Harry Turtledove - Every Inch a King

We gave the old Shqipetar our uniforms-all but the boots-as part of the price. They were bound to be worth more than the outfits we were buying, but we couldn’t be fussy just then. With the uniform went the last vestiges of my royalty. I was a commoner again: an uncommon commoner, but a commoner even so.

“Which way to the east gate,” Max asked, in lieu of something like, How do we never see this corner again?

The old man gave us directions. I made him repeat them. We tried them. They really and truly worked. The Two Prophets must have been in the mood to dole out miracles. Thank you, Eliphalet. And thank you, too, Zibeon, but not quite so much.

We had only one bad moment on the way to the gate. We walked right past Bob. He was speaking-in Albionese, of course-to someone who didn’t seem to know much of his language. “Yes, the king and his minister appear to have fled,” he said. “No one has any idea where they are.”

He was looking right at us. The only way to make Max look like anyone but Max would be to chop him off at the ankles. A cowflop of a hat will not do the trick. Bob perceived…nothing. He was looking for two men in Hassocki uniforms. Failing to see them, he had no interest in anything or anyone else. Neither my good looks nor Max’s height made him give us a second glance.

No one else did, either. The gate guards were counting sheep (for the wool tax, not for the sake of sleep) as we strolled out. One of them nodded to us. The rest went on arguing about the count with Bopip-I think that was the shepherd’s name, anyway. I showed the seat of my pants to the seat of my government and headed east.

After we’d put a mile or so between ourselves and Peshkepiia, Max said, “Well, you haven’t got us killed yet. I don’t know how you haven’t or why you haven’t, but I’m still breathing.”

“Keep it up,” I said. “I noticed you were rather vigorous about it the past four nights.”

“I’ve passed evenings I liked less,” he said, and I knew that was as much as I’d get out of him.

“Back to Fushe-Kuqe, then,” I said. “Passage on the first ship that’s going anywhere. And a story to dine out on as long as we live-and the money to dine pretty well.”

“Assuming we live long enough to be able to dine at all.” No, that wasn’t Max being gloomy. He was looking back along the road we’d just traveled. Only a troop of horsemen riding hard could have kicked up that cloud of dust.

We were standing in the shade of a mulberry tree. “Sit down,” I hissed to Max. “That way, they won’t need to be as blind as Bob not to notice how tall you are.”

“No, but we’re still dead if they talked to the old bugger who sold us this clobber,” Max said. I never needed to worry when he was around-he was so much better at it than I’d ever be. He sat down even so, and I stretched out beside him.

Up rode the cavalrymen, with much jingling of harness and what have you. They were going at a fast trot, and they paid us no particular attention. “What do we do if we catch this fellow who was calling himself king?” one of them asked.

“Take him back to Peshkepiia.” The man who answered looked and sounded like a sergeant. No one was going to get any nonsense past him, not if he could help it. “Then we give him to Essad Pasha.”

“Oh, they’ve got him moving again?” the curious cavalryman said.

“Would he want that other bugger if they hadn’t?” Why do sergeants answer questions with questions? Oh, there I am doing it myself. Well, I’ve been a sergeant, too. I’ll tell you, kinging it is better.

“What if-?” I couldn’t make out the rest of what the first horseman said; the jingling and the clop of hoofbeats drowned out his words. Then the cavalry troop was gone, riding east.

Max looked after them. “Nice to know they remember you.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” I sounded as bland as I could.

That wasn’t very; Max wouldn’t let it be very. “Do you suppose they hired Zogu to thaw Essad Pasha out?”

There was an imperfectly delightful thought. I managed a smile in spite of being imperfectly delighted. “Well, what if they did?” I said. “The only thing better than getting paid is getting paid twice.”

“The only thing better than getting paid is getting laid,” Max returned.

“Well, we did that, too, by Eliphalet’s holy foreskin,” I said.

“It wouldn’t have done him much good if it wasn’t holey.” Max is a blasphemous cactus.

I climbed to my feet. I picked up my sack full of silver-and the odd bit of gold, and the occasional jewel. I had only memories to remind me I’d got laid. The sack told me loud and clear that I’d got paid. Max grunted as he hefted his. It might have been heavier than mine. For all I knew, he’d got paid better as a king’s aide-de-camp than I had as his majestic Majesty. Was that enough to make him stop grumbling? Not likely!

“On to Fushe-Kuqe!” I said.

But we never got there.

Half an hour after that first cavalry troop jingled and clattered past us, another one rode by. Again, we plopped down by the side of the road and pretended to be lazy, good-for-nothing Shqipetari peasants-but I repeat myself. Again, the Hassocki rode by without giving us a second glance. They were still after King Halim Eddin and Captain Yildirim, not Otto of Schlepsig and Max of Witte, to say nothing (which is about as much as should be said) of Fatmir and Beqiri-or pick two other Shqipetari names that suit you, if you’d rather.

We kept going in spite of that. Half an hour later, though, another troop went by. This one was loaded for bear, or more likely dragon. At its head rode Essad Pasha, looking grim. Half a pace behind him and to his right rode Colonel Kemal, looking determined. A whole pace behind him and to his left rode Major Mustafa, looking angry. Directly behind him, on a distinctly spooked horse, rode Josй-Diego, looking, respectively, furious and murderous.

So they weren’t just out for Halim Eddin and Yildirim. They were after Otto and Max, too. But they still hadn’t figured out Fatmir and Beqiri. Well, no one’s ever figured out the peasantry of Shqiperi.

“Tell me, my dear, dear friend, how do you propose to get around that?” Max can be most difficult when he sounds the mildest. He has other character traits I find more endearing.

“We’ll get to the coast somewhere that isn’t Fushe-Kuqe, we’ll find a fisherman, and we’ll pay him to take us across the Tiberian Sea to Torino,” I replied.

Max looked at me. “As easy as that, eh?”

“As easy as that,” I said.

And so it was-n’t.

If we weren’t going to lovely, charming Fushe-Kuqe, if we weren’t going past Essad Pasha’s shooting box-where now we were all too likely to become part of the entertainment, not to take part in it-we needed to leave the main road between Peshkepiia and the port. At first, I reckoned this no great hardship. Indeed, I reckoned it no hardship at all, since in any kingdom that actually has roads the one between Peshkepiia and Fushe-Kuqe would be recognized at once for what it is: a horrid, muddy, rutted, winding track long, long overdue for repair, refurbishment (or even furbishment), and restoration.

Once we left it, though, we rapidly found out why it was the main road. All the others were worse. Yes, universally and without exception. No, I wouldn’t have believed it, either. But I saw it with my own eyes. I went into it with my own feet…and ankles…and calves…and, a couple of times, knees.

You would think a farmer could find a better place to let his hogs wallow than in the middle of what was allegedly a road. You would think so, if you’ve never been to Shqiperi. By the time you saw it for the third time, it wouldn’t surprise you any more. It wouldn’t even infuriate you any more. It would just be-how do I put it?-part of the landscape.