throne. The soldiers of Hanoverian King George defeated them, and Charles Stuart was forced into exile. His supporters-Jacobites, they were called-could do little more than compose sentimental songs about their Prince.

Yes, of course that part would appeal to a Hoka. Away with dull old Bertram! Up with the wild clansman Hector MacGregor!

No appeal to common sense would reverse Bertram's change. The Hoka knew perfectly well that this wasn't the eighteenth century or even the planet Earth.

Charles Edward Stuart decided not to waste breath denying his royalty. Let him play along with Bertram's-no, Hector's-fancy. It could do no harm, he supposed, and might even be fun. When they got back to the ship, his father could doubtless find some way to straighten matters out.

He had spent a couple of hours in these meditations while the horses plodded onward, Toreg nursed his hangover, and Hector recited endless border ballads. The gloomier they were, the happier the Hoka got. Charlie had almost settled down to enjoy his outing, when they met the warriors of Dzenko.

They were pa.s.sing through a ravine. Its brush-covered walls blocked off vision away from the trail. Rounding a bend, the travelers confronted half a dozen armed New Lemurians.

Charlie recognized the patrol from last night. Now they were yachi-mounted. The horses shied when a couple of the kangaroolike chargers bounded past them, to cut off retreat.

"Good day. May all your enemies welter in gore," Sergeant Mishka said in conventional politeness. "How pleasant to meet you here."

Toreg, who knew them, snapped, "Belike not by chance. Methinks you waited for us, having asked in Grushka about our plans."

"Well, yes, after I returned from Roshchak before dawn and shook my squad awake," Mishka admitted. he smiled at Charlie. "When my lord Dzenko heard of you, who are red-haired and a prince-"

"I'm not really."

"Aye, Bonnie Prince Charlie and none ither!" cried Hector. "And who are ye to question the Royal Per-r-

rson?"

"I question him not," Mishka replied. "I do but bear word that my lord would be honored did his Highness pay a call."

"Why, uh, I, I meant to," Charlie stammered. He did not like the way these armored males crowded near or the set expressions on their faces. "Later."

"Today," Mishka said. "We have a boat ready."

"Thanks," Charlie said. "but I'd rather-"

"I must insist."

Hector sprang from the saddle. Down on the ground, he put one foot on a boulder which protruded from the soil, drew his sword, and swung it in whining arcs. The nearby yachis edged away.

"Inseest, do ye? Nae mon shall force the Prince tae any place whaur he doesna weesh tae gae, ne'er whilst Hector MacGregor lives."