Free The Undesired Princess by L. Sprague deCamp Page B

Again came the flicker and the little yellow flame, near the spark but not identical with it. The light showed a taper in the hand of a man standing in front of the signpost, peering at it. In his free hand was the grandfather of horse pistols, and his nag’s face was dimly visible behind him. He had an ordinary bearded Logaian face.
    The stranger moved the taper back and forth in front of the sign, then stared into the darkness, little wrinkles of intentness around his eyes. He blew the taper out, and the red spark was moving back toward where the wagon should be, when Alaxius sneezed—uh khyoo!
    The darkness flicked out in one brilliant flash and the pistol roared. Hobart heard the clatter of the man’s scramble back into his seat, shouting to his animal, and horse and wagon rattled off down the road to Barbaria.
    “Are you hit?” cried Hobart.
    “Never came near me,” came Alaxius’ voice, “but that is a peculiar way to treat strangers in a peaceful country. I do not like being shot at, even by ear. I want to get back to my nice, safe palace.”
    They pulled their horses back on the road. Hobart stubbed his toe.
    “Now what,” he murmured, “can that be?” He bent down and fumbled. It was a musket like the one he carried under his arm.
    “Did you drop a musket, Alaxius?” he asked.
    “Not I. I hate the things.”
    “Somebody did. Let’s have some light.”
    Alaxius, grumbling at the delay, lit his own taper. Another musket lay in the dust of the road twenty feet down the road the stranger had taken. Beyond, on the rim of the dark, they could see another.
    “Who,” said Hobart, “would be running a wagon-load of guns this way at this time of night?”
    “I suppose Valturus,” said Alaxius, “and to the barbarians. He’s not supposed to, but that is all I can think of.”
    “No wonder he looked so cheerful the other night! Does that mean trouble for Logaia?”
    “It should. The barbarians with guns and us with nothing—you can guess the rest.”
    Hobart thought. “I suppose you’ll go back and warn your father?”
    “Now that I think of it, I don’t believe I will,” said Alaxius. “If Logaia is to be conquered, I prefer to be somewhere else. I’ll go to Psythoris, where my cousin rules . . .”
    “But then who—”
    “I don’t know; it’s no concern of mine. If you’re interested, why do you not go?”
    “I will,” snapped Hobart, “and you’re going with me!”
    “But why . . .” bleated Alaxius.
    “Corroboration. Think I want your old man to get the idea I murdered you and then cooked up a yarn to hide it? Come on!”
    Alaxius looked startled, glanced about wildly, and suddenly blew out his taper. But while he was still turning to run, Hobart pounced on him and caught his robe. They scuffled; Alaxius kicked Hobart in the shin, and Hobart cuffed the prince’s face. Alaxius suddenly gave in, crying: “Don’t hit me! Don’t hit me!”
    “Shut up,” growled Hobart. He tied the trembling aesthete’s hands behind his back, and heaved him aboard his horse. Then the engineer picked up his musket, mounted his own horse, and lit the match with his lighter.
    “Now,” he said, “one break and you’ll learn some more about being shot at by ear. March!”
    Alaxius got under way, complaining: “I do not see why you must concern yourself in the fate of Logaia. But a few minutes ago you were trying to escape from it!”
    “No good reason,” agreed Hobart. “It’s just that I’m not as consistent a heel as you are. Hmm, guess we’d better have a story for Gordius, about how we suspected this gun runner and followed him out of town.”
    “Why should I agree to your lies? Suppose I tell Father about your real plans?”
    “Okay, then I’ll tell him how you helped me.” Alaxius got the point.

8
    Hobart was warned by Prince Alaxius that it would take more than the threat of a barbarian invasion to divert the easy-going king from his after-breakfast pipe and paper. So the