by Hugh Cook
'Still,' said Sarazin, 'it can't have been pleasant. Tell me – have you always been at odds with Tarkal?' 'No, not always,' said Lod. 'Only for twenty years.'
This was one of Lod's jokes, since Lod was, as Sarazin knew well, twenty years old – two years younger than Amantha and five years younger than Tarkal. But, as the joke was so weak, Sarazin did not waste time laughing. Instead he asked: 'How about Amantha?'
'Oh, we get on all right,' said Lod. 'I don't think she's much of a sister, but then I've nothing much to compare her with, have I?'
'No,' said Sarazin, 'I meant Amantha and Tarkal. How do they get on?'
'Oh, very well,' said Lod. "Very well indeed. Friend Sarazin, you wouldn't believe how well they get on.'
Then Lod laughed aloud at some very private joke, which he declined to share with Sarazin even when asked to. 'Why do you ask anyway?' said Lod.
'I want to know as much about Amantha as I can,' said Sarazin. 'I want you to tell me everything you know about her.'
Why,' said Lod, dismissively, 'she's a woman, is she not? That tells you everything you need to know.' 'But not how to make her love me I'
'Friend Sarazin, I'm no expert on love. What say we take your questions to a fortune-teller?' We've done that.'
Ah, but so far you've only consulted the second-rate. Now it's time to seek help from the best. The woman I'm talking of is Madam Sosostris. Let me tell you about her…'
What Lod told Sarazin of the skill, power and ability of Madam Sosostris convinced him that she was worth a visit. So he allowed Lod to lead him to her premises. However, on arrival they found she was laid up with a bad cold.
'Nevertheless,' said Lod, 'she's known to be the wisest woman in Selzirk.'
'I believe you,' said Sarazin, who did. 'But, when do you think I can see her?'
'I'm no doctor,' said Lod, 'so I couldn't tell you. How about we try again tomorrow?' 'All right,' said Sarazin.
But when they called round early the next day they were told Madam Sosostris was still sick in bed. So Sarazin had to continue his campaign against Amantha without her advice.
Later that day, there was an official banquet at which Sarazin was one of the guests, Amantha another. Music tranced around them as they gorged themselves on delight. Clean napery and the sparkle of jewels. A night to remember.
Sarazin tried to catch Amantha's eye, yet her very gaze refused him.
Disgruntled, he quit the banquet early, pleading nausea, and retired to his own quarters, where he lay on his bed in something close to a sulk. Dreaming of taming Amantha with whips and chains, spurs and goads. Her pride wet- whimpering at his feet.
'What is the problem?' said Bizzie, his maid, on seeing that he was downcast. 'A woman,' he said gloomily.
He knew what she would suggest, and wanted nothing to do with it. While he had only recently begun taking advantage of her availability, he was already tired of her fat red face, her bloated body. There was something disgusting about her earthy intimacies: so different from the silken soft-voiced pleasures he had enjoyed with Jaluba in Voice. 'In lust again, ducks?' said Bizzie. 'Well, never mind.'
She laid herself down on his bed and pulled up her skirts, exposing her triangle. Hating himself for his weakness, Sarazin once again made good use of her flesh. It humi- liated him, this traffic with a member of the lower orders. But he could not deny his animal. 'Cheer up,' said Bizzie. 'It can't be that bad.'
Then she licked, tickled and told rude jokes, but got not the whisper of a smile out of him.
'You'll feel better tomorrow,' she said, taking her accustomed silver. 'Tomorrow,' said Sarazin gloomily, 'never comes.'
But Bizzie was already gone, for she had work to do. Left alone, Sarazin lay staring up at the ceiling. Brooding. Degraded by tumbling with a common servant. 'Farfalla,' he muttered, a touch of hatred in his voice.
It was her fault. She it was who had bred him to his station. And who had, shortly after his recovery from the river-fever, encouraged him to make an arrangement with Bizzie. Lust will out somehow, Farfalla had said – pointing out that Selzirk's whores were rich with venereal diseases.
'Amantha,' said Sarazin, treasuring the name of his princess.
Was he really in love? He hoped so. After all, there was no other genuine princess on the horizon. So if he was not in love with this one, then he was in trouble.
He touched his limpness. Dank thing smelling, now, of woman.
Why is it this?' he said, in a voice which was almost a moan. This which rules us?'
Love, thought Sarazin, should not be so physical. So vulgar. Smells and slurpings. Stickiness of skin against skin. Wet exudate aftermath. -Music. I wish for a love like music. Maybe he could make a poem out of that.
Attempting to do just that, Sarazin sat up late, trying to pen lines which would body forth his regret for his possession of a body, and enshrine in deathless verse his wish to be made out of music. He was still hard at it towards midnight, when Bizzie came to him again. 'Still awake?' she said. 'I thought you might be.'
'It's no use,' he said. 'Apart from anything else, I've no more silver.'
'Goodwill's got a value of its own,' she said. 'And my husband's out late again with his darts team. Come on, love, shove over.'
She did her best, as ever. And his flesh, as always, could not deny its nature.
That night, Sarazin dreamed he possessed Amantha. His dream was so real, so intense, so certain, that, on waking, he was ready to dare her scorn again. His chance came when he was sent to escort the noble guests, who were going hawking for the day.
It was the very end of summer: hot, dry and dusty. Soon, autumn rains would cool the weather. But, for the moment, the heat and dust were almost unendurable. They were favoured with very little sport, for shooting birds was a standard child's pastime in the Harvest Plains, so little was left for royal hunters.
When far from Selzirk, Sarazin again tried Amantha's temper, riding up alongside his princess so he could pro- position her. 'Sweetest charm,' he began. 'Forget it,' said Amantha. You haven't even heard me out!' 'I know what you want to talk about. About tupping.' 'About marriage!' protested Sarazin. 'The substance,' said Amantha, 'is the same.'
'What's your objection?' said Sarazin. 'Do you wish to be virgin forever?'
'You know my objection already,' said Amantha. 'You are not of the Favoured Blood, and never will be.' Meaning he was not royal.
At which point Sarazin realised Tarkal had ridden up beside him. 'Are you troubling my sister?' said Tarkal.
While Sarazin was still trying to think of a diplomatic reply, Tarkal grabbed him by the collar then raked his horse with his spurs. The horse reared. Sarazin was hauled from the saddle and flung to the dust. He landed heavily. Looking up, he saw Tarkal staring down at him from horse-height. 'Peonl' said Tarkal. 'How dare you proposition my sister?' Thus spoke Tarkal. Then spat. Accurately.
Sarazin wiped saliva from his face. Slowly. He hoisted himself from the ground. It hurt to move, but nothing was broken. 'Does it demand satisfaction?' asked Tarkal.
'I have gutted dung-eating pigs before,' said Sarazin. 'I already know the colour of their offal.'
"Now I demand satisfaction!' said Tarkal. You have the choice of weapons, of course.' Sarazin hesitated. 'Do you deny me satisfaction?' said Tarkal.
'Are you a coward?' asked Amantha, her scorn de- nouncing him as exactly that.
They began riding round and round him, their horses kicking up dust which infiltrated his nose. Sarazin tried hard not to sneeze, because that would have been undig- nified. Some dust got in his eyes, which began watering furiously. 'He's crying!' said Tarkal. 'I am not!' shouted Sarazin.
'Of course you are,' jeered Tarkal. You're scared. You're a coward. Crying like a baby!' 'There's dust in my eyes,' protested Sarazin.
'Heroes fight and cowards run,' said Tarkal. 'Heroes fight and cowards run.'
He made a chant from the words, like a big child taunt- ing a smaller. His companions joined
him in the chant. 'I'll fight then!' shouted Sarazin. Amantha laughed.
'Did I hear aright?' she said. 'I thought I heard it say it will fight.' 'I will fight!' said Sarazin. 'With what weapons?' said Tarkal. 'Swords, of course,' said Sarazin. 'Swords and shields.'
The reply came naturally, for these were the weapons ne used when training with Thodric Jarl. Training for battle. Training for war.
'You mean to fight with shields?' said Tarkal, incred- ulously. What kind of daffing is this?'
'Swords and shields,' said Sarazin. 'I can bear the weight, even if you cannot.' 'He means it,' said someone. And there was a titter of poorly suppressed laughter. 'Shields, then,' said Tarkal.
And grabbed the reins of Sarazin's horse, and galloped away.
'Hey!' shouted Sarazin. 'Hey! Hey! Come backl' Laughing, they jaunted away with a jingle of sharps and spurs. Sarazin was left to walk back to Selzirk. Which he did. Counting the paces. With every step, he added details to Tarkal's death.
CHAPTER TEN Come, daemon of war, enchant my sword, That dead as daddock may my enemies fall, Their uninhabited bodies sprawl To fields where carrion crows May glutton their blood as potage. I will be a hero, And wage to war forever in foreign fields: For my mother-in-law guards the gates of my return.
– Saba Yavendar, 'Hero Talk'
***
When Thodric Jarl heard of the duel, he cursed Sarazin for a fool. Jarl, the Rovac warrior who had taught Sarazin weaponwork during his long captivity in Voice, knew full well that Farfalla's son was unready for combat. Oh, he had exchanged cuts in duels in Voice, for sure. But that was mere sport undertaken for the sake of scars. This was a matter of death. 'Still,' said Jarl, 'what's done is done.'
After making formal arrangements for the fight – which would take place on the morrow's dawn on the palace battlements – Jarl worked Sarazin hard, thinking fatigue better than fear.
'I'll be wrecked by tomorrow,' said Sarazin at one stage, drenched with sweat from sparring. You're young,' said Jarl. You'll live.'
Jarl, being the war-wise veteran that he was, thought it best to deny Sarazin the leisure that would allow fear to unman him. Wine and women he saw as equally dangerous before a fight, for they comfort, pleasure and relax, mellow- ing the world – whereas battle thrives on bone-cold hatred.
'We have but an evening,' said Jarl. 'That's no time at all. Concentrate! Think combat!'
With Jarl setting the pace, they practised. Not with the dance-light rapiers with which Sarazin had duelled in Voice, but with war weapons of Stokos steel. Strong blades, light enough to be wielded with one hand but heavy enough to cleave through leather and bone. Swords built for endurance in war, blade and tang forged from a single piece of firelight steel, free from weak points such as welds and rivets. While Sarazin's blade was a gift from Lord Regan, Jarl had won his own on a battlefield.
'Likely your nobleman knows no shieldwork,' said Jarl. 'He won't be used to the weight, or trained for it.'
Why?' said Sarazin. 'Surely Tarkal has his place in Chenameg's army.'
'Chenameg has no army,' said Thodric Jarl. 'So Tarkal has never trained for war. So how will he fight?'
'Duelling style. In and out. In and out.' "Yes. Quick as a frog after flies. What will his feet be doing?'
'Quickwork also' said Sarazin. 'In and out, in time with his blade.'
'Right! So watch. Wait. Brunt him with the shield. Let him exhaust himself. Then, when you get a good chance, strike. Hard! But not at his head, mind. Nor at his shield. Strike for his sword.' 'Why?'
'Likely as not, he'll bear a flimsy Chenameg duelling sword. I've seen no firelight steel with this embassy. Since they do no soldiering in Chenameg, all the stuff of local make is designed for fashion.' 'But sharp regardless,' said Sarazin.
'Sharp, yes, but weak. Likely blade will be riveted to the hilt. That's weakness. Sword against sword, you can likely break him.'
'If I'm going to try that,' said Sarazin. 'I don't think I'll use Lord Regan's gift. I'll use my second-best sword. It's strong enough, I think. I've given it a name: Onslaught.'
'A good name for a good weapon,' said Jarl. 'But second- best is not good enough for tomorrow. You'll use the weapon Lord Regan gave you.' 'But I might damage it! It's fearfully valuable!'
Jarl laughed, and clapped Sarazin on the shoulder. Feeling the young man's linen wet with sweat.
It's your liver to worry about,' he said. 'Never your steel. That's war. Listen: here's a lesson for your life. Always take your best steel to war. Best sword, best horse, best boots, best men. Expense saved means nothing to a corpse.'
Lightly he spoke, yet his words brought home to Sarazin the reality of the doom which faced him. As Jarl took Sarazin through a series of stretching exercises, Sarazin realised that this time tomorrow he might be dead. He tried to imagine his death, but found it impossible. The world was but an extension of himself – so how could the world exist if he did not?
– Yet once, before I was born, the world existed without me. Or so it claims.
The thought was so improbable that Sarazin – not for the first time – doubted that the world really existed. Quite apart from its denial of the centrality of Sean Sarazin, there were other things about the world which struck him as unreal. Mortality, for instance.
– A world of people, all doomed to certain death. How could that be possible? If all flesh were truly mortal, how could there be laughter?
– If the world were a fact, and death universal a fact in that fact, surely the streets would run screaming from dawn to dusk. To be born, just to die? What kind of reality is that?
As he had done in the past, Sarazin conjured with the notion that perhaps he was really a god, dreaming. That he would wake, shortly, and resume his true life of power and creation. Death? A word beyond meaning.
This ends our training,' said Jarl, for Sarazin had worked through the last of his stretching exercises while doing his thinking. 'I judge you tired enough to sleep by now. Mind you do! A warrior gets his head down and sleeps whenever the chance is given. That's one of the first lessons of war!'
But, though Jarl had thought Sarazin tired enough to sleep, Farfalla's son lay sleepless long, staring at the dark, conjuring with skulls and bloodclot disaster.
Throughout the night, Thodric Jarl slept soundly on a pallet outside Sarazin's door. If the young man had been fool enough to venture forth to search for card companions or other distractions, Jarl would have woken on the moment. As it was, his guard duty proved eventless.
Sarazin did in fact divert himself. With wine – yes, and with Amantha's flesh. And (lust cruel, direct and shameless, like something done by the body of one insect to another) the very heat of his mother herself. But all this, of course, took place within dream's world of delusions.
Sarazin was still sleeping, still dreaming, when Jarl shook him awake. The young man who would be king startled awake. Smelt the roughwork sweat of the Rovac warrior. It's dark,' said Sarazin.
'Yes, but near dawn,' said Jarl. 'Rouse yourself. It's a great day for it.' -A great day to die.
To his discomfort, Sarazin found he had diarrhoea. He refused breakfast, but accepted the cup of hot green tea which Bizzie brought him. Tea was drunk by few people in Selzirk, but Sarazin indulged himself in it daily. Every morning its savour conjured up memories of Voice, and he wished himself back in that city. 'Fighting, are we?' said Bizzie. Well, good luck to you.' Thanks,' said Sarazin.
Grateful, despite himself, for such good wishes, even though they came from the low-bred mother of his bastard brother Benthorn.
'Get this inside you,' said Jarl, offering Sarazin a tot of rum to follow the tea. 'I thought you told me never to drink and fight.' 'A smahan of rum will do you no harm. Drink I'
Sarazan drank. It was good. Heat in his belly. Warmth in his veins. He longed to linger to enjoy that heat. To rest. To sleep a little more – till noon perhaps. But Jarl was setting the pace and, all too soon, Sarazin was fastening his swordbelt. 'My shi
eld?' 'I'll carry it,' said Jarl.
Then they were on their way to the battlements where Sarazin would confront Tarkal at dawn. The morning was cold, yet the last icechip stars were melting. Pink clouds swathed the eastern horizon. Sarazin shivered. 'Are we late?' he said, seeing Tarkal and his courtiers clustered on the battlements ahead. 'Let's not be late. They'd think me a coward.'
"No need to hurry,' said Jarl. They won't run away. Step loose. Step even.'
Jarl persuaded Sarazin to unstring his battle-tense muscles, making him take it slowly.
Think now,' said Jarl. Think of a stone in water. Deepen your breathing. Deep and slow. Think of a stone steady amidst water. You are that stone. Deep and slow. Breathe in. And out. Deep and slow.. .'
The lull of Jarl's voice and the steady rhythm of walk- ing calmed Sarazin. Then he looked up, and saw the opposition close ahead, a gaudy cabal of silks and smirks, ready, waiting. The morning light was stronger. Conjuring with colours. His footsteps faltered.
'Take the shield, then,' said Jarl, loudly, to give the impression that Sarazin had halted to ask for that object. Sarazin took the weight. 'Onward,' urged Jarl, low-voiced.
Sarazin closed the distance. Amantha, her hands buried deep in a wolverine muff, studied him with disdain. Her maids exchanged glances and giggles. A courtier indulged himself with a pinch of snuff. Yawned. As Tarkal stepped forward.
'So,' said Tarkal, beginning a devastatingly witty speech which he had carefully prepared the night before. 'Our young peasant friend has condescended to join us at last. I see he-'
Without warning, Jarl slapped Sarazin on the back and shouted: 'Draw!'
Sarazin drew. Sword lept from sheath. He shouted as he had been taught: 'Ah-hai!'
The battle-cry came from his gut, focusing energy on action. He quivered with warlike aggression. Which made Amantha laugh. Her laughter tinkled like fractured glass. It shivers,' she said. 'See? It is frightened.'
