Star chopped him off. "We want to get married."

His mouth shut, he looked sharply at Star's waistline and almost bought a punch in the nose. "It is a pleasure. And I must add that I heartily endorse such a public-spirited project. All this modern bundling and canoodling and scuttling without even three cheers or a by-your-leave sends taxes up and profits down that's logic. I only wish I had time to get married myself as I've told my wife many's the time. Now as to plans, if I may make a modest suggestion—"

"We want to be married by the customs of Earth."

"Ah, yes, certainly." He turned to a cabinet near his desk, spun dials. After a bit he said, "Your pardon, gentles, but my head is crammed with a billion facts, large and small, and—that name? Does it start with one ‘R' or two?"

Star moved around, inspected the dials, made a setting.

The rumormonger blinked. "That universe? We seldom have a call for it. I've often wished I had time to travel but business business business—LIBRARY!"

"Yes, Master?" a voice answered.

"The planet Earth, Marriage Customs of—that's a capital ‘Urr' and a soft theta." He added a five-group serial number. "Snap it up!"

In very short time an apprentice came running with a thin scroll. "Librarian says careful how you handle it, Master. Very brittle, he says. He says—"

"Shut up. Your pardon, gentles." He inserted the scroll in a reader and began to scan.

His eyes bugged out and he sat forward. "Unbeliev—" Then he muttered, "Amazing! Whatever made them think of that!" For several minutes he appeared to forget we were there, simply giving vent to: "Astounding! Fantastic!" and like expressions.

I tapped his elbow. "We're in a hurry."

"Eh? Yes, yes, milord Hero Gordon—milady." Reluctantly he left the scanner, fitted his palms together, and said, "You've come to the right place. Not another rumormonger in all Nevia could handle a project this size. Now my thought is—just a rough idea, talking off the top of my head—for the procession we'll need to call in the surrounding countryside although for the charivari we could make do with just townspeople if you want to keep it modest in accordance with your reputation for dignified simplicity—say one day for the procession and a nominal two nights of charivari with guaranteed noise levels of—"

"Hold it."

"Milord? I'm not going to make a profit on this; it will be a work of art, a labor of love—just expenses plus a little something for my overhead. It's my professional judgment, too, that a Samoan pre-ceremony would be more sincere, more touching really, than the optional Zulu rite. For a touch of comedy relief—at no extra charge; one of my file clerks just happens to be seven months along, she'd be glad to run down the aisle and interrupt the ceremony—and of course there is the matter of witnesses to the consummation, how many for each of you, but that needn't be settled this week; we have the street decorations to think of first, and—"

I took her arm. "We're leaving."

"Yes, milord," Star agreed.

He chased after us, shouting about broken contracts. I put hand to sword and showed six inches of blade; his squawks shut off.

Rufo seemed to be all over his mad; he greeted us civilly, even cheerfully. We mounted and left. We had been riding south a mile or so when I said, "Star darling—"

"Milord love?"

"That ‘jumping over the sword'—that really is a marriage ceremony?"

"A very old one, my darling. I think it dates back to the Crusades."

"I've thought of an updated wording:

‘Jump rogue, and princess leap,

‘My wife art thou and mine to keep!'

"—would that suit you?"

"Yes, yes!"

"But for the second line you say:

‘—thy wife I vow and thine to keep.'

"Got it?"

Star gave a quick gasp. "Yes, my love!"

We left Rufo with the longhorses, giving no explanation, and climbed a little wooded hill. All of Nevia is beautiful, with never a beer can nor a dirty Kleenex to mar its Eden loveliness, but here we found an outdoor temple, a smooth grassy place surrounded by arching trees, an enchanted sanctuary.

I drew my sword and glanced along it, feeling its exquisite balance while noting again the faint ripples left by feather-soft hammer blows of some master swordsmith. I tossed it and caught it by the forte. "Read the motto. Star."

She traced it out. " ‘Dum vivimus, vivamus!'—‘While we live, let us live!' Yes, my love, yes!" She kissed it and handed it back; I placed it on the ground.

"Know your lines?" I asked.

"Graved in my heart."

I took her hand in mine. "Jump high. One...two...three!"

Chapter 12

When I led my bride back down that blessed hill, arm around her waist, Rufo helped us mount without comment. But he could hardly miss that Star now addressed me as: "Milord husband." He mounted and tailed in, a respectful distance out of earshot.

We rode hand in hand for at least an hour. Whenever I glanced at her, she was smiling; whenever she caught my eye, the smile grew dimples. Once I asked, "How soon must we keep lockout?"

"Not until we leave the road, milord husband."

That held us another mile. At last she said timidly, "Milord husband?"

"Yes, wife?"

"Do you still think that I am ‘a cold and clumsy wench'?"

"Mmm..." I answered thoughtfully, " ‘cold'—no, I couldn't honestly say you were cold. But ‘clumsy'—Well, compared with an artist like Muri, let us say—"

"Milord husband!"

"Yes? I was saying

"Are you honing for a kick in the belly?" She added, "American!"

"Wife...would you kick me in the belly?"

She was slow in answering and her voice was very low. "No, milord husband. Never."

"I'm pleased to hear it. But if you did, what would happen?"

"You—you would spank me. With my own sword. But not with your sword. Please, never with your sword...my husband."

"Not with your sword, either. With my hand. Hard. First I would spank you. And then—"

"And then what?"

I told her. "But don't give me cause. According to plans I have to fight later. And don't interrupt me in the future."

"Yes, milord husband."

"Very well. Now let's assign Muri an arbitrary score of ten. On that scale you would rate—Let me think."

"Three or four, perhaps? Or even five?"

"Quiet. I make it about a thousand. Yes, a thousand, give or take a point. I haven't a slide rule."

"Oh, what a beast you are, my darling! Lean close and loss me—and just wait till I tell Muri."

"You'll say nothing to Muri, my bride, or you will be paddled. Quit fishing for compliments. You know what you are, you sword-jumping wench."

"And what am I?"

"My princess."

"Oh."

"And a mink with its tail on fire—and you know it."

"Is that good? I've studied American idiom most carefully but sometimes I am not sure."

"It's supposed to be tops. A figure of speech, I've never known a mink that well. Now get your mind on other matters, or you may be a widow on your bridal day. Dragons, you say?"

"Not until after nightfall, milord husband—and they aren't really dragons."

"As you described them, the difference could matter only to another dragon. Eight feet high at the shoulders, a few tons each, and teeth as long as any forearm—all they need is to breathe flame."

"Oh, but they do! Didn't I say?"

I sighed. "No, you did not."

"They don't exactly breathe fire. That would kill them. They hold their breaths while flaming. It's swamp gas—methane—from the digestive tract. It's a controlled belch, with a hypergolic effect from an enzyme secreted between the first and second rows of teeth. The gas bursts into flame on the way out."

"I don't care how they do it; they're flame-throwers. Well? How do you expect me to handle them?"