Free The Hostage of Zir by L. Sprague de Camp Page A

you is leader?”
    Khorsh translated, pointing to Reith. The huge, black-clad one clicked boot heels, bowed slightly, and shot a hand out to Reith. “Tashian bag-Gárin, at your service.”
    Trying to remember the differences between Durou and Gozashtandou, Reith replied: “I—ah—Fergus Reith, Your Excellence. We are—ah—honor your greeting by.” He noted with surprise that the Regent’s black suit, far from reflecting the splendor of his position, was old and threadbare, with visible mends.
    “Excellent!” said the Regent. “We have provided you with quarters in the Old Palace, for our inns are not suitable. This even, we would fain offer a formal reception and banquet, if you be not overmuch fatigued by your journey. How say you?”
    Reith shot questions at his tourists, then turned back and bowed. “We shall are delight and honored.”
    A string of carriages furnished by the Regent bore the party up the slope of narrow, twisting streets, between grim gray battlemented walls, to the Upper City. Beggars, some crippled or mutilated, trotted whining after them.
    “Good lord!” said Shirley Waterford. “These people could do with some social justice.”
    An hour later, they were installed in the crumbly Old Palace, across the street from the New. The towers of the latter they had seen from the ship. The Old Palace was used as an annex to the governmental offices in the New Palace. Their apartments showed signs of having been hastily reconverted from offices into dwellings. Reith could imagine the governmental clerks, grumbling at being ousted, with their files and records, to make room for the foreigners. There had also been some hasty painting and plastering to cover the signs of age.

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    The New Palace, like the Regent’s garb, proved surprisingly shabby. In the reception room, in mid-afternoon, Reith was introduced to the Douri, Vázni bad-Dushta’en. “Douri” could be translated either as “queen” or as “princess,” since the customs of most Varasto nations did not permit a female to exercise actual rule.
    The nominal head of state of Dur was young, well-shaped, and plump for a Krishnan, with a glittering tiara on her blue-green hair. She wore a gauzy violet gown and had tinted her feathery antennae to match.
    Having been instructed in advance, Reith dropped to one knee and kissed the hand she extended. Vázni giggled.
    “Rise,” she said. “You, fair sir, shall have the first dance with me. How like you my habiliments?”
    “Is beautiful—beautiful,” said Reith.
    “Oh, fiddle-faddle! ’Tis last year’s—a poor thing but mine own, as says the hero in Saqqiz’s Queen Dejanai. But flattery, they say, will get you everywhere. Forget not the first dance!”
    Reith cast a stricken look at the Regent. He was at best a poor dancer. What with the riding, fencing, and language study that had occupied him at Novorecife, the idea of learning Krishnan dances as well had never occurred to him. In a dazed way, he introduced his tourists, all tricked out in Krishnan finery.
    “Master Reese,” said Tashian, “if you will have the kindness to stand there, with your people in line behind you, I shall present you and yours. Are we ready? This is our Minister of Mines and Forests, hight Sálegu bam-Morgh . . .”
    The Regent had lined up all his upper bureaucrats—at least two hundred, plus the mates of most—to greet the visitors. The crowd smelled mightily of perfumery.
    Reith took a few seconds off from handshaking to ask Khorsh to get a chair for Mrs. Scott. When he turned back, he was startled to see that the next handshaker was another earthman. This was a man of about Reith’s age and height, impressively muscled, with light-brown hair and an attractive grin.
    Reith missed the name, which the Regent spoke with a strong accent. The Terran wrung Reith’s hand in a crushing grip, saying: “I’m Kenneth Strachan, Mr. Reith. I must see you later about the rail trip.”
    “Are you