Sir Harold and the Hindu King

SIR HAROLD AND THE HINDU KING CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF

The lights faded, the ground jolted up under their feet, and Shea and Chalmers found themselves alone in the dark. Shea had a confused impression of single-story houses with curving adobe walls and thatched roofs, with bigger buildings of stone looming behind them in the moonlight. A world of aromas filled his head, sharp and pungent, some familiar, most not; the only one he could name was something that smelled like curry. The ground beneath him was just that—ground, the packed earth of an unpaved street. He seemed to be in a sort of expanded intersection, not big enough to call a plaza.

And hot. The heat beat all about him, stifling. By the time his head stopped spinning, Shea was already sweating. "Whew! If this is what it's like at night, I'd hate to be here at noon!"

"Brace yourself," Chalmers said grimly. "We probably will still be here."

"Where are we, Doc?"

"To judge by the heat, I would say it must be somewhere in the tropics." Chalmers swayed.

Sea caught his arm to steady him. "Only a minute, Doc—then you'll stabilize."

"I shall recover," Chalmers muttered. "Am I growing weaker, Harold? Syllogismobile travel has never struck me so hard before"

But Chalmers lurched, bumping against Shea, who might have toppled himself, if it had not been just at that moment that someone bumped into him from the other side. "Oh, excuse me!" he said. Just to be on the safe side, he stepped quickly away, right hand dropping to his sword hilt—but with his left still holding to Chalmers just in case he was still woozy. He could have sworn the other party muttered something about a stupid beggar, but he must have been wrong, because the man said, softly but exuberantly, "Brother! Comrade in thievery! How are your pickings tonight?"

Shea stared, taken aback—and looked the man over in one quick glance. He wore a dark-colored cloth wrapped about his hips, sandals, a sword, and a forked beard with moustaches that curved up to the corners of his eyes. Besides that, he had a very flat nose—but the real distinguishing characteristic was the turban. They were in India !

No, wait a minute—there were other countries where people wore turbans, from Arabia through Persia. . . .

But they didn't eat curry.

Not exactly conclusive evidence, but the aroma, the heat, and the turban all added up, so Shea decided to operate as though this were India until proven otherwise. The syllogismobile had made him a natural speaker of the local language, so she he said, "Sorry, friend—the darkness must be deceiving you. We're not thieves, we're foreigners. We, uh, were traveling late—decided we were so close to the town that we might as well keep pushing until we arrived."

"Foreigners? Well, that does explain your outlandish clothing." Flat-nose eyed them suspiciously. "But how did you come into the city after the gates closed?"

A straight-line gleam caught Shea's eye and, looking more closely, he saw that the man had a thread tied over his nose and around his head. No wonder his nose was flat! For a wild second, he thought it was a fly-fishing leader, then realized that, in a pre-industrial town it must be something less exotic—horsehair, say, or catgut. But why the disguise? "After the gates closed? We didn't."

Chalmers nodded, muttering, "Quite true, quite true."

Shea hoped he was only indulging in irony, not shock. "We've, ah, just been wandering around, trying to find a good hotel."

"Wandering! Yes," Chalmers agreed.

Shea noticed he didn't commit himself to the questionable part of the statement, "Would you know of a good inn, kind sir?"

"An inn? Not if you have no money! And you do not, from the look of you."

Obviously, the man still thought they were thieves—or at the best, beggars. Unfortunately, his comment hit home—they didn't have any money, at least not in local currency. "What can you recommend, then?"

"To get out of sight! As quickly as possible! There is a gang of thieves plaguing this city, and if you run afoul of them, they may kill you rather than risk your bringing witness against them!" Flat-nose shouldered past them with a hasty, "May you have good fortune!" and disappeared into the night.

Shea's blood chilled; he had heard of such things, but had not thought they happened until the 1920s. "You don't think there really is a gang working the town, do you, Doc?"

"More to the point," said Chalmers, "is the possibility that we have just encountered a member of the band." He shuddered. "Who would know better of their existence—or have a better reason for wishing us to go indoors, where we cannot see what he does?"

He obviously didn't doubt the man for a second. "I guess you're right, Doc. After all, why else would he make such a clumsy attempt at disguise?"

"You mean the thread around his nose? Yes, quite so. Presumably, that tells us two things: that the thieves are ruthless, and that they are flat-nosed."

Shea stared in surprise. "You mean we just talked to a local cop?"

"It is a possibility," Chalmers said, "but more pertinent is his advice. Let us find a hole to hide in, Harold."

It was good advice indeed. Shea looked around, able to make out a bit more of their surroundings now that his eyes had adjusted to the moonlight. The larger buildings in the distance were elaborate and intricate—and he was sure he recognized the silhouette of a slim tower. "I think we're in India, Doc. More to the point, we're in a genuine city, not just a big town."

"I quite agree." Chalmers looked around, frowning. "Now, where do you hide in a city if you can't find a hotel?"

"A back alley is a good place." Shea drew his sword. "Of course, the local muggers might not have gone to bed yet, and they like alleys, too. Want to take a chance on it, Doc?"

"Let me consider the proposition." Chalmers steepled his fingers, resting his lips against them for a minute. Then he drew a circle in the dust with his toe, reciting,

". . . For knowledge if anyone burns,
We're keeping a very small prophet,
A prophet who brings us unbounded returns!"

There was a burst of light like a photographer's flash, and a two-foot-high man with a long beard and a longer gray robe stood before them, bald head gleaming in the moonlight. "Good evening, sir! May I help you?"

"Victorian," Chalmers muttered to Shea, and to the prophet, "You may indeed, O Wise One! Can you tell me where we are?"

"Where? Why summon me for such trivialities, sir? Well, it is your money. You are in India—the city of Chandradoya, to be precise."

"You guessed well, Harold," Chalmers observed. Then, to the diminutive prophet, "Thank you, O Fount of Wisdom. Can you also tell me the identity of that man whom we addressed but now?"

"He with the horsehair round his nose? To be sure, sir! That was Randhir, the rajah of this fair city! Will there be anything else?"

"The rajah himself, eh?" Chalmers mused. "Running about at night without a bodyguard, dressed as a peasant? Well, well! Quite eccentric . . . No, thank you, Esteemed One. I need no further information at this time."

"A pleasure to serve you, sir. That will be six shillings, please."

"Pay the man, Harold," Chalmers said.

Shea favored Chalmers with a quick glare, then fished in his purse. "I'm a little short on shillings at the moment. How about a Russian grivna?"

"I am sure that will be equal or better in value," the prophet said quickly. He took the coin and bowed. "Call upon us whenever you have need, sir!" With another flash, he disappeared.

As Shea blinked away afterimages, Chalmers told him, "So magic works in this universe—but not very well."

"Not well? Why?"

"Come now, Harold! Do you honestly believe the King himself would be going about at night dressed as a commoner, with a horsehair round his nose? This isn't the Arabian Nights, you know."