Bob Shaw: The Wooden Spaceships

His words caused the guards to redouble their efforts to move him, but Chakkell pointed a finger at them and slowly veered it to indicate the door. The guards released Toller immediately, bowed and backed away. Chakkell remained on his feet, eyes locked with Toller’s until they were alone in the large room, then he sat down heavily and clapped a hand to his forehead.

“I can scarcely credit this, Maraquine,” he said. “You still haven’t changed, have you? I had hoped that my depriving you of your Burnor estates would have taught you to curb that damned insolence of yours, but I see I was too optimistic.”

“I had no use for…” Toller paused, realising he was taking the wrong road to his objective. He eyed the King soberly as he tried to gauge how much damage he had already done to Spennel’s prospects. Chakkell was now sixty-five; his sun-browned scalp was almost devoid of hair and he was burdened with fat, but he had lost none of his mental vigour. He was still a hard, intolerant man—and he had lost little, if any, of the ruthlessness which had eventually gained him the throne.

“Go on!” Chakkell drew his eyebrows together to form a continuous bar. “You had no use for what?”

“It was of little consequence, Majesty,” Toller said. “I apologise most sincerely for forcing my way into your presence, but I repeat that this is a matter of an innocent man’s life, and there is no time to spare.”

“What innocent man? Why do you trouble me with this?” While Toller was describing the events of the foreday Chakkell toyed with the blue jewel he wore on his breast, and at the end of the account he produced a calmly incredulous smile. “How do you know that your lowly friend didn’t insult Panvarl?”

“He swore it to me.”

Chakkell continued to smile. “So it’s the word of some miserable farmer against that of a nobleman of this realm?”

“The farmer is personally known to me,” Toller said urgently. “I vouch for his honesty.”

“But what would induce Panvarl to lie over a matter of such little import?”

“Land.” Toller gave the word time to register. “Panvarl is displacing farmers from his borders and absorbing their holdings into his own demesne. His intentions are fairly obvious, and—I would have thought—not to your liking.”

Chakkell leaned back in his gilded chair, his smile broadening. “I get your drift, my dear Toller, but if Panvarl is content to proceed by gobbling up smallholdings one by one it will be a thousand years before his descendants can pose any threat to the monarchy of the day. You will forgive me if I continue to address myself to more urgent problems.”

“But…” Toller experienced premonitions of failure as he saw what was behind Chakkell’s use of his given name and sudden accession of good humour. He was to be punished for past and present misdeeds—by the death of another man. The notion escalated Toller’s uneasiness into a chilly panic.

“Majesty,” he said, “I must appeal to your sense of justice. One of your loyal subjects, a man who has no means to defend himself, is being deprived of his property and life.”

“But it is justice,” Chakkell replied comfortably. “He should have given some thought to the consequences before he offered insult to Panvarl, and thus indirectly to me. In my opinion the baron behaved very correctly—he would have been within his rights had he struck the clod down on the spot instead of seeking a warrant.”

“That was to give his criminal activities the semblance of legality.”

“Be careful, Maraquine!’ The genial expression had departed the King’s swarthy face. “You are in danger of going too far.”

“I apologise, Majesty,” Toller said, and in his desperation decided to put the issue on a personal footing. “My only intention is to save an innocent man’s life—and to that end may I remind you of a certain favour you owe me.”

“Favour? Favour?”

Toller nodded. “Yes, Majesty. I refer to the occasion when I preserved not only your own life but those of Queen Daseene and your three children. I have never brought the matter up before, but the time has…”

“Enough!” Chakkell’s shout of incredulity echoed in the rafters. “I grant you that, while in the process of saving your own skin, you incidentally delivered my family, but that was more than twenty years ago! And as for never referring to the matter —you have used it over and over again when you wished to pry some concession out of me. Looking back through the years, it seems to have been your sole topic of conversation! No, Maraquine, you have traded on that one for far too long.”

“But all the same, Majesty, four royal lives for the price of one ord—”

“Silence! You are to plague me no longer on that point. Why are you here anyway?” Chakkell snatched a handful of papers from a stand beside his chair and riffled through them. “I see. You claim to be bringing me a special gift. What is it?”

Recognising that for the moment it would be unwise to press the King further, Toller opened the leather case and displayed its contents. “A very special gift, Majesty.”

“A metal sword.” Chakkell gave an exaggerated sigh. “Maraquine, these monomanias of yours become increasingly tiresome. I thought we had settled once and for all that iron is inferior to brakka for weaponry.”

“But this blade is made of steel.” Toller withdrew the sword and was about to pass it to the King when a new idea occurred to him. “We have learned that ore smelted in the upper part of a furnace produces a much harder metal, one which can then be tempered to form the perfect blade.” Setting the case on the floor, Toller adopted a fighting stance with the sword in the first readiness position.

Chakkell shifted in his chair, looking uneasy. “You know the protocol about carrying weapons in the palace, Maraquine. I have half a mind to summon the guard and let them deal with you.”

“That would provide a welcome opportunity for me to demonstrate the value of the gift,” Toller said, smiling. “With this in my hand I can defeat the best swordsman in your army.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous. Go home with your shiny toy and allow me to attend to more important matters.”

“I meant what I said.” Toller introduced a degree of hardness into his voice. “The best swordsman in your army.”

Chakkell responded to Toller’s new note of challenge by narrowing his eyes. “The years appear to have weakened your mind as much as your body. You have heard of Karkarand, I presume. Have you any conception of what he could do to a man of your age?”

“He will be powerless against me—as long as I have this sword.” Toller lowered the weapon to his side. “So confident am I that I am prepared to wager my sole remaining estate on the outcome of a duel with Karkarand. I know you are partial to a gamble, Majesty, so what say you? My entire estate against the life of one farmer.”

“So that’s it!’ Chakkell shook his head. “I am not disposed to…”

“We can make it to the death if you like.”

Chakkell leapt to his feet. “You arrogant fool, Maraquine! This time you will receive what you have so assiduously courted since the day we met. It will give me the greatest pleasure to see daylight being let into that thick skull of yours.”

“Thank you, Majesty,” Toller said drily. “In the meantime… a stay of execution?”

“That will not be necessary—the issue will be settled forthwith.” Chakkell raised a hand and a stoop-shouldered secretary, who must have been watching from a spyhole, scurried into the room through a small doorway.

“Majesty?” he said, bowing so vigorously as to suggest to Toller that he had acquired his posture through years of deference.