Sir Harold and the Hindu King

Chalmers stared in horror. "Ritual suicide when her husband dies? Letting herself be burned alive on his funeral pyre?"

Malambroso shuddered. "That is one of the ways, yes."

"You mean she's following that scoundrel to his execution because she's planning to die when he does?" Shea cried, aghast. "But how can she think he's her husband if you've got her hypnotized into believing she isn't even married?"

"It is this confounded belief in reincarnation," Malambroso groaned, "and in the events of one life affecting the next life! Having begun life anew in this universe, she is reincarnated in its terms—but the only previous life she has had was the one we all know, in which Reed Chalmers was her husband!"

"Is her husband," Reed said in an iron tone.

"Not in this universe! By its rules, this is a new life!"

"But she's been in half a dozen universes!" Shea protested. "Was each of them a previous life?"

"Yes, as far as this universe is concerned," Malambroso moaned, "and in each of them, Chalmers was her husband! But here in Chandrodoya, Chalmers' analog is the robber chieftain, so she fell in love the moment she set eyes upon him."

Shea stared. "You mean that, in Hindu terms, the robber chieftain was her predestined husband?"

"Yes, unless she had seen Chalmers first! Oh, how I wish I had not kept her so well hidden!"

"But why does she have to commit sati?" Shea demanded. "Nobody would have known if she had just kept quiet! She could even fly in the face of convention and stay alive even now! They weren't married—no one would blame her!"

"She would," Malambroso told him. "As a good Hindu maiden, sati is part of her dharma, the obligation of the role in life to which she was born; to refuse to commit sati would load her soul with bad karma—the wages of sin, in our terms—so when she did die, she would be reborn in a lower caste. But if she does commit sati, her soul will gain a great deal of good karma—I suppose the closest equivalent we have is grace—and she will be reborn in a higher caste. She even had the gall to recite Hindu proverbs at me—that there are thirty-five millions of hairs on the human body, and the woman who ascends the pyre with her husband will remain so many years in heaven before she's reborn—and that, as the snake-catcher draws the serpent from his hole, the wife who commits sati will rescue her husband from hell and will rejoice with him; though he may have sunk to a region or torment, be restrained in dreadful bonds, have reached the place of anguish, be exhausted and afflicted and tortured for his crimes, her act of self-sacrifice will save him."

Chalmers stared in horror. "And she really believes this?"

"No other effectual duty is known for virtuous women at any time after the death of their lords, except casting themselves into the same fire," Malambroso sighed. "As long as a woman in her reincarnation after reincarnation shall refuse sati, she shall not escape from being reborn in the body of some female animal. Her only road to rebirth in a higher caste, and to eventual nirvana, is to commit sati when her husband dies!"

Chalmers gave him a very black look. "You have a great deal to answer for, Malambroso, you and your in-depth hypnotic spell! Certainly you have placed entirely too much knowledge of Hindu dogma in her mind. Whatever possessed you to impose such an asinine scheme of disguise? Your daughter indeed! Oh, I will admit it was far easier than to believe that she was your wife, since you're such a relic—but how did you think you were going to be able to marry your own daughter?"

"When I was sure you had come and gone, I was going to remove the enchantment from her mind so that she would know I was not her father, then feed her a love phyltre," Malambroso snapped, "and who are you calling a relic, you antique?"

"Antique! I'll have you know . . ."

"I'll have you both know that we only have a few minutes," Shea interrupted. "We're almost to the city gate! If you don't nail down a solution to this dilemma before they nail down the robber, we're going to be dealing with a barbecue, not a woman!"

"Yes, quite so!" With a visible effort, Chalmers throttled his anger and wrenched his mind back into analytical mode. "So love at first sight was her recognition that the robber was her fated husband," he summarized, "and because he dies, she must die! Oh, blast and flay you, Malambroso! You have really made a thorough mess of it this time!"

"I know, I know!" Malambroso groaned, "but curse me later if you must! For now, only aid me in finding some way to save her!"

By now, they had come out of the gate, and the robber chieftain saw the scaffold standing upright, waiting for him. His steps faltered, but the guards pricked him with their spears, and he gave them a look of disdain before he marched up proudly and firmly to stand before the giant wooden X. He lifted his arms, holding them out to his sides, and the executioners stepped up with hammer and nails.

"If you can do anything to prevent this, do it now!" Malambroso pleaded.

"The invisible shield we put over the rajah when they were fighting?" Shea suggested.

"I have no grass," Chalmers answered, watching the scene with narrowed eyes, "and Randhir would know in an instant who had done it. No, we must concoct an effect that could be mistaken for something valid, within their own religion."

The three men stood silent for a long moment as the executioners threw a rope around the thief's waist and tied him firmly to the middle of the X.

"Iron skin," Shea said suddenly.

"Of course! From the elbows to the fingers, and from the knees to the toes! Quickly, Malambroso! You take the arms! Harold, take the right leg! I will take the left!"

Malambroso cast a quick look of confusion at Chalmers, then shrugged and turned to business. He drew a few odd objects from beneath his robe, began to manipulate them, and muttered a verse in Arabic. Chalmers took a small knife from his thief's finery and leaned down to rub it against his shin, muttering. Shea, realizing how his boss was applying the Laws of Sympathy and Contagion, drew his own knife and stropped it against his thigh, muttering,

"Joe Magarac was born in Iron Mountain,
And therefore as he grew, he turned to steel.
Let our bandit chief bathe in his fountain;
Turn his skin to iron, so he'll no longer steal!"

Malambroso and Chalmers finished their verses in a dead heat with his—and just in time. The executioner placed a huge spike against the bandit's wrist, drew back a hammer, then drove it forward with all his might.

The spike struck the robber's skin and glanced off, burying itself in the wood. The executioner stared in amazement, then shook himself, obviously thinking he had missed his stroke. He placed the spike again, struck again—and watched it skid again.

The robber, watching, grinned. "What is the difficulty? Is my skin too strong for your weak muscles?"

But the other executioner was having the same problem with the other wrist. The first firmed his lips into a straight fine, placed the spike, and, with great determination, drove his hammer as hard as he could. The spike skidded again and flew out of his grasp.