Dramocles: An Intergalactic Soap Opera (9 page)

“Ho, ho!”

“One more ‘ho’ and I’m going to put a period to your sentence,” Falf said, setting the selector on his ray spear to “broil” and pointing it toward where he thought the voice had come.

Then a man stepped out of the darkness behind Falf’s shoulder, causing the widowed poet-athlete to jump back, tripping over his ray spear and almost falling, only to be saved by the stranger’s hand at his elbow.

“My name is Vitello,” the stranger said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m an emissary.”

“A what?”

“An emissary.”

“I don’t think I know that word,” Falf said.

“It means that my king has sent me here to have a talk with your king.”

“Yes, now I remember,” Falf said. He thought for a while, then asked, “How do I know that you’re really an emissary?”

“I can show identification,” Vitello said.

“What I want to know is, if you’re an emissary from some other king, where’s your spaceship?”

“Just over there,” Vitello said, pointing to a clump of trees a hundred yards away. Falf illuminated the trees with a searchlight, and sure enough, there was a ship.

“You must have come down very quietly,” Falf said. “Now our ships, you can hear them landing from ten miles away. It has something to do with the lapstraking, I believe. Of course, the sound strikes terror into the hearts of our enemies, or so we are told, so who is to say which way is best?”

“Indeed,” said Vitello.

“Well,” Falf said, “I guess I’d better report this, though it isn’t going to make me look very good.” He unclipped the walkie-talkie from his sword belt and dialed a number. “Guard post? Sergeant Urnuth? This is Falf at Outpost 12. I have a foreign emissary here who wants to speak to the King. That’s right. … No, it means messenger. … Sure he’s got a spaceship, it’s parked about a hundred yards from here. … Yeah, very quiet, no lapstraking. … No, this is no joke, and I am not drunk.”

Falf put down the walkie-talkie. “They’re sending someone. What does your king want to tell our king?”

“You’ll find out when he tells you,” Vitello said.

“I just thought I’d ask. You might as well make yourself comfortable. They’ll take at least an hour to get here. I’ve got some lichen beer in my canteen. Do you know something? I’ve had three strange things happen to me this week, and this is the fourth.”

“Tell me about them,” Vitello said, sitting on the ground and wrapping his cloak around him against the chill of night. “Would you like some of my wine?”

“I sure would!” said Falf. He leaned his ray spear against a stunted tree and sat down beside Vitello, displaying that instantaneous trustfulness that belies the barbarian’s basically suspicious nature.

20

Back when the universe was young and still unsure of itself, there were a number of primitive races who inhabited the crowded worlds of the galactic center. One of these were the Vanir, barbarians addicted to shaggy dress and strange customs. Though far older than some branches of humankind, the Vanir never claimed to be the original, or Ur, race. The identity of the first true humans is still disputed, although the Lekkians have as good a claim as any.

As they pushed outward in their lapstraked spaceships, the Vanir came to Glorm. Here they encountered the Ystradgnu, or Little People, as they were called by the many races taller than themselves. Many great battles were fought between the two, but at last the Vanir prevailed. They enjoyed a period of dominance before the arrival of the last humans, fleeing a barren and poisoned Earth. Again there were great battles, resulting in the Vanir being driven off Glorm and out of the Local System and all the way back to the chilly outermost planet. The Ystradgnu had called this planet Wuullse, but the Vanir renamed it after themselves. Glorm and Vanir had fought many times since then, most notably during the expansionist phase of the short-lived Glormish Empire. Peace had prevailed for the last thirty years, sometimes precariously.

At the time of this telling, Haldemar was high king of the Vanir, and his heart raged with aggressive tendencies. Oftentimes Haldemar lay on his thagskin in a drunken stupor and dreamed of the spoils to be gotten by a quick raid into Crimsole or Glorm. It was especially women that Haldemar was interested in: sleek, perfumed women to replace the large-thewed Vanir girls, who, in bed, could always be counted upon to say, at their moment of highest ecstasy, “Oh, ya, dis good fun.” Whereas civilized women always wanted to discuss their relationship with you, and that was exciting for a barbarian who had been brought up on a minimum of relationships and plenty of fresh air.

Haldemar had been to civilization only once, when he was invited to make an appearance on the “Alien Celebrities“ show that the GBC had tried out for a season, then dropped. Haldemar remembered well the excitement and bustle around the studio, and how the people asking him questions had actually listened to the answers. It had been the greatest time in his life. He would do anything to get back into show business, and for several years had stayed near his telephone, waiting for a call from his agent.

The call never came, and Haldemar grew to despise the fickle superficiality of the warm-planet peoples. His deepest desire was to let loose his lapstraked spaceships upon the effete civilizations of the inner worlds. But the inner-planet peoples had too much going for them. They had deadly weapons and fast ships scavenged from the ruins of Earth, and they banded together whenever the Vanir attacked any one of them. So Haldemar stayed his hand and waited for an opportunity, and meanwhile led his people in their migrations across Vanir in search of good grazing land for the luu, the small, fierce, carnivorous cattle that supplied food and drink, and whose year’s molt provided clothing as well.

And now, at last, an emissary had come to him from civilization.

Haldemar arranged a meeting at once, as protocol demanded. Although he had a primitive man’s distrust of manners, yet he also possessed a barbarian’s exquisite sense of ritual. He went to the meeting with hope and trepidation, and for the occasion he put on a new luumolt shirt.

21

The audience was held in Haldemar’s banquet hall. Haldemar had the place swept out and fresh rushes laid on the floor. At the last moment, remembering the refinements of civilization, he borrowed two chairs from Sigrid Eigretnose, his scrivener.

The emissary wore a cloak of puce and mauve, colors unknown in this rough barbarian world. He was a man of above the middling height, with a breadth of shoulder and broadness of thew that led Haldemar to think that the fellow might not be unavailing at swordplay. The emissary wore other things, too, but Haldemar, with a barbarian’s indifference to detail, did not notice them.

“Welcome!” said Haldemar. “How are matters?”

“Pretty good,” Vitello said. “How are things here?”

Haldemar shrugged. “The same as always. Raising luu and raiding each other’s settlements are our principal occupations. Raiding is particularly useful, and is one of our chief contributions to social theory. It serves to keep the men occupied, the population down, and goods like swords and goblets in constant circulation.”

“Sounds like fun,” Vitello said.

“It’s a living,” Haldemar admitted.

“Not like the old days, eh? Raiding each other can’t be as much fun as raiding other people.”

“Well, it’s insightful of you to realize that,” Haldemar said. “But what can we do? Our weapons are too primitive and our numbers too small to permit us to raid the civilized planets without getting our asses kicked, it you’ll excuse the expression.”

Vitello nodded. “That’s the way it has been, up till now.”

“That’s how it still is,” Haldemar said, “unless you bring news to the contrary.”

Vitello said, “Haven’t you heard of the great changes that are going on? Dramocles of Glorm has taken Aardvark and landed troops on Lekk. Count John of Crimsole opposes him, as does my master, Prince Chuch, son of Dramocles. There’s trouble brewing, and where there’s trouble, there’s a profit to be made and some fun to be had.”

“Reports of this have reached us,” Haldemar said, “but we considered it no more than a family affair. If the Vanir were to enter the conflict, the various antagonists would combine against us, as they have done in the past.”

“It has gone beyond family squabbles,” Vitello said. “My Lord Chuch has sworn to be seated on the throne of Glorm. Count John and Snint of Lekk have pledged their support. There’ll be no patching up this quarrel. It’s going to be war.”

“Well, good enough. But what has that to do with us?”

Vitello smiled deviously. “Prince Chuch felt that no interplanetary war could be complete without the participation of the Vanir. He invites you to join his side.”

“Aha!” Haldemar pretended to think for a moment, and tugged at his greasy mustaches. “What inducement does Prince Chuch offer?”

“A full partner’s share in the anticipated spoils of Glorm.”

“Promises are easy,” said Haldemar. “How do I know I can trust your master?”

“Sire, he also sends you a treaty of amicability and accord, which he has already signed. This provides a legal basis for you to raid and ravage Glorm. In the ancient language of Earth it is known as a license to steal.”

Vitello presented the treaty, a rolled parchment tied with red ribbon and bristling with seals. Haldemar touched it gently, for, barbarian to the core, he considered all pieces of paper sacred. Yet still he hesitated.

“What other sign of his love does Prince Chuch send me?”

“My spaceship is loaded with gifts for you and your nobles,” Vitello said. “There are Erector and Leggo sets, puzzles and riddles, comic books, a selection of the latest rock recordings, Avon cosmetics for the ladies, and much else besides.”

“That is good of the Prince,” Haldemar said. “Guard! See that no one gets into that stuff until I’ve had first pick. If a king can’t pick first, what’s the sense of being a king? Perhaps I should just go out and make sure–”

“Sire, the treaty,” Vitello said.

“We’ll discuss it later,” Haldemar said. “First I want a look at what you’ve got, and then we will have our feast of friendship.”

22

Haldemar provided as fine a banquet as the limited resources of Vanir would allow. Long wooden tables were set up, with benches on either side for the local nobility. At a smaller table set on a low platform sat Haldemar and Vitello. The first course was barley gruel flavored with bits of bacon. Next came an entire roasted hrol, a creature that looked like a pig and tasted like a shrimp. It was stuffed with a mixture of salt herring and leeks and served with a brown sauce. After that came platters of boiled salted turnips and a filet of vinegary blue-fleshed fish.

There was entertainment, too. First a harpist, then two bagpipers, then an exhibition of ax dancing, then a clown whose jokes were bawdy, to judge by the unrestrained guffaws of the guests, but delivered in an accent so broad that Vitello found it incomprehensible. Dessert was a compote of local fruits laced with pinecone brandy and wild mountain honey. Horns of lichen beer were passed around by large-busted serving wenches, and, at the end, the King’s bard–a tall, white-bearded old man with a patch over one eye–recited a traditional saga and accompanied himself on a hammer dulcimer. Vitello couldn’t understand a word of it.

At last, the feast done, Haldemar’s guests gave themselves up to drunkenness and merriment, and Haldemar withdrew with Vitello to a room at the rear of the wooden palace. Here the two men reclined at their ease upon mattresses of obvious Glormish manufacture. And Haldemar said, “Well, Vitello, I have been considering, and this proposed alliance with your prince pleases me greatly.”

“I am glad,” Vitello said, taking out the treaty and unrolling it. “If Your Majesty would just sign here and here, and initial here and here–”

“Not so fast,” said Haldemar. “Before signing an important document such as this, it is customary for the guest to perform for us.”

“My singing is not the most melodious,” Vitello said, “but if it please you–”

“I didn’t mean singing,” Haldemar said. “I meant fighting.”

“Oh?” said Vitello.

“Here on Vanir, it is traditional to allow an honored guest to show his prowess. You’re a well set-up young fellow. I think you’d do well in single combat against the Doon of Thorth.”

“Can’t we just sign the treaty and forget about the window dressing?”

“Impossible,” Haldemar said. “For really important occasions, we Vanir need either a love story or a fighting story. Otherwise the bards can’t make proper poetry out of it. It may seem silly to you, but the people expect it. We
are
barbarians, you know.”

“I understand the problem,” Vitello said. “But don’t you have a daughter around whose love I could win?”

“I wish I could oblige you,” Haldemar said. “Unfortunately my only child, Hulga, was carried off some time ago by Fufnir, the Demon Dwarf.”

“Sorry to hear that. Tell me about the Doon.”

“He is a five-armed creature of surpassing strength and agility, and a master at swordplay. But don’t let that put you off. He’s never been matched against a man like yourself.”

“Nor will he be now, because I’m not going to fight him.”