L. Camp - The Exotic Enchanter

A sudden look of terror crossed the man’s features, but he was smoothing them out even as his fellows marched him off.

“You don’t know that he was one of the thieves,” Shea objected.

“No,” the Rajah agreed. “If I did, he would be dead. There is small doubt of his guilt — how could his fellow thieves have come and gone without his connivance? — but since I have no proof, he may live until I do.”

The gate opened, and a guard’s voice outside said, “the way is clear.” A villainous-looking man in soldiers livery came through, not exactly sneaking, but certainly not making any unnecessary noise — not even when the Rajah himself clapped a hand over the man’s mouth, holding him from behind, and commanding a soldier, “Slay him.”

The sneak’s eyes widened in horror for a few seconds before his fellow soldier plunged a dagger into his breast. The man’s eyes rolled up and he went limp. The king let him fall, then nodded to the man who had slain him. “Well done. Lug him away to the burning-ghats. You, assist him?”

Another soldier helped the first pick up the dead one.

“Send more men,” the Rajah told him.

The soldier nodded and went, carrying the body.

“Stand ready as sentry,” the rajah told another man, “and when next a man comes through that gate, if I nod to you, like this . . .” — he gave a short, curt nod — “. . . catch and gag him, as I did even now.”

The man nodded, poker-faced, and took his station.

“Uh. Your Majesty,” said Shea delicately, “isn’t this a little drastic?”

“The dead,” said the Rajah, “do not, like grandmothers, tell tales.”

Shea stared, aghast, “You killed them to keep them from sending word to their gang? Wouldn’t gags have worked just as well?”

“Gags, a dungeon, and many guards?” Randhir nodded. “But it would have come to the same fate in the end. They were guilty of robbery one and all, and many guilty also of murder — but without exception, since they were members of the Rajah’s household and bore information to his enemies, their fellow thieves, they were guilty of treachery.”

“You, uh, couldn’t maybe have given them a little time to think things over and see the error of their ways.”

“To what end? I have set forth laws; they have broken those laws, and would still have to receive the punishment. The penalty for murder is death,” the Rajah informed him, “and so is the penalty for treachery. Be sure he deserved his fate, for I recognized him from the robbers’ ken,”

“His Majesty is the Incarnation of Justice,” Chalmers said, with, a very meaningful look at Shea and a tone that clearly said, Shut up!

The Rajah nodded, with a thin smile. “What greater justice could he wish, when the Rajah himself is witness, and his judge is the highest in the land?”

It took Shea a second to realize the Rajah was talking about himself. With it came the realization that from Randhir’s point of view, everything he had said was perfectly true. In a kingdom in which the Rajah was not only the executive and legislative power, but also the ultimate court of appeals, Randhir was the highest judge in the land, and surely the most reliable witness! He was sentencing men he had seen the night before with his own eyes, and was witness, prosecutor, judge, and jury all in his own right. All that was missing was the executioner.

Apparently he was willing to be that, too. As the next thief tiptoed in through the door wearing his civilian garb (a gardener), Randhir gave the guard the nod, and the man caught the thief in a wrestling lock, with his free hand over the thief’s mouth, He barely had time to realize what was happening to him, and his eyes were just widening in the horror of that realization, before Randhir’s dagger plunged into his heart.

Shea had to look away, feeling ill. Randhir noticed, his frown turned to concern. “You do not look well, friend Shea.”

“It is your burning Hindi sun,” Chalmers explained, ever glib. “We folk of the north are not used to its rays being so direct — so bright, and so hot.”

“So that is why you were abroad at night! Well then, go into the palace, and tell a porter that I said to find you a chamber. Sleep well, for I shall need your vigilance tonight.”

Shea took that as ominous, but since the Rajah turned away, obviously dismissing them from his thoughts, they turned away too. When the porter showed them the bed. Shea fell into it without undressing, without even taking off his swordbelt. It had been a long day followed by a sleepless night, and very, very stressful.

Under the circumstances, he wasn’t surprised to see a torch flaming in a sconce on the wall when Chalmers shook him awake. “The Rajah summons us, Harold. There is time to wash and eat, though, before we join him.”

Shea remembered the executions he had watched. “Don’t know if I have much appetite, Doc.”

“Nor have I, to judge by the odors wafting from the kitchens — I never have been partial to curry. But we shall have to find something palatable, for I do not doubt that we shall need all our energies tonight.”

“Don’t know if I’m up to watching any more coldblooded killings,” Shea said. “Do you suppose we could plead headaches?”

“Randhir’s cure would probably be to cut off our heads, Harold. He is still somewhat suspicious of us, and would take any hesitation as evidence of guilt.”

“I suppose so,” Shea sighed, and pushed himself to his feet. “Doc, what about Florimel? So far, whenever a god or a magician has sent us out of his universe, we’ve wound up in the next one Malambroso has sent her to. It seems we’ve been following her magical trail, sort of.”

“An interesting notion.” Chalmers frowned. “Perhaps Malambroso’s spell moving her on has weakened the barrier between universes, and the next spell ejecting us has hurtled us onward along the path of least resistance.”

“But if that’s so,” said Shea “where is she in this universe, Doc?”

Chalmers spread his hands in a shrug of helplessness. “She could be anywhere, Harold! It may have been only luck that led us to her before this.”

“Or it may have been magic of her own! She has learned something about the art, Doc! Can’t you sic a direction-finding spell on her?”

Chalmers’ gaze became distant. “An interesting notion . . .”

“But not immediately,” Shea said quietly. He hadn’t meant to distract Chalmers into an academic trance. “First we have to survive the night and prove we’re not thieves.”

That brought Chalmers back to the needs of the moment with a vengeance. “An excellent point, Harold. Come, let us find some chapattis.”

“But we’re already dressed!”

“No, chapattis are food,” Chalmers sighed, “a sort of Hindu tortilla. They, at least, should not be too highly seasoned. Let us dine.”

Fed and armed, they were ready when the guard appeared at their door and summoned them. They followed him through only two short corridors and down one flight of stairs — they were near the kitchens, only one step above servant quarters, though their room had been furnished with cushions and silken hangings. They came out into the courtyard into a darkness relieved only by starlight, to find a hundred archers and fifty spearmen milling about, conversing in very low voices. Suddenly they stilled and turned toward a doorway in the palace wall itself, for through it came Rajah Randhir, clad in steel helmet and breastplate, sword on his hip and small shield on his arm, A murmur of amazement ran through the troops, for Randhir had tied the horsehair round his nose again, and his waxed moustaches stood up to the corners of his eyes like the horns of a Brahma bull.