Gene Wolfe - An Evil Guest

She pressed the button to hang up, turned off the phone, and snapped it closed.

The hotel phone rang before she had time to return her cell phone to her beach bag.

“King Kanoa has come for you, O Queen, with many, many warriors.” It was Nele.

Not knowing what else to say, Cassie said, “That’s good.”

“It is, O Queen. He comes to bring you to the high king on Takanga Ha’i.”

“Fine. What about my breakfast?”

For a time so long that Cassie finally hung up, she could hear only voices conferring in a language of many vowels, M’ s, and L’ s.

When her breakfast arrived, she smiled at the waiter, wondering whether he really carried a gun. “Has King Kanoa eaten?”

“He eats. His men eat also. Bon appétit, O Queen.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful. I’m going to miss you, Hiapo.”

“I go with you, O Queen, for a time at least. This hotel dispenses my service? I shall seek new employment with our high king.”

“I — see. Don’t let the tourists see your gun, Hiapo.”

“I shall not, O Queen.”

“You might tell King Kanoa the same thing.”

“I shall, O Queen. He knows, and his men also. It can do no harm if I repeat your words, even so.”

King Kanoa was waiting for her in the lobby. He was, as she had somehow expected, the biggest man she had ever seen. His violet loincloth was long, wide, and elaborately embroidered; his crown of crimson and gold blossoms simple but strangely becoming. Seeing her, he bowed until its perfumed petals brushed the carpet. “Greetings, O Most Glorious Majesty!”

His voice, Cassie reflected, would have filled any theater on Earth and shaken the light fixtures. It was as if an orchestra composed solely of bass drums had spoken. Aloud she said, “Greetings, King Kanoa. Thank you for your welcome.”

“The office does me honor, High Queen Cassiopeia. I am come with the cream of my people, eager to serve you.” This pretty speech carried more than a trace of British accent.

As soon as he had finished speaking, there was a loud murmur of assent from the gigantic warriors and huge women who had followed him. Enormous though they were, he made them look small.

A party of tourists, Cassie noticed, had come into the lobby; they stood gaping at the spears. She smiled in a way she hoped might reassure them. “Don’t worry, it’s just a guard of honor.”

“My lads will clear the road for us.” King Kanoa’s voice had fallen to mere thunder. “Walk behind them, if it please Your Majesty. I shall walk one step behind you, to your left. Near enough to converse, should you wish it.”

“I certainly do.”

“Gratifying, Your Majesty. Most gratifying.” King Kanoa spoke to his followers. Four trotted away, spearmen so big they could not use the revolving door.

Smiling, Cassie followed.

From behind her, King Kanoa rumbled, “We ought to’ve contrived a sedan chair. We still can, if you wish it.”

“Are we going far?” Some Takangese were watching, and looked ready to cheer. She waved, and they did.

“No indeed, Your Majesty. Only down to the marina. Okalani! Parasol!”

Abruptly, Cassie walked in shade.

Three big catamarans waited for them, double-hulled vessels with two masts mounted on each hull. A platform between the hulls of the lead catamaran carried a high and very painted chair for her and a lower, davenportwide one for King Kanoa. “I’m not used to boats,” she confided to him. “What if I’m seasick?”

“No fear.” He sounded more confident than she felt. “Sea’s like glass, you know, and we cast a spell on your chair. It should keep you feelin’ tiptop.”

As forty paddles dipped into the water as one, their catamaran put out more smoothly than any motorized craft.

When the ocher sails had unfurled and Cassie had grown accustomed to the boat’s rhythmic pitching, she asked, “Do you know somebody named Hanga?”

“Several.”

“He has pointed teeth. Like a shark.”

“Does he?”

“Yes. He’s the only Takangese I’ve seen with pointed teeth like that. Are there others? What does it mean?”

“Can’t say, I’m sure. Not my peck, eh?”

Cassie changed tack. “Why do you sound so English?”

“Public school, you know. Eaton after and all that rot. Cambridge, only I didn’t cop the gown. Pater passed, so I did a runner. Perfect excuse.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“I wasn’t.” King Kanoa fell silent staring out to sea. “Ought to have been, eh? But no.”

“What can you tell me about the Storm King?”

King Kanoa sighed, a sound that might have been more appropriate (so Cassie felt) to a Clydesdale or a bull. “Not a thing, really, Your Majesty. A few legends and a smatter of folktales. Not cricket to quiz royalty, is it? I’m royal myself, and I know. But we might progress if you told me what Hanga told you.”

“Some of it’s pretty fantastic.”

“I dare say. This Hanga had pointed teeth, you say?”

Cassie nodded.

“Good swimmer, too, I’ll wager.”

Cassie considered. “Well, I can’t be sure. I had a dream, and he was a super-duper swimmer in my dream. Then I talked to him when I was awake.”

“Interestin’. Put me over the moon to hear more, Your Majesty.”

“Only I don’t think he was really there, because there were no marks in the sand where he’d been sitting. He sort of disappeared, though. If he was there — I don’t think he can have been, really — the only way was for him to slip into the water fast while I was talking to Hiapo. Slip in and swim away underwater.”

“Hiapo didn’t see him at all, I’ll be bound.”

“I don’t know. I guess I should have asked.”

“I’ll answer for him, Your Majesty. He didn’t twig. I, um, fenced with you a moment ago. Shouldn’t have done, and I apologize. You know who your Hanga was, I’ll be bound. Askin’ to get confirmation. Do the same myself betimes. I give it now. Let’s not talk about him at present. Not kosher, eh? Heard a Yank say that in a film. Not cricket. The, um, other gent either. Don’t speak his name, for my sake?”

“I couldn’t,” Cassie admitted.

“For the best. The high king has friends, eh?” King Kanoa struck his chest, a resounding thud. “Good man, our high king. Kindly chap. Very decent, but — ah — tough. A good friend but a dangerous enemy. Has some and they know it.”

“Do you mean that — ”

King Kanoa interrupted her. “Yes. Allow me to tell a whopper. Native legend, eh? We’ve ever so many, we silly blighters. With your leave.”

“I’d love to hear it.”

“You shall. My gaffer was a great wizard. Friend of ghosts and spirits. All that. That friendly chap you met sent his soul off on some errand or other, and the gaffer caught it. Locked it in a bone ’bout so long — I’ve seen it. Ran a bit of string through the eye to hold it. Your friend walked small after that, knowin’ the gaffer had his soul. If he bothered this one or that one, the gaffer’d lend the charm. Problem solved, so it would seem.”

“Only I imagine something went wrong.”

“Bang on. Oh, bang on! Silly blighter borrowed the charm and untied the cord. Your friend’s friend forever, eh? Fine for him, but the gaffer was eaten by a shark. Biggest anybody’d ever seen, they say. Bigger than this boat.”

“I — see...”

“Your friend was the friend of our village afterward. Twig?”

“To be honest I don’t believe I do.” Cassie was no longer looking at the sea or the high sea-girt island they were approaching, but into the water. It was smooth save for a slight roiling by their steering paddles, and seemed as clear as glass. Yet blue. Blue far below, and dimmer and darker there.