To my extreme embarrassment he took the book from the boy’s hand and inspected it even as he passed it to me. Here was a rough likeness of myself, riding some sort of lizard creature, sword raised high as I did battle with what looked like a cross between the water hounds and large baboons. I had a frightened young woman on the saddle behind me and across the top of this picture, just as in a more familiar pulp magazine, was a title: PRINCE FLAMADIN, CHAMPION OF THE SIX WORLDS. Inside, written in lurid prose, was a story, evidently largely fictitious, describing my courageous exploits, my noble sentiments, my extraordinary good looks and so on. I was both baffled and discommoded, yet found myself signing the name—Flamadin—with a flourish before handing the book back. The gesture had been automatic. Perhaps I was, after all, this character. Certainly my responses were familiar ones, just as I could speak the language and read it. I sighed. In all my experience I had never known anything quite so ordinary and so strange at the same time. I was some kind of hero in this world—but a hero whose exploits were thoroughly fictionalised, like those of Jesse James, Buffalo Bill or, to a lesser degree, some of the popular sports and music stars of the twentieth century!
Von Bek hit the nail on the head. “I had no idea I had been befriended by someone as famous as Old Shatterhand or Sherlock Holmes,” he said.
“Is it all true?” the boy wished to know. “It’s hard to believe you’ve done so much, sir, and yet still be fairly young!”
“The truth is for you to decide,” I said. “I dare say there’s a fair bit of embellishment, however, in there.”
“Well,” said Bellanda with a broad smile, “I’m prepared to believe every word. There’s idle gossip says your sister is the real power, that you do nothing but lease your name to the sensational writers. But I can now say, since I have met you, Prince Flamadin, that you are every inch a hero!”
“You’re very kind,” I replied with a bow. “But I’m sure my sister deserves a great deal of credit, too.”
“The Princess Sharadim? She refuses to be mentioned in those pages, I hear.”
“Sharadim?” Again that name! Yet only yesterday she had been described as my betrothed.
“Aye…” Bellanda looked puzzled. “Have I been too bold, Prince Flamadin, in my humour…?”
“No, no. Is Sharadim a common name in my own land…?” I was asking a stupid question. I had baffled her.
“I cannot follow you, sir…”
Von Bek came to my rescue again. “I had heard that the Princess Sharadim was Prince Flamadin’s bride-to-be…”
“So she is, sir,” said Bellanda. “And the prince’s sister. That’s a tradition in your realm, is it not?” She grew further confused. “If I have repeated a piece of stupid gossip or believed too much in these fictions, I really do apologise…”
I recovered myself. “It is not for you to apologise.” I went towards the edge of the turret and leaned against it. A wind blew up, dispelling the smoke, and freshened my lungs, my skin, helped me cool my mind. “I am fatigued. Sometimes I forget things…”
“Come,” said von Bek, apologising to the young people, “I will help you back to your quarters. Rest for an hour. You’ll feel better for it.”
I allowed him to lead me away from the thoroughly puzzled group of students.
When we returned to the cabins we found a messenger waiting patiently outside the main door. “My good gentlemen,” he said, “the Baron Captain sends his respects. He lunches at your pleasure.”
“Does that mean we should join him as soon as possible?” von Bek asked the man.
“If you are so disposed, sir.”
We went inside and I made my way to my bedroom, sitting down heavily. “I apologise, von Bek. These revelations should not affect me so. If it had not been for those dreams—those women calling me Sharadim…”
“I think I can understand,” he said, “but you should try to pull yourself together. We don’t want these people to turn against us. Not just yet, my friend. I believe that amongst the intelligentsia they are curious as to whether you are the hero which the storybooks describe. I think there’s a rumour that Prince Flamadin is a mere puppet. Did you sense that?”
I nodded. “Perhaps that’s why they call to Sharadim.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“A suggestion that it is she who holds the real power, that her brother—her betrothed—is a mere sham. Perhaps it suits her to have him a kind of living legend, a popular hero. Such relationships are not unheard of in our world, after all.”
“I did not gather as much, but I agree it is a possibility. Does this mean, then, that you and Flamadin of the Valadek are not necessarily of the same character?”
“The shell alters, von Bek. The spirit and the character remain unchanged. It would not be the first time I have been incarnated in the body of a hero who was not all people expected him to be.”
“The other thing I’d be curious about in your shoes, as it were, is how I came to be in this world in the first place. Do you think you’ll discover that answer soon?”
“I can be sure of nothing, my friend.” I stood up and straightened my shoulders. “Let’s prepare ourselves for whatever foul experience luncheon is going to bring us.”
As we left for the Baron Captain’s hall, von Bek said: “I wonder if this Princess Sharadim will be at the Massing. I must say I am becoming increasingly curious to meet her. What about you?”
I managed to smile. “I am dreading such a meeting, my friend. I fear nothing but misery and terror will result from it.”
Von Bek looked hard at my face. “I think I would be less impressed,” he said, “if you did not have that exceptionally ghastly grin on your lips.”
4
BARON CAPTAIN ARMIAD had a favour to ask me. Since my discussion with the young students, I was not surprised when eventually he came round to asking me if I would do him the honour of accompanying him aboard another hull, just prior to the Massing. “The hulls come gradually to the Massing Ground, frequently sailing side by side for many miles before the Ground itself is reached. Already the upper lookouts have sighted three other hulls. By their signals they are the Girl in Green, the Certain Scalpel and the New Argument, all from the farthest anchorages. They must have made good time to be so close to the Massing Ground. It is the custom for Baron Captains to make courtesy calls, one upon another, at this time. These calls are only refused in the case of sickness aboard or some other great crisis. I should like to put up flags to the New Argument, telling her we wish to pay her a visit. Would you and your friend be curious to see another hull?”
“We’ll gladly come,” said I. Not only did I wish to compare the hulls, I wanted to get some idea of how the Baron Captain’s peers actually regarded him. From what he said it was not possible to refuse even him. And it was obvious to me that he wished to display his guest to the others so that the word would go round before the Massing. By this means he hoped to win their acceptance or, at very least, increase his prestige.
He was plainly relieved. His little piglike features relaxed. He all but beamed at me. “Good. Then I’ll have the signals set.”
He excused himself a little while later and left us to our own devices. We continued to explore the city ship, again finding ourselves in the company of Bellanda and her friends. These were certainly the most interesting people we had met so far. They took us high up the masts and showed us the smoke from the distant hulls, slowly moving together as they sailed towards the Massing Ground.
A pale-faced boy called Jurgin had a spyglass and knew the flags of all the ships. He called them out as he recognised them: “There’s the Distant Bargain, accountant to The Floating Head. And that’s the Girl in Green, accountant to The Jagged Jug…” I asked him how he could tell so much. He handed me the glass. “It’s simple, your highness. The flags represent what the anchorages look like on the map and the names describe what those representations most resemble. The way we name configurations of stars. The nam
es of the hulls are ancient, in most cases, and are the names of old sailing vessels on which our ancestors first set forth. Only gradually did they grow into the moving cities on which we now live.”
I looked through the glass and eventually made out a banner flying from the tallest mast of the nearest hull. It was a red symbol on a black field. “I’d guess that’s some sort of goblin. A gargoyle.
Jurgin laughed. “That flag’s flown for The Ugly Man anchorage and therefore the hull’s the New Argument from the farthest north. She’s the hull you’ll visit this evening, eh?”
I was impressed by his clairvoyance. “How did you know that? Do you have spies at Court?”
He shook his head, still laughing. “It’s simpler than that, your highness.” He pointed up higher to our own mainmast, where a good score of banners flapped in the light wind. “That’s what our signals say. And the New Argument has replied with due courtesy (probably reluctant where our great Baron Captain is concerned) that you are welcome to visit them at the hour before twilight. Which means,” he added with a grin, “that you’ll have no more than an hour of calling, for Armiad hates crossing the marshlands at night. Perhaps he fears the vengeance of all those so-called marsh vermin he’s fed to the bins. Doubtless the New Argument is equally aware of that fact!”
A few hours later von Bek and myself found ourselves accompanying the Baron Captain Armiad-naam-Sliforg-ig-Vortan, all dressed in his most elaborate (and ludicrous) finery, into a kind of flatboat with small wheels which was poled by about a dozen men (also in somewhat flamboyant livery) and which sometimes floated, sometimes rolled, across the marshes and lagoons towards the New Argument which was now quite close to our own Frowning Shield. Armiad could barely walk in all his quilted cloak and padded hose, his vast, nodding hat, his grotesquely stuffed doublet. I understand that he had come across the designs in an old picture book and determined that these were the proper and traditional clothes of a true Baron Captain. He had a fair amount of difficulty getting into the barge and had to hold onto his hat with both hands when the wind threatened it. Very slowly the men poled us towards the other hull, while Armiad shouted to them to take care, to be careful not to splash us, to rock the vessel as little as possible.
Dressed in plain garments and without weapons, we had no particular problems of this sort.
The New Argument was no less battered and repaired than the Frowning Shield, and if anything was somewhat older, but she was altogether in better condition than our hull. The smoke from her chimneys was not the same yellowish oily stuff and the stacks were arranged so that by and large very little ash fell upon the decks themselves. The banners were rather cleaner (though it was impossible for them to be completely fresh) and the paintwork everywhere was brighter. Some care had been taken to maintain the hull and, I suspect, she had been made especially shipshape for the coming Massing. It seemed strange that Armiad could not tell that his own hull could be cleaner, that its condition reflected both his own failure of intelligence, the poor morale of his people and half a dozen other things besides.
We came up to the bulk of the other hull, moving across cold water until we reached a ramp which they lowered for us. With some effort the men poled the craft up the ramp and into the bowels of the New Argument. I looked about me with curiosity.
The general appearance of the hull was the same as that which we had left, but there was an orderliness, a smartness about it which made Armiad’s vessel seem like an old tramp steamer compared to a navy ship. Moreover, although the men who greeted us were dressed much as those we’d first seen, they were considerably cleaner and plainly had no taste for entertaining the likes of us. Even though von Bek and I had bathed thoroughly and insisted on fresh clothing, we had picked up a film of grime on the way from our quarters to the barge. Also, I was sure, all three of us smelled of the hull, though we had become used to it. It was also plain that the complement of the New Argument found Armiad’s clothing as ludicrous as did we!
It became very clear to us that it was not mere snobbery which made the other Baron Captains reluctant to have Armiad aboard. However, if they were snobs, Armiad’s condition and disposition would have confirmed every prejudice they had.
Although apparently unaware of the impression he gave, Armiad was evidently ill at ease. He blustered at the welcoming party as we were greeted formally and names were offered. He was the very essence of pomposity as he announced those he brought with him as guests of the New Argument and he seemed pleased when our hosts recognised my name with evident surprise, even shock.
“Yes, indeed,” he told the group, “Prince Flamadin and his companion have chosen our hull, the Frowning Shield, as their means of travelling to the Massing. They will make our hull their headquarters for the duration. Now, my men, lead us on to your masters. Prince Flamadin is not used to such tardiness.”
Greatly embarrassed by his bad manners and attempting to show our hosts that I did not endorse his remarks, I followed the greeting party up a series of ramps which led to the outer decks. Here, too, a thriving town existed, with twisting streets, flights of stairs, taverns, food shops, even a theatre. Von Bek muttered his approval but Armiad beside him and just behind me said in a loud whisper that he observed signs of decadence everywhere. I had known certain Englishmen who associated cleanliness with decadence and whose opinion would have been confirmed by the additional evidence of thriving arts and crafts on the New Argument. I, however, attempted to make conversation with the greeting party, all of whom seemed pleasant enough young men, but they were evidently reluctant to respond to me, even when I praised the appearance and beauty of their hull.
We crossed a series of catwalks to what had the appearance of a large civic building. This possessed none of the fortified appearance of Armiad’s palace and we passed through high, pointed arches directly into a kind of courtyard which was surrounded by a pleasant colonnade. From the left side of this colonnade there now emerged another group of men and women, all of them in middle to late years. They wore long robes of rich, dark colours, slouch hats, each of which bore a differently coloured plume, and gloves of brightly dyed leather. Their faces were dimly visible through fine gauze masks which they now removed, placing them over their hearts in a version of the same gesture we had first encountered from Mopher Gorb and his Binmen. I was impressed by their dignified features and surprised, too, that all but two of them, a man and a woman, were brown-skinned. The party greeting us had all been white-skinned.
Their manners were perfect and their greetings elegant, but it was more than plain that they were pleased to see none of us. They clearly did not distinguish between von Bek and myself and Armiad (which I, of course, found wounding to my pride!) and although not directly rude gave the impression of Roman patricians suffering the visit of some coarse barbarian.
“Greetings to you, honoured guests from the Frowning Shield. We, the Council to our Baron Captain Denou Praz, Rhyme Brother to the Toirset Larens and our Snowbear Defender, welcome you in his name and beg that you join us for light refreshment at our Greeting Hall.”
“Gladly, gladly,” replied Armiad with an airy wave which he was forced to halt in mid-flight in order to restore his hat to its original position. “We are more than honoured to be your guests, Prince Flamadin and I.”
Again their response to my name was not in any sense flattering. But their self-discipline was too great for them to make any open display of distaste. They bowed and led us under the archways, through doors panelled with coloured glass, into a pleasant hall lit with copper lamps, its low ceiling carved with what were evidently stylised versions of scenes from their hull’s distant past, largely to do with exploits on ice-floes. I remembered that the New Argument was from the North where evidently it sailed far closer to the pole (if indeed this realm possessed a pole as I understood it!).
Rising from a brocaded chair at the end of a table, an old man raised his gauze mask from his face and placed it to his heart. He seemed very frail and his v
oice was thin when he spoke. “Baron Captain Armiad, Prince Flamadin, Count Ulric von Bek, I am Baron Captain Denou Praz. Please advance and seat yourselves by me.”
“We’ve met before once or twice, Brother Denou Praz,” said Armiad in a tone of blustering familiarity. “Perhaps you remember? At a Hull Conference aboard the Leopard’s Eye and last year on My Aunt Jeroldeen, for our brother Grallerif’s funeral.”
“I remember you well, Brother Armiad. Is your hull content?”
“Exceptionally content, thank you. And yours?”
“Thank you, we are in equilibrium, I think.”
It very quickly became obvious that Denou Praz intended to keep the conversation completely formal. Armiad, however, blundered blithely on. “It is not every day we have a Chosen Prince of the Valadek in our midst.”
“No, indeed,” said Denou Praz unenthusiastically. “Not, of course, that the good gentleman Flamadin is any longer a Chosen Prince of his people.”
This came as a shock to Armiad. I knew that Denou Praz had spoken pointedly and barely within the bounds of accepted politeness, but I did not know what the significance of his statement was. “No longer Chosen?”
“Has not the good gentleman told you?” As Denou Praz spoke the other councilors were gathering about the table and seating themselves nearby. Everyone was looking towards me. I shook my head. “I’m at a loss. Perhaps, Baron Captain Denou Praz, you could explain what you mean.”
“If you do not think it inhospitable?” Denou Praz was, in turn, surprised. I guessed that he had not expected me to respond in that way. But since I was genuinely puzzled I had taken the chance to request illumination from him. “The news has been in circulation for some time. We have heard of your banishment by Sharadim, your twin, whom you refused to wed. Your giving up of all your duties. Excuse me, good gentleman, but I would not continue for fear of offending the rules of a host…”