little princelings who had set up minor dominions for themselves out here in the vast measureless wastelands of the Outback – and reigning under a false name, at that – one more shoddy scoundrel, one more puffed-up little nobody swollen with unearned pride –
Well, and what difference did it make? He would sojourn awhile in the land of this Prester John, and then he would move on, alone, apart from others, traveling a separate path without destination or purpose, mourning as always his lost Enkidu. There never seemed any escaping that doom that lay upon him, that bitter solitude, whether he reigned in splendor in the Uruk of his ancient life or wandered in the forlorn wastes of this Afterworld.
“Their Excellencies P.E. Lovecraft and Howard E. Robert,” cried the major-domo grandly though inaccurately, striking three times on the black marble floor of Prester John’s throne-chamber with his gold-tipped staff of pale green jade. “Envoys Plenipotentiary of His Britannic Majesty King Henry VIII of the Kingdom of New Holy Resurrected England.”
Lovecraft and Howard took a couple of steps forward. Yeh-lu Ta-shih nodded curtly and waved one elegant hand, resplendent with inch-long fingernails, in casual acknowledgement. The envoys plenipotentiary did not seem to hold much interest for him, nor, apparently, did whatever it was that had caused His Britannic Majesty King Henry to send them here.
The emperor’s cool imperious glance turned toward Gilgamesh, who was struggling to hold himself erect. He was beginning to feel feverish and dizzy and he wondered if he should point out that there was an oozing hole in his arm. There were limits even to his endurance, after all, though he usually tried to conceal that fact. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold out. There were times when behaving like a hero was a heroic pain in the ass, and this was one of them.
“– and his Late Highness Gilgamesh of Uruk son of Lugalbanda, great king, king of Uruk, king of kings, lord of the Land of the Two Rivers by merit of Enlil and An,” boomed the major-domo in the same splendid way, looking down only once at the card he held in his hand.
“Great king?” said Yeh-lu Ta-shih, fixing Gilgamesh with one of the most intensely penetrating stares the Sumerian could remember having received. “King of kings? Those are very lofty titles, Gilgamesh of Uruk.”
“A mere formula,” Gilgamesh replied, “which I thought appropriate when being presented at your court. In fact I am king of nothing at all now.”
“Ah,” said Yeh-lu Ta-shih. “King of Nothing-at-all.”
And so are you, my lord Prester John
. Gilgamesh did not let himself say it, though the words bubbled toward the roof of his mouth and begged to be uttered.
And so are all the self-appointed lords and masters of the many realms of the Afterworld.
The slender amber-hued man on the throne leaned forward. “And where then, I pray, is Nothing-at-all?”
Some of the courtiers began to snicker. But Prester John seemed to be altogether in earnest, though it was impossible to be completely certain of that. He was plainly a formidable man, Gilgamesh had quickly come to see: sly, shrewd, self-contained, with a tough and sinewy intelligence. Not at all the vain little cock-of-the-walk Gilgamesh had expected to find in this bleak and remote corner of the Outback. However smalland obscure his principality might be, Prester John ruled it, obviously, with a firm grasp. The grandeur of the glittering palace that his scruffy subjects had built for him here on the edge of nowhere, and the solidity of the small but substantial city surrounding it, testified to that. Gilgamesh knew something about the building of cities and palaces. Prester John’s capital bore the mark of the steady toil of centuries.
The long stare was unrelenting. Gilgamesh, fighting back the blazing pain in his arm, met the emperor’s gaze with an equally earnest one of his own and
Well, and what difference did it make? He would sojourn awhile in the land of this Prester John, and then he would move on, alone, apart from others, traveling a separate path without destination or purpose, mourning as always his lost Enkidu. There never seemed any escaping that doom that lay upon him, that bitter solitude, whether he reigned in splendor in the Uruk of his ancient life or wandered in the forlorn wastes of this Afterworld.
“Their Excellencies P.E. Lovecraft and Howard E. Robert,” cried the major-domo grandly though inaccurately, striking three times on the black marble floor of Prester John’s throne-chamber with his gold-tipped staff of pale green jade. “Envoys Plenipotentiary of His Britannic Majesty King Henry VIII of the Kingdom of New Holy Resurrected England.”
Lovecraft and Howard took a couple of steps forward. Yeh-lu Ta-shih nodded curtly and waved one elegant hand, resplendent with inch-long fingernails, in casual acknowledgement. The envoys plenipotentiary did not seem to hold much interest for him, nor, apparently, did whatever it was that had caused His Britannic Majesty King Henry to send them here.
The emperor’s cool imperious glance turned toward Gilgamesh, who was struggling to hold himself erect. He was beginning to feel feverish and dizzy and he wondered if he should point out that there was an oozing hole in his arm. There were limits even to his endurance, after all, though he usually tried to conceal that fact. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold out. There were times when behaving like a hero was a heroic pain in the ass, and this was one of them.
“– and his Late Highness Gilgamesh of Uruk son of Lugalbanda, great king, king of Uruk, king of kings, lord of the Land of the Two Rivers by merit of Enlil and An,” boomed the major-domo in the same splendid way, looking down only once at the card he held in his hand.
“Great king?” said Yeh-lu Ta-shih, fixing Gilgamesh with one of the most intensely penetrating stares the Sumerian could remember having received. “King of kings? Those are very lofty titles, Gilgamesh of Uruk.”
“A mere formula,” Gilgamesh replied, “which I thought appropriate when being presented at your court. In fact I am king of nothing at all now.”
“Ah,” said Yeh-lu Ta-shih. “King of Nothing-at-all.”
And so are you, my lord Prester John
. Gilgamesh did not let himself say it, though the words bubbled toward the roof of his mouth and begged to be uttered.
And so are all the self-appointed lords and masters of the many realms of the Afterworld.
The slender amber-hued man on the throne leaned forward. “And where then, I pray, is Nothing-at-all?”
Some of the courtiers began to snicker. But Prester John seemed to be altogether in earnest, though it was impossible to be completely certain of that. He was plainly a formidable man, Gilgamesh had quickly come to see: sly, shrewd, self-contained, with a tough and sinewy intelligence. Not at all the vain little cock-of-the-walk Gilgamesh had expected to find in this bleak and remote corner of the Outback. However smalland obscure his principality might be, Prester John ruled it, obviously, with a firm grasp. The grandeur of the glittering palace that his scruffy subjects had built for him here on the edge of nowhere, and the solidity of the small but substantial city surrounding it, testified to that. Gilgamesh knew something about the building of cities and palaces. Prester John’s capital bore the mark of the steady toil of centuries.
The long stare was unrelenting. Gilgamesh, fighting back the blazing pain in his arm, met the emperor’s gaze with an equally earnest one of his own and
Similar Books
