The Dragon in the Sword

  Von Bek spoke for the first time. “Forgive me, Baron Captain. As his highness has no doubt indicated, I have a condition which has robbed me of much of my memory. What other realms than this one do you speak of?”

  I admired his directness and his method of explaining himself so that I should not be embarrassed.

  “As his highness knows,” said Armiad with barely restrained impatience, “we are Six Realms, the Realms of the Wheel. There is Maaschanheem, which is this Realm. There is Draachenheem, which is where Prince Flamadin rules (when not adventuring elsewhere!),” a nod to me, “and Gheestenheem, Realm of the Cannibal Ghost Women. The other three Realms are Barganheem, claimed by the mysterious Ursine Princes, Fluugensheem, whose people are guarded by the Flying Island, and Rootsenheem, whose warriors have skins of glowing blood. There is also, of course, the Realm of the Centre itself, but none comes from there nor ventures there. We call it Alptroomensheem, Realm of the Nightmare Marches. Are you fully reminded now, Count von Bek?”

  “Thoroughly, Baron Captain. I thank you for your trouble. I have a poor memory for names at the best of times, I fear.”

  In some relief, or so it seemed to me, the Baron Captain turned his pugnacious, barely polite eyes towards me again. “And shall your betrothed meet us at the Massing, your highness? Or does the Princess Sharadim remain to guard the Realm while you go adventuring?”

  “Aha,” I said, taken aback and unable to disguise my shock. “The Princess Sharadim. I cannot say as yet.”

  And somewhere, even now, in the back of my mind I could hear that desperate chanting.

  SHARADIM! SHARADIM! THE FIREDRAKE MUST BE FREED!

  It was at that point that I claimed weariness and begged Baron Captain Armiad that I be shown to my bed.

  Once in my quarters I was joined by von Bek, whose rooms were next to mine. “You seem unwell, Herr Daker,” he said. “Are you afraid you’ll be found out in your deception and that the real prince will turn up at this Massing of theirs?”

  “Oh,” I said, “I’ve little doubt I’m the real prince, my friend. But what shocks me is that the only name I’ve heard since I arrived in this world which is in any way familiar is that of the woman to whom I am apparently betrothed!”

  Von Bek said: “That at least should save you embarrassment when you eventually meet her.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, but privately I was deeply disturbed and could not be sure why.

  That night I scarcely slept at all.

  I had come to fear sleep.

  3

  NEXT MORNING, I had no difficulty arousing myself. The night had been filled with visions and hallucinations, with the chanting women, the despairing warriors, the voices calling not only Sharadim but calling me also—calling me by a thousand different names.

  When von Bek found me, as I was putting the finishing touches to my toilet, he remarked again on how ill I seemed. “Are these dreams of yours a permanent condition of the life you’ve described?”

  “Not permanent,” I told him, “but frequent.”

  “I do not envy you, Herr Daker.”

  Von Bek had been given fresh clothing. He moved awkwardly in the soft leather shirt and trousers and the thicker leather jerkin, the tall boots. “I look like some robber in a Sturm und Drang play,” he said. He continued to be sardonically amused by his situation and I must admit I was glad of his company. It was a relief, at least, from my doom-filled premonitions and dreams.

  “These clothes,” he said, “are at least fairly clean! And I see they gave you hot water, too. I suppose we should count ourselves fortunate. You were so distressed last night I forgot to thank you for your help.” He held out his hand. “I should like to offer you my friendship, sir.”

  I shook his hand warmly. “And you are assured of mine,” I told him. “I’m happy to have such a comrade. I had not expected so much.”

  “I’ve read of many marvels in the Middle Marches,” he continued, “but nothing so strange as this great lumbering ship. I was up earlier inspecting her machinery. It’s crude—steam of course—but it works to achieve its end. You’ve never seen so many rods and pistons at so many stages of age! The thing must be extremely old and there have been few improvements made, I would guess, in a century or more. Everything is patched and mended, lashed together, crudely welded. The boilers and furnaces themselves are massive. And oddly efficient. It moves a tonnage at least the size of your Queen Elizabeth and is only partially supported by water. It depends, of course, more on manpower than an ocean liner, and that could have something to do with it. My engineering background, I must admit, is limited to a year at technical college which my father insisted upon. He was a progressive type!”

  “More progressive than mine,” I told him. “I know nothing at all of such things. I wish I did. Not that I’ve been called upon to use skills of that sort in the worlds I’ve known. Magic is more the order of the day. Or what we of the twentieth century called magic.”

  “My family,” he said with one of his ironical smiles, “has some familiarity with magic, also.”

  Count von Bek then proceeded to tell me his family history, going back to the seventeenth century. His ancestors, it seemed, had always possessed the means of travelling between different realms and to different worlds where different rules applied. “There are supposed to be reminiscences in existence,” he added, “but we’ve never come across them, save for one which is very likely a partial fake!” It was because of this that he had sought out the aid of one he called “Satan” in his fight against Hitler. Satan had helped him discover the means through to the Middle Marches and had said that there was some hope he might find there a means of defeating the Chancellor. “But whether this Satan was the same as was cast from Heaven or whether he is a minor deity, an imprisoned godling of some description, I have never been able to decide. Nonetheless, he helped me.”

  I was relieved. Von Bek would not, as I had thought he might, require too much in the way of introduction to what had become familiar facts of life for me. This realm, however, seemed to possess little in the way of supernatural marvels, save that it took the existence of other planes for granted. In that respect, I found it reassuring.

  Von Bek, who had, as he said, already partly explored the ship, led me down the creaking wooden corridors of what I suppose I had begun to think of as the Baron Captain’s palace and into a small chamber hung with quilted cloth whose workmanship looked too fine to be from this world. Here a wooden table had been prepared. I tasted a piece of salty, powdery cheese, a little hard bread, a sip of what I took to be very thin yogurt, and finally settled for a relatively uncloudy mug of tepid water and the egg of some unknown bird, hard-boiled. Then I followed von Bek through another maze of swaying, narrow gangways, out across a flimsy catwalk stretching between two masts. The thing swayed so violently I grew dizzy and clung hard to the rail. Far below, the people of the ship were going about their business. I saw carts drawn by beasts similar to oxen, heard the cries of women calling from window to window in the ramshackle buildings, saw children playing in the lower rigging while dogs barked at their feet. Everywhere the smoke billowed, obscuring some scenes completely; then, occasionally, the wind would lift everything clear and it was possible to smell clean air from off the vast, glittering marsh through which the Frowning Shield ploughed with a kind of cumbersome dignity.

  Though flat and predominantly grey-green, the Maaschanheem was magnificent in its way. The clouds hardly ever lifted for very long, yet the light which filtered through them was forever changing, revealing different aspects of the lagoons, marshes and narrow strips of land, the “anchorages” of this nomad people. Flocks of strangely beautiful birds could be seen drifting on the water, or wading through the reeds, sometimes rising in a great dark mass to wheel in the air and stream away towards the invisible horizon. Unlikely-looking animals would scuttle through the grasses or raise enquiring heads from the water. The most astonishing of these for me was something resembling an otte
r, yet it was larger than most sea-lions. It was called, we learned, nothing more fanciful than a vaasarhund. I was learning that the language which I spoke more fluently than von Bek was of Teutonic origin, somewhere between old German, Dutch and to a lesser degree English and Scandinavian. Now I knew what had been meant when I had been told that this world bore a closer relation to the world I had left as John Daker than most I had visited as the Eternal Champion.

  The water hounds were as playful as otters and would follow the ship at a safe distance when it entered deeper water (though it never floated entirely free of the bottom), barking or leaping for scraps which the citizens of the hull would throw to them.

  I learned very quickly that morning that the hull itself and the people aboard were not inherently sinister, though the present ruler and his Binkeepers were singularly unsavoury. They had learned to live with the filth from the chimneys and were used to the stink of the place, but they seemed cheerful and friendly enough, once they were assured that we meant them no harm and were not “marsh vermin”—a general term, we discovered, for any person who either had no home hull, or who was outlawed for a variety of crimes, or who had chosen to live on land. Some of these bands would, indeed, attack hulls when they got the chance, or kidnap individuals from the ships, but it seemed to me that not all were characteristically evil or deserved to be hunted down. We learned that it was Baron Captain Armiad who had instigated the rule that all landspeople should be killed and their corpses consigned to the bins. “As a result,” one woman told us as she stood scraping a hide, “no landspeople will trade with the Frowning Shield these days. We are forced to forage what we can from the anchorage or depend on what the Binkeepers strip from the marsh vermin.” She shrugged. “But that’s the new way.”

  We found that a rapid way of moving about the city was to use the catwalks between the masts. We could thus save ourselves the time of negotiating the winding streets below and not get lost so easily. The masts had permanent ladders with a kind of cage guard running the length of them, so there was less chance of losing one’s grip and being flung backwards to the buildings below.

  We fell in with a group of young men and women who were evidently nobles of some sort, though not very well dressed and almost as grimy as the commoners. They sought us out as we crossed the roof of a turret, trying to see towards the back of the ship and its monstrous rudders which were used for braking and for turning, frequently gouging deep into the mud. One of them was a bright-eyed young woman of about twenty, dressed in worn leather similar to von Bek’s costume. She was the first to introduce herself. “I’m Bellanda-naam-Folfag-ig-Fornster,” she said, placing her cap across her heart. “We wanted to congratulate you on your fight with Mopher Gorb and his collectors. They’ve grown too used to chasing half-starved outcasts. We hope they’ll learn a lesson from what happened yesterday, though I’m not sure his kind are capable of learning.”

  She introduced her two brothers and their other friends.

  “You have the air of students,” said von Bek. “Is there a college aboard?”

  “There is,” she said, “and we attend it when it is open. But since our new Baron Captain took power there’s been little encouragement given to learning. He has a hearty contempt for what he says are the softer pursuits. There’s been little encouragement to artists or intellectuals over the past three years, and our hull is virtually ostracised by all. Those who could leave the Frowning Shield, who had skills or knowledge to offer other hulls, have already gone. We have nothing but our youth and our eagerness to learn. There’s little hope of changing berths, at least for a long time. There have been worse tyrants in the histories of the hulls, worse warmongers, worse fools, but it is not pleasant to know that you’re the laughing stock of the entire realm, that no decent person from another ship would ever wish to marry you or even be seen with you. Only at the Massing do we manage to achieve some kind of communication, but that is somewhat formal and too short.”

  “And if you left the ship entirely…?” von Bek began.

  “Exactly—marsh vermin. We can only hope that the present Baron Captain falls into the rollers or otherwise meets his end as soon as possible! I’m no snob, I hope, but he is the worst sort of arriviste.”

  “Your titles are not inherited?” I asked.

  “Usually they are. But Armiad deposed our old Baron Captain. Armiad was Baron Captain Nedau’s steward and came, as frequently happens when a childless ruler grows old, to assume many of the responsibilities of leadership. We were ready to elect a new Baron Captain, from Nedau’s immediate family. He is related to my mother, for instance, on the Fornster side. Also Arbrek’s uncle,” she indicated a red-headed young man who was so shy his face was glowing to match his hair, “was a Lord of the Rendeps, who had an ancient Poetry Bond with the then incumbent ruler. Lastly, the Doowrehsi of the Saintly Monicans had closer blood-claims, though of late a recluse, celibate and a scholar. All of these were to be voted for. Then, in his senility (it could have been nothing else), our Baron Captain Nedau called for a Blood Challenge. Now such a ceremony has not taken place since the Wars of the Hulls, all those many years ago. But it is still upon the Lawmast and had to be honoured. Why Nedau should challenge Armiad, we never discovered, but we assumed he had goaded Nedau to it, perhaps through some deep insult, perhaps by threatening to reveal a secret. Whatever the cause, Armiad naturally accepted the Blood Challenge and the two of them fought across the main hanging gangway between the great middle masts. We watched from below, according to a tradition all of us who still live had forgotten, and though the smoke from a chimney obscured the final moments of the fight there was no question that Nedau was stabbed through the heart before he fell a hundred or more feet into the market square. And so, because an old law was never changed, our new Baron Captain is a gross, ignorant tyrant.”

  Von Bek said: “I know something of such tyrants. Is it not unsafe for you to utter such sentiments aloud and in public?”

  “Perhaps,” she agreed, “but I know him for a coward. Moreover, he is concerned because the other Baron Captains will have little or nothing to do with him. They invite him to no celebrations. They do not make visits to our hull. We are scarcely part of the hull-gatherings any more. All we have is the yearly Massing, when all must gather and no contention is allowed. But even here we are offered the very minimum of civility by the other hulls. This Frowning Shield has the reputation of being a barbaric craft, worthy of our dimmest past, before the Wars of the Hulls even. All this did Armiad achieve through calling up that old law. Through murdering, we all think, his master. If he were to commit further crimes against his own people—try to silence the relatives, like us, of the old Baron Captain, he would have even less chance of ever being accepted into the ranks of the other noblemen. His efforts to win their approval have been as ludicrous and ill-conceived as his machinations and his plans have been crude. Every time he attempts to win them over—with gifts, with displays of courage, with examples of his firm policies, such as that with the marsh vermin—he drives them further away from him.” Bellanda smiled. “It is one of our few amusements left aboard the Frowning Shield.”

  “And you have no way of deposing him?”

  “No, Prince Flamadin. For only a Baron Captain can call a Blood Challenge.”

  “Cannot the other Baron Captains help you against him?” von Bek wished to know.

  “By law they cannot. It is part of the great truce, when the Wars of the Hulls were finally ended. It is forbidden to interfere with the internal business of another city vessel.” This last offered by a stammering Arbrek. “We’re proud of that law. But it is not to the advantage, at present, of the Frowning Shield…”

  “Now do you understand,” said Bellanda with a small smile, “why Armiad cultivates you so? We heard he fawns upon you, Prince Flamadin.”

  “I must admit it is not the most agreeable experience I have ever had. Why does he do it, when he does not feel obliged to be civil to his own people???
?

  “He believes us weaker than himself. You are stronger, as he understands such things. But the real reason for his attempts to win your approval are to do with the fact, I’ll swear, that he hopes to impress the other Baron Captains at the Massing. If he has the famous Prince Flamadin of the Valadek at his side when we sail in to the Massing Ground, he believes they must surely accept him as one of themselves.”

  Von Bek was highly amused. He exploded with laughter. “And that’s the only reason?”

  “The chief reason at any rate,” she said, joining in his amusement. “He’s a simple fellow, isn’t he?”

  “The simpler they are the more dangerous they can be,” I said. “I wish we could be of help to you, Bellanda, in relieving you of his tyranny.”

  “We can only hope some accident will befall him before long,” she said. She spoke openly. Plainly, they did not plan to perpetuate their hull’s history of murder.

  I was grateful to Bellanda for illuminating me on the matter. I decided to seek her help a little further. “I gathered from Armiad last night,” I said, “that I am something of a folk hero amongst at least some of your people. He spoke of adventures which are not wholly familiar to me. Do you know what that means?”

  She laughed again. “You’re modest, Prince Flamadin. Or you feign modesty with great charm and skill. Surely you must know that in the Maaschanheem, as well as, I think, in other Realms of the Wheel, your adventures are told by every market tale-spinner. There are books sold throughout the Maaschanheem, not all originating from our book-manufacturing hulls, which purport to describe how you defeated this ogre or rescued that maiden. You cannot say you’ve never seen them!”

  “Here,” said one of the younger men, pushing forward and brandishing a brightly coloured book which reminded me a little of our old Victorian penny dreadfuls or dime novels. “See! I was going to ask you if you’d sign it, sir.”

  Von Bek said softly, “You told me you were an elected hero in your many incarnations, Herr Daker, but until now I had no proof!”