Free The Undesired Princess by L. Sprague deCamp

language of civilized people, don’t they? Well, we’re civilized, so naturally we do also. As for the spelling, I don’t see how it could be otherwise; a letter either stands for a certain sound or it doesn’t.”
    The gangler that Aites now was entered with an armful of boxes, saying: “Father, where shall I put my toys and things?”
    “Leave them here and I’ll order Charion to distribute them to the poor children, Aites.”
    Hobart asked: “Giving away all your stuff?”
    “Sure,” said the boy. “They’re child’s things. And I’m sorry about the firecrackers, sir. It won’t happen again.”
    “Okay,” said Hobart.
    Something was bothering the boy; he fidgeted and produced a small pad. He said hesitantly: “Sir—would you mind—I’m starting a collection of the autographs of heroes—”
    Hobart signed promptly, whereat the boy said, “Nolly!” in an awed tone. The rest of the day he stuck to Hobart like a burr, asking questions with respectful sirs on them, and in general displaying all the symptoms of hero worship.
    The tournament took place in the huge concourse inside the palace walls. Hobart found it long and dull. Two regiments that were being disbanded, one of pikemen and one of musketeers, staged an elaborate parade; the pikemen charged in phalanx formation; the musketeers fired blank charges. As each rank fired the men of the rear rank finished reloading and ran forward to the front and fired in their turn. They solemnly turned over their standards to General Valangas, who made a speech during which some of them wept; they stacked their arms and filed into the stands to watch the rest of the show.
    A fence was now set up along the central axis of the arena, and men with huge round shields and bucket-shaped helmets that covered their whole heads rode horses in opposite directions along the opposite sides of the fence, trying to knock each other out of the saddle with padded poles like those used in canoe tilting. Thanks to the fence, and the heavy armor of the jousters, and the blue moss with which the floor of the arena was carpeted, the risk was negligible.
    Rollin Hobart peacefully puffed a new pipe and waited for it to end. His expression did not even change when General Valangas, having won several of the tilts, rode by close enough to give him a scornful glance. He could afford to wait for the bee he had put in Prince Alaxius’ bonnet to produce some honey. If the prince was selfish he was selfish, period. The people of this screwy world had the simple monochromatic characters of the cast of an old-time melodrama. That was one more reason for not wanting to stay here—imagine being married to that girl on his left, with her magazine-cover beauty and her ultra-modern goodness that allowed not one human vice . . . But this inhuman consistency had the advantage of dependability. Alaxius would not fail him.
    Nor did he. When Hobart excused himself and retired, he found the prince waiting for him with a pair of monkish robes with hoods, the sword and musket he had requested, and a map of Logaia.
    Alaxius explained: “You take the Great West Road to here where it forks; this way goes to Barbaria and that way to the Conical Mountains, where we first met you. Are you sure you want to go there? The cavepeople are not to be fooled with.”
    “Don’t care if they’re ten-foot cannibals,” said Hobart. “I’ll find Hoimon if I spend the rest of my life looking.”
    Alaxius shrugged. “No concern of mine. I’ll accompany you to the fork, though.”
    “Nice of you.”
    “Not at all. I want to make sure you’re on your way.”
    When Hobart started to pull the face-shading hood over his head, he was reminded of the coronet. He hesitated; if it was real gold it ought to fetch—but then he took the thing off and put it on the bed. He would not take advantage of old Gordius by accepting his gold under false pretenses.
    In the dim hall they almost ran into the Princess Argimanda. Hobart