The Undesired Princess by L. Sprague deCamp

could resume normal hostilities with such faithless ones as the—”
    “Fine, fine,” interrupted Hobart quickly. “Consider it settled; I’ll take the matter up with Gordius first thing. By the way, have you heard anything of our runaway general, Valangas?”
    “Do you mean the son of the sham of the Marathai, Baramyash? He but recently returned to his ancestral home.”
    “Sounds like the same one.”
    “It could be; he would have Logaianized his name while among you. But come, it is dinnertime.” And Khurav rose abruptly and led the way to another compartment of the tent.
    The first course consisted of lamb, roasted. It was served by a pair of husky, good-looking blond wenches in beaded finery and things that jangled when they moved. Khurav, mouth full of mutton, waved at the girls. “My wives,” he said, and took an enormous gulp of wine. “Which will you have?”
    “Uh— what?”
    “Which will you have? You did not think I lied when I said that all of mine was yours, did you? That would be an insult to my hospitality!”
    “I—uh—could I decide later, please?”
    “If you wish. You may have both if you insist, but I pray you will leave me one, for I am fond of them.”
    The next course was lamb, boiled. Hobart had thought he was in a complex predicament when he had learned of the Xerophi family’s plans for him. That was all he had known about complex predicaments! The fearfully perfect Argimanda would have been trial enough, but a she-barbarian—who according to the rules of this world would be one hundred-percent barbarous . . . Let’s see. He couldn’t protest that he was already married, or about to be; Khurav evidently saw nothing out of the way about polygyny. If he refused the gift, the sham would be offended and carve him. If he claimed he was . . .
    The third course was lamb, fricasseed. Khurav talked ponderously of his people’s herds, of the troubles of keeping the wolves from the sheep and the lions from the camels. Hobart foresaw the end of his capacity for lamb; he did not dare stop completely, so diddled with his food. He took a sip of Khurav’s excellent wine for every gulp on the part of the sham.
    Khurav crammed the last pound of lamb into his mouth with both hands, and washed it down with a whole goblet. Then he leaned toward Hobart—they were sitting cross-legged on mats—and belched, horrendously.
    Hobart, though not normally squeamish, flinched. Khurav looked pleased for the first time since Hobart had met him. “Thad was goode wan,” he drawled. “You do battair, Preence!” He suddenly acquired a thick accent, and Hobart was alarmed to see that his host had become quite drunk.
    Hobart opened his mouth and stretched his esophagus, but no belch came.
    “Cawm,” reiterated the sham. “Like thees!” The rugged face opened again, and out came another colossal burp.
    Hobart tried again, with no more result.
    Khurav frowned. “Id is rude, not to belch. You do, queeck, now!”
    Hobart tried desperately to conform to barbarian etiquette. “I can’t!” he cried finally.
    Khurav’s scowl became Stygian. His lip lifted in a snarl. “So! You insuld my hospitality! You want to fighd, yez? Cawm on!” The chieftain bounded to his feet—he was evidently one of those whose physical reflexes were not disorganized by intoxication. He snatched out his sword. “Ub!” he shouted. When Hobart hesitated, Khurav reached down and yanked him to his feet.
    “Theiax!” yelled Hobart as he was marched out the entrance of the big tent.
    Khurav jerked him around and stared at his face.
    “Thad lion, yez? Ho, ho!” He raised his voice to a bellow: “Adshar! Fruz! Yezdeg!”
    “Thu, Sham! Thu, Sham!” answered the darkness, and men materialized into the torchlight. Khurav snarled a question at them; they answered. Some ran off. There was a rattle of chains and a startled roar from a freshly awakened Theiax. The roars rose to frenzied volume and the chains clanked, but the Parathai