"For look you," he said, "there be those who pass rumors to the effect that King Antane's no true man at all, but an Ertsu in disguise. Not that it would matter greatly to me, since for years I've been telling my flock that 'tis wrong to judge people on a basis of their race rather than of their individual merits. I'm sure, however, that Antane's no earthman; for they believe, most of them, in the curious doctrine of equality for all men, while our young paragon has set up no such system in his island kingdom. Now, you were among the Ertsuma during your stay at Novorecife, my son. Enlighten an old man on these matters. What is this doctrine of equality, and do all Earthmen indeed adhere to it?"
"As a matter of fact," Hasselborg began, and would have launched into a brilliant ten-minute speech on the subject when it occurred to him that a Krishnan painter would hardly know that much about Earth's political theory. Was the old boy trying to trap him? He cautiously qualified his reply: "I don't know about these things from first-hand knowledge, Your Reverence; all I know is what I heard my Ertso friends saying in the course of conversation. As I get it, this theory is now the dominant one among Earthmen, although it has not always been and may not always be. Moreover it doesn't mean literal equality of indi-viduals, but a legal equality, or equality in matters of law—rights, obligations, and so on.
"They told me there were two great difficulties in building a political system on such a basis—first that people aren't biologically equal, but individuals dif-fere widely in ability; second, that you have to have some sort of political organization to run the society except among the most primitive groups, and those in power have a natural tendency to try to alter the setup to make themselves legally superior to the governed. They all do it, whether they call themselves counts, capitalists, or commissars—"
As they fenced with ideas, Hasselborg thought that Haste showed flashes of a rather surprising knowledge of Terran institutions.
Fouri maintained her gravity all evening, through supper, until they were saying good night. She gave Hasselborg her hand to kiss, glanced at Haste's retreating back, leaned forward, and whispered: "Are you married, my hero?"
Hasselborg raised his eyebrows. "No."
"Excellent!" She gave him a swift kiss and went.
Oh-oh, thought Hasselborg, you don't need X-ray eyes to see what she's leading up to! Now that he knew where Fallon was, he had better get away from Hershid quickly. Could he sneak out that very night on the pretext that he liked to take buggy rides in the moonlight? No. In the first place, that wouldn't get him to Zamba; the map showed the rocky Har-qain peninsula as roadless. You had to take ship from Majbur.
Moreover, did he want to go to Zamba so precipitately? If he simply walked in on Julnar to argue that she should return to her papa, Fallon might have him liquidated out of hand. Maybe he had better hang around Hershid for a few days despite the matrimonial menace of the fair Fouri, and try to work out an angle.
Hasselborg was surprised when Haste presented him to the dour. From Fouri's remarks, had been led to expect something physically impressive, like the Dasht of Ruz. Instead, King Eqrar bad-Qavitar reminded Hasselborg of nothing so much as a terran mouse.
"Yes, yes, yes," squeaked the mighty monarch quickly, offering his small hand to be kissed. "I've often thought of the same thing. A portrait. Hm-m-m. Hm-m-m. A fine idea. An excellent suggestion. Glad am I that you brought this wight around, Haste. I'll wager that niece of yours put you up to it; she knows how to get around the old man, ha. Knew you as much, you'd be a power in the land. Master Kavir, how many sittings would you require?"
"Perhaps a dozen, Your Awesomeness."
"Right, right, right. We'll have the first this afternoon. An hour before dinner. West wing of the palace. The flunkies will pass you in and show you where. Bring all your gear. All of it. Nought vexes me more than an expert who comes to perform some office for one and then has to return home for more tools. Mind you, now."
"Yessir," said Hasselborg. Eqrar was evidently one of those who believed that "What I tell you three times is true."
"Good, good. And it is my command that you leave not the city of Hershid until the portrait be completed. A busy king am I, and I shall have to fit the sittings into my schedules as best I can. You have my leave to go."
Hasselborg, outwardly obsequious, swore under his breath. Now he was stuck in Hershid for the gods knew how long, especially if the dour was given to canceling appointments. While he might run away in defiance of the dour, he might also be caught and dragged back before he reached the border. At best, he would land in this nervous but powerful king's black book.
When he got back to Haste's palace, he asked Fouri: "How do you get to Majbur?"
"Depart you so soon?" she cried, her voice rising in alarm.
"Not yet; the king says no. Still, I should like to know."
"Then you might drive your carriage—there's a good road from the south gate—or you might take the railroad."
"Railroad?"
"Of course! Knew you not that Hershid's on the end of the line to Majbur and on down the coast to Jazmurian?"
This I must see, thought Hasselborg, forbearing to ask more questions for fear of revealing ignorance. "Like a ride before lunch?"
She would, of course, and showed him the way to the terminal outside the wall on the south side of the city. The rails were about a meter apart, the cars little four-wheeled affairs with bodies like those of carriages, and the locomotives bishtars. A couple of the beasts were pushing and pulling cars around the yard under the guidance of mahouts, who sat on their necks and blew little trumpets to warn of their approach. Fouri said:
"Alack, my hero, you're too late to see the daily train for Qadr pull out, and that from Qadr comes not in till around sunset."
"Where's Qadr?"
"A suburb of Majbur, on this side of the Pichide. No through train to Jazmurian, you see, because the river's too wide to be bridged; one must detrain at Qadr and cross the river by boat ere continuing on."
"Thanks."
After they had watched for a while she continued: "I can see we're truly soul mates, Kavir, for I, too, have always loved to hang on the fence of the railroad yard and watch the trains made up."
Hasselborg shuddered a little mentally, as though he had cut himself on a dirty knife with no disinfectant available.
She went on: "If you're really set on going to
Majbur—I can wheedle aught I wish from the dour. Shout I, for example, tell him that my affianced husband wished to travel, I know I could persuade him—"
Hasselborg changed the subject by asking about Zamba and its new ruler, although Fouri could add but little to what he already knew.
The king proved a difficult portrait subject, always fidgeting and scratching and wiping his pointed nose on his sleeve. To make matters worse, characters kept coming in to whisper in his ear or to present papers for him to sign. All this distraction reduced Hasselborg, who had little enough confidence in his ability as a painter, to a state bordering on frantic despair. He complained:
"If Your Awesomeness would only hold that pose for five minutes on end—"
"What mean you, painter?" yelped the king. "You scoundrel, you criticize me? I've held this pose without moving the breadth of a hair for the better part of an hour, and you dare say I've not? Get out! Why did I ever let you begin this thing? Begone! No, no, no, I meant it not. Come back and fall to work. Only let it be understood, no more irreverent criticisms! I'm a very busy man, and if I work not on my royal business every minute, I never get it fulfilled. You're a good and faithful fellow. Fall to, waste no time, stand not gaping, get to work!"