King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) (12 page)

“Suddenly Camelot looks good to them. Nobody’s poor in your stories. Nobody has to tend the animals or work the fields. And
now—here’s this Sword in the Stone. I don’t know how it got there. It could have been there for centuries, perhaps since there
was
a local ruler called Arthur. I don’t believe for one moment there’s any magic attached to it.

“One thing I do believe: The Sword is going to stay stuck in the Stone. I’ve tried to pull it out and so has Mador, but we can’t shift it. And neither can Arthur.”

“Arthur hasn’t tried yet,” she lied.

“I mean Arthur the bear. And if he can’t shift it, nobody can. So the bubble will burst. People will take it as a sign that nobody is meant to be King of all England, and that a divided country is in the natural order of things. The Arthur legend will be discredited, and we can go back to living like normal people again.” He grinned at her. “You’re a fine storyteller, Nyneve, but you can’t change the natural course of events.”

“We’ll see about that, Baron Menheniot.”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “How are your gnomes settling in?” he asked. “Isn’t it the strangest thing, the way they suddenly appeared?”

“Happentracks,” said Nyneve vaguely. Arthur was walking with Margawse, talking politely.

“I want to make sure everybody accepts them for what they are.”

“And what’s that?” Nyneve’s tone was cold. The Baron’s reputation was far from blameless in the matter of human or any other rights.

“People. Members of the forest community.”

“That’s the way they see themselves.”

“And I want them to accept us for what
we
are. Bring them to the tournament, Nyneve.”

“What? They won’t like it. The gnomes are kind and good. They’ll hate a tournament!”

The Baron gave a bark of laughter. “If we are to accept them, they must accept us. Our strengths and weaknesses, our goodness and badness. We’re human and we’re all different, and they must learn to live with us. Go on now!” He slapped
her on the buttocks, the way one might dismiss a horse. “Bring them to the village!”

By early afternoon the tournament was in noisy progress. Heavily armored knights on horseback clashed, and the earth heaved as they fell. Archers loosed singing arrows at straw butts and yelled their triumph or disappointment. Swordsmen swung their clumsy weapons mightily, smashing opponents to the ground by the sheer weight of their blows, rather than any nimble skill. A notable exception was Arthur—Nyneve’s Arthur—who scorned the heavy armor and fought in leather jerkin, pants, and boots. Much quicker than his adversaries, he began to attract attention.

“Looks like a bit of a pansy, that Arthur of yours,” grunted the Baron. Nyneve sat beside him on a raised platform shaded by bright fabric stretched between poles. On either side of them sat favored guests. The rear of the platform was hung with a thick tapestry that extended partway around the sides. This tended to obscure the view, and Nyneve asked the Baron about it. “I don’t believe in leaving my rear unprotected,” the Baron replied. “By the time anyone cuts their way through that cloth, I’ve got my sword out.”

The gnomes sat on a table in front of the Baron. They watched the proceedings with little enjoyment and winced at any show of blood.

“Which of you little fellows is Fang?” asked the Baron.

Eight tiny caps bobbed, eight little faces turned to him. “Fang?” repeated Lady Duck. “What do you want with Fang?”

“Well, he’s your leader, isn’t he? I thought he’d be here. Nyneve’s told me a lot about him.”

“Fang is nominally our leader, yes,” said Lady Duck stiffly. “On an interim basis. He is of imperfect character, though. Our traditional leader is King Bison. Show yourself, Bison.”

Bison shot the Baron a terrified glance from behind the protective bulk of his wife.

“Bison is
empowered to speak on behalf of us all,” said Lady Duck.

“Speak then, King Bison,” said the Baron good-naturedly.

“W-what shall I say?” The reluctant spokesman’s voice quavered.

“Oh, anything. Tell me where Fang is.”

“Fang? Fang? I don’t know where Fang is. Why should I know where Fang is?” Whimpering with fright, Bison looked to the others for support.

“Fang is training the moles,” said the Miggot firmly.

“The moles! The moles!” chorused the gnomes guiltily. “Training the moles!”

Rapidly losing interest in this aspect of gnomish culture, the Baron said, “What’s imperfect about his character?”

They looked at each other, then the Miggot said, “Nothing.”

Simultaneously the Gooligog said, “He’s a rash young fool, that’s what!”

Meanwhile Pong was explaining, “I’m not a gnome who goes in for touching people, but Fang—”

Spector said, “Leadership material manifests itself in many forms. For instance—”

Their views were cut short by Lady Duck’s shout: “Fang is a sexual pervert!”

The embarrassing frankness of this statement stunned the other gnomes into silence and they quickly transferred their gaze to the tourney. Two mounted knights collided with frightening force, crashed to the ground, and lay motionless. The gnomes glanced rapidly here and there, seeking something nicer to look at. Nyneve found eight pairs of desperate eyes fixed on her.

“A gnomish sexual pervert?” repeated the Baron. “I thought you little people weren’t interested in sex.”

“Exactly!” cried Lady Duck. “I can’t remember when Bison and I last performed our duty to the race. When was it, Bison?”

“I prefer not to think about it,” muttered Bison.

“What about
you?” The Baron suddenly realized that one of the gnomes had been silent up to this point. He was different from the others; his cap was a peculiarly unpleasant shade of brown. “What are your views on Fang?”

“I hardly know the gnome.” His eyes were downcast, his manner shy.

“Scowl’s a stranger,” explained Lady Duck. She lowered her voice. “He’s one of the Accursed Gnomes, you know.”

“Accursed Gnomes?” Gnomish society was more complex than the Baron had realized. First the perverted Fang, and now this.

“The Accursed Gnomes sin against the sacred Examples, to their eternal shame.”

“Examples?”

“The Kikihuahua Examples, which is the gnomish code of behavior bequeathed to us by our ancestors, the kikihuahuas.” And as Lady Duck began to repeat the famous words the others joined in.

When the chant came to an end, Scowl alone continued. “Forgive us for our transgressions. We think we are right but we have no way of knowing. If we are wrong, we beg your forgiveness. Descendants, know that we tried in good faith.”

“You hear that?” said Lady Duck. “We don’t have to say that last part, because we don’t transgress anything. But the Accursed Gnomes do, and their souls will rot in hell.”

“Always provided that hell exists, of course,” qualified Scowl. “It’s a gamble we take. In all the travels of the kikihuahuas, hell has never been encountered. Or so our Memorizer tells us.”

“He could be lying,” said Spector. “Simply to put your minds at rest.”

“Our Memorizer never puts our minds at rest. His personality is somewhat similar to your Gooligog, here.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” asked the Gooligog furiously.

“The Gooligog is no longer our Memorizer,” said Spector, quick to
sense the brewing of unpleasantness. “He has been deposed by his son, Fang. Replaced, I mean.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a miserable bugger, all the same,” Lady Duck pointed out. “And mark my words, Fang will go the same way!” She stared around at the gnomes triumphantly. “It’s in his genes!”

The Baron tried to get the discussion back on track. “If it’s such a risk,” he asked Scowl, “why do you work malleable substances?”

“Somebody has to take the chance,” said Scowl smugly.

“There’s no sense in us all breaking the Examples,” said Lady Duck. “So if a gnomish group needs, for instance …” She hesitated.

“To smooth out a rock wall,” said the Miggot quickly.

“Or to repair a plowshare,” said Spector.

“Or fashion a keel,” piped up Pong.

“… why, they call on the Accursed Gnomes,” said Lady Duck, relieved. “And the evil is contained within a small group, instead of spreading throughout gnomedom like, uh, ivy.” The others glanced at one another unhappily. The discussion was drifting into dangerous waters again.

“And will you always be Accursed, Scowl?” asked the Baron, amused.

“Until the end of Time,” said Scowl happily. “Ours is a reprehensible way of life, but necessary. Without us, the gnomish species would have become extinct long ago.”

“Their numbers are kept to a minimum,” ventured Bison, “and we rarely visit their foundries. We deal with their traveling tinkers, like Scowl.”

“We guard our secrets well,” said Scowl. “And our foundries make the most abominable stink.”

The discussion was interrupted by a roar of applause. Out on the field, Arthur held his sword high.

“Arthur’s won the foot-combat event,” Nyneve observed.

“Has he, now?” The Baron scanned the clearing thoughtfully. “What a clever fellow he is.” The archery event had paused while the contestants gathered around Arthur to add their
congratulations. “He’s becoming quite the hero of the common people.”

“Yes, isn’t he.”

The gnomes exchanged glances and relaxed, glad that they were no longer the focus of the Baron’s attention. Arthur eased his way out of the crowd and ran lightly to the platform. He swept off his cap and bowed low. “My liege,” he murmured.

“Sarcastic young jackass,” muttered the Baron. Then, more loudly he said, “Come, join us. Find Arthur a seat at my side, Merlin.”

This infuriated the old wizard because the places of honor on either side of the Baron were occupied by Nyneve and himself. If someone had to step down, he knew it wouldn’t be Nyneve. “I would be delighted to offer you my place, Arthur,” he snarled, but brightened almost immediately as he realized that this would place Arthur next to Queen Margawse, his legendary lover. He caught the anxious expression on Nyneve’s face as the same notion occurred to her. Let the little minx stew for a while, he thought, and found himself a seat beside Morgan le Fay. “Hello, my dear,” he said.

Morgan, lips parted, was watching a jouster who lay motionless on the short grass, blood seeping from the joints in his armor. She glanced at Merlin absently. “Oh, it’s you. Do you have anything to drink in that bag of yours?”

“Potions, Morgan. The trappings of my calling.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” She resumed her scrutiny of the unconscious man.

Meanwhile the Baron was congratulating Arthur. “A most impressive performance. I should like to invite you to the castle, Arthur. You have the makings of a knight. Do you joust too?”

“No, he doesn’t,” said Nyneve quickly. On the tourney field, the ironclad figure of Sir Mador hurtled toward the hapless Bors de Ganis. Sir Mador’s lance struck the other squarely in the chest, lifting him from the saddle and sending him
crashing to the ground. “It’s not fair,” she said. “Sir Mador’s lance is much longer than anyone else’s.”

“He has the strength to hold it, my dear. Many don’t.” The Baron turned back to Arthur. “How would you rate your chances against Sir Mador, Arthur?”

Arthur regarded the Baron steadily. “Better than most.”

“So why don’t you enter the joust?”

“I have no horse or lance. I had intended to compete with the archers.”

“Come, now. Archery is for peasants. You strike me as a man born to greater things.”

Arthur smiled. “So Nyneve tells me. All right, then. Give me the loan of a horse and a lance, and I’ll compete.”

“And armor,” said Nyneve.

“I need no armor.”

“Then you’re a damned fool,” said the Baron. “But a brave one. There’s an injured man over there; it looks like Sir Bors de Ganis, another bloody Frenchman. You can use his equipment. He’s in no condition to object.”

“Shouldn’t someone be attending to him?” asked Nyneve.

“The French believe God takes care of them. They need no mortal help.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” snapped Nyneve.

The Baron glanced at her, grinning. “I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies. In the east, it’s the Saxons who throw their weight about. At least the French have some dim idea of chivalry.” He ordered his bugler to halt the proceedings. As the rasping note died away he shouted, “Is there a healer in the forest?”

Merlin, aggrieved, said, “I’m a healer. Everyone knows that.”

“Then heal the Frenchman and be done with it, and let’s get on with the tourney.”

“Well, I can’t do it just like
that,
you know. There must be a laying-on of hands. I must murmur the enchanted words.”

“Then murmur them!”

“And the
leeches.” Merlin took a gourd from his bag and shook the contents onto the gnomes’ table. The gnomes retreated as sluglike creatures milled around uncertainly, looking for something to suck. “I must apply the leeches.”

“What on earth for?” The Baron regarded the creatures with distaste.

“To cleanse the evil humors from the body.”

“Bors is a most pleasant fellow, for a Frenchman.”

“That’s a different kind of humor. You are not acquainted with the language of healing, Baron.” As Arthur, accompanied by Nyneve, left to prepare for the tourney, Merlin and the Baron strolled over to the unconscious figure. Attendants had by now stripped Bors naked. Merlin placed the leeches at strategic points around the battered body. They began to suck, pulsing visibly. “You see?” said Merlin triumphantly.

“Erect a tent around him,” said the Baron, noticing the rapt gaze of Morgan le Fay, still fixed on the patient. “Even a Frenchman is entitled to his dignity.”

Meanwhile the gnomes were discussing Merlin’s methods. “I suppose those
were
leeches, weren’t they?” asked King Bison.

“Of course they were,” said the Miggot sharply.

Bart, sensing a rift in the solidarity of Mara Zion gnomedom, asked, “What else could they be?”

“Well …” said King Bison. “Of course, happentracks have joined and we’ve crossed over into this new world. … And so
other things
could have crossed over. …”