The Wicked and the Witless coaaod-5

by Hugh Cook

  'That,' said Tarkal, no sword in his hands but no fear in his voice, 'reflects its breeding.' 'Draw, dog!' shouted Sarazin, enraged.

  'No need for amateur theatricals,' said Tarkal, his voice as cool as bone beneath water. 'Shall we wait until the sun has warmed the world before we fight?' 'We wait for nothing,' said Jarl. We fight. Now!'

  Sarazin, quick-breathing, was gladdened by Jarl's voice. He remembered to slow his breathing. The iron grip of the shield was warming beneath his fingers. He was ready. 'No games now,' said Jarl. 'Fight to kill.'

  But Tarkal, with studied insolence, delayed while he cracked his knuckles one by one, donned leather gauntlets, accepted sword and shield from retainers, then paused to test the weight and balance of his equipment.

  Then, finally – when Sarazin was tense enough to scream – Tarkal settled himself for combat. A sardonic smile on his face. And Sarazin found himself- Paralysed. Incapable of action.

  Strange gnat-sized squiggles of darkness scrawled across his field of vision. His legs were shaking. And Tarkal, smiling, smiling, was leisuring towards him, sword on guard and- 'Strike!' screamed Jarl.

  The word snapped Sarazin into action. His blade leapt for Tarkal's throat, as if of its own volition. Sword clashed with sword. Then the two broke apart. Panting.

  Jarl shouted: 'Lunge!'

  Tarkal moved to parry a lunge which never came. The unaccustomed shield-weight tricked his feet. Momen- tarily, Tarkal stumbled. Sarazin seized his chance. He charged. Shield smashed against shield. All Sarazin's bodyweight was behind the charge. Tarkal staggered backwards, went down. 'No!' screamed Amantha.

  But already Tarkal was getting to his feet. He scrabbled for shield and sword, found sword alone, brought the blade to the challenge – and saw Sarazin's shield flying through the air towards him. Thrown full force. No time to dodge. No time to duck. Steel must avail. Tarkal met shield with sword. 'Hal' screamed Jarl, expecting the sword to break. But sword deflected shield. Take him as I've taught you!' shouted Jarl.

  Sarazin advanced upon Tarkal. Breathing harshly. Both hands on the hilt of his sword. As both combatants had lost their shields, it was bare blades now. To the death. 'Ska!' screamed Tarkal. Striking with all his force. 'Hal' screamed Sarazin. Striking full-force at Tarkal's oncoming blade.

  The blades met. The full strength of two men was devoted to their meeting. And one blade broke. Steel went flying, somersaulting, sun-spangling. Tarkal dared a thrust – then realised his fist held nothing but a swordhilt. The Chenameg princeling gaped at the hilt of the sword. The blade had been torn clean away from the hilt. 'Kill!' yelled Jarl.

  But before Sarazin could lunge, Tarkal was running. He fled slap-bang into the arms of his startled supporters. 'Now!' screamed Jarl. Sarazin lunged. And spiked Tarkal's left buttock. 'The spine!' roared Jarl. 'Stab him in the spine!'

  But Tarkal dropped to his hands and knees and rabbited away between the legs of his courtiers. Two of those worthies drew swords and advanced on Sarazin, meaning to kill him.

  'None of that,' said Jarl, interposing his death-blade between the would-be murderers and their intended victim. The courtiers, who were but overgrown boys, stepped back smartly, unwilling to fight such a hard-bitten veteran. 'All right,' said Jarl. 'Clean the rat's blood from your blade and we'll be going.'

  So saying, he gave Sarazin a rag with which to clean his blade. Meanwhile, Amantha had gone to the aid of her wounded brother. 'Tarkal!' she cried.

  'It is nothing,' he said, waving her away. 'My darling,' she said, dabbing at the blood with her handkerchief.

  While his sister tended his wound, Tarkal said to Sarazin:

  'You have ended my quest. You have ruined my hopes of glory. Does that give your warped peasant brain some grain of satisfaction?' 'What quest is that?' said Sarazin.

  And heard one of the retainers whisper to another, in shocked delight:. 'He doesn't know!'

  'What have I done?' said Sarazin, bewildered and distressed. But they gave him no answer. 'Come,' said Jarl to Sarazin. 'Let's be going.'

  Once they were decently removed from the courtiers, Sarazin asked: 'How did I do?' 'Better than I expected,' said Jarl. 'After all, you're alive.'

  'But – but I did something wrong, didn't I? Because they were so upset – about the quest, I mean. What was that all about?'

  Their own business,' said Jarl, 'which is no concern of ours. Tarkal was on the quest which is traditional for the oldest son of the king of Chenameg.' 'What quest is that?' said Sarazin.

  To search for the tectonic lever and set the same in action.' 'Tectonic lever?'

  'A war machine from the days of the Technic Renais- sance. Legend sets it in the terror-lands of the Deep South, far beyond Drangsturm. It is said to have the power to sink Argan.' 'To sink…?' 'To plunge the continent beneath the waves.'

  'A weapon indeed!' said Sarazin. 'But how would Chenameg profit if Argan sank? Chenameg is itself but a part of Argan.'

  'Ah!' said Jarl. 'But legend holds that Argan North would not entirely be swallowed by the sea. While waves would swamp the Harvest Plains entire, the rising seas would leave Chenameg with a border with the ocean.' 'I see! The Harvest Plains would drown, and Chenameg 'Chenameg would become a great seapower,' said Jarl, lording its power over the ruins of a sunken world.'

  'And we – we allow these princes thus to try to encompass our doom?' Jarl laughed.

  'By tradition, each questing hero turns back on getting his first wound. You gave Tarkal a scratch, so he goes home a hero.'.

  'That's not much of a quest!' said Sarazin, with a touch of outrage in his voice.

  'Ah,' said Jarl, "but it's the best kind of quest for one in line for wealth and power. A survivable quest, quickly undertaken near to home. No prince in the last five generations has needed to quest beyond the borders of the Harvest Plains to get the scratch which sent him home.' 'If I were a prince of Chenameg-'

  Yes,' said Jarl, 'yes, I know. You'd feel yourself honour- bound to quest through danger until you came to this tectonic lever, yea, though you had to fight through fifty thousand dragons to reach its doorstep.'

  Sarazin, chagrined to be so easily read, blushed. To cover his confusion, he went on the attack:

  'How come you never told me this in Voice? Surely I should have been told!'

  Why?' said Jarl. 'I taught you weapons. That was my responsibility. Nothing more, nothing less. Anyway, I never knew much of Chenameg till I came to Selzirk. But since then, I've found out much.'

  As members of the Watch were still trying to persuade Jarl to mastermind a coup and put Sarazin on the throne of the Harvest Plains, Jarl was doing his very best to learn all he could of both the internal and external politics of the nation.

  I've never asked you this before,' said Sarazin, 'but – why did you come back with me? From Voice, I mean.' 'I like to finish what I start,' said Jarl.

  Which reminded him: it was about time for him to complete his latest report and send it off to Lord Regan of the Rice Empire. Master of Combat, conspirator, spy and tutor to Sarazin to boot: Thodric Jarl was a busy man indeed. 'I've another question,' said Sarazin. 'What?'

  'At the end of the fight, why did Amantha go to Tarkal, not to me?'

  'What a senseless question!' said Jarl. 'He's her brother, hence owns her allegiance. What did you expect?'

  'But it was for love of her that I got myself into all this trouble!'

  'Then the more fool you,' said Jarl, 'for she's a nasty piece of work, if I'm any judge of womanflesh.'

  Perhaps. But she was the woman Sarazin wanted. And he was still determined to make her his before the embassy left Selzirk to return to Chenameg.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lod: gambler, layabout and professional debtor who also happens to be the youngest son of King Lyra of Chenameg and guest of Farfalla of the Harvest Plains.

  Description: a slim, graceful man of twenty who has athlete's foot and (alasl) syphilis, and a wary eye alert for approaching creditors.


  Rest lence: guest quarters (by the Hall of Wine), palace of the kingmaker, Selzirk.

  Once Sarazin was back in his quarters the full import of what had happened began to sink in. He was alive! Alive and – blessed be the gods! – unhurt. He was ebullient. He danced up and down on the spot for the sheer joy of being alive.

  Abruptly his mood changed. Realising how completely he had failed, he threw himself down on his bed. He was disgusted with himself. The duel had been his big chance: but he had bungled it. He could have killed Tarkal three times over if his heart had really been in the fight. But his enemy had escaped with little more than a scratch. -What could I have been thinking of?

  Unfortunately, he knew exactly what he had been thinking of: chiefly his own mortality. He had been scared. Shit scared. (Literally, since fear was the source of that morning's diarrhoea.) And he had let Tarkal escape. A bad mistake indeed, since he must kill Tarkal sooner or later, otherwise there was very little point pursuing Amantha. -What now?

  Self-disgust was already giving way to fatigue. He was very, very weary. He closed his eyes, intending to take just a little nap, and when he woke it was afternoon. A meal was sitting on a chair by his bed, the plate covered by muslin to protect it against the summer flies. Lunch, doubtless. He wished Bizzie had woken him when she brought the meal, for he had work to do.

  He had to arrange another meeting with Amantha so he could once more declare his love to her.

  When Sarazin found the embassy was returning to the Chenameg Kingdom the very next day, he looked for Lod, since he wanted advice urgently. He had decided to pen some lines in praise of Amantha and wanted Lod to tell him what would appeal to his sister. But Lod was nowhere to be found. Accordingly, Sarazin did the best he could unaided.

  The next day, Sarazin was on hand when the visitors assembled at noon to take their departure. They faced a long journey eastward from Selzirk to Chenameg's borders, then through the forests to Shin, which was King Lyra's capital.

  Farfalla herself was not there to farewell the embassy. Word had come from Androlmarphos to say the governor of the place had died, so she had departed for that city, where she would officiate at the funeral.

  She would not, however, appoint another governor. Not today, not tomorrow. The privilege of appointing such 'kings' was one of the few powers the Regency had been unable to alienate from her. Such positions were eagerly sought after, and competition would be fierce.

  For once, Farfalla would have real power, real influence. Of course, while she toyed with those who sought to become king of Androlmarphos, the city's administration would suffer. But – what of it? Once she appointed a king, another vacancy might not occur for twenty years. Or thirty. By which time she might be long dead. -This is not the game I would have chosen.

  Thus thought Farfalla. But it was the only game in town.

  Farfalla's downstream journey westward from Selzirk to Androlmarphos would be swift. But the embassy travelling east would have a slow journey, for the riders had but one horse apiece. Furthermore, three baggage wagons were going with them, heavily laden with goods usually un- obtainable in Chenameg, plus gifts from Farfalla and from the Regency.

  None of the travellers condescended to notice Sarazin's existence – least of all Tarkal, who was sitting bravely in his saddle with a plump swansdown pillow between his injured buttock and the unforgiving leather.

  In a few moments they would leave and Sarazin's chance would be gone. So:

  'In honour of the Princess Amantha,' said Sarazin loudly, 'I wish to read a poem.' 'So it can read,' said Tarkal. 'Hush,' said Amantha. 'Let it read. That can do no harm.'

  Amantha, despite herself, could not help being interested in a poem which promised to honour her. Sarazin produced his manuscript with a flourish, and cleared his throat.

  He had been trained in oratory, and had read his poems in public in Voice often enough, to generous applause – but, even so, could not help but feel nervous.

  Well,' said Tarkal. 'Get on with it. We haven't got all day.'

  So Sarazin began to read his poem: 'Though even phoenix must in time renew-' Tarkal sneezed, and his horse suddenly began to sidestep with a clatter of hooves on cobblestones. As if by black magic, an epidemic of coughing and sneezing broke out amongst the courtiers; their horses became restless; their hound-dogs howled But Sarazin, raising his voice, continued his lines about petal-scented wonder, the worship of shadows, the adora- tion of hearts, the difficulties which must lovers sunder, and that fine renaissance of feeling which will in time splendour love anew.

  Concluding, he offered his manuscript to Amantha, saying:

  'Fair flower of inspiration, please accept this humble token of my esteem.'

  This kind of flowery phraseology had been all the fashion in Voice (though there, of course, Sarazin had couched his phrases in the Geltic of the Rice Empire, instead of the City Churl which he spoke in Selzirk).

  Amantha did not accept his offering. 'Ah, so it is in love,' said she. 'Poor thing! Like a pig- dog in lust with the moon.' And all the retinue laughed.

  'You know how to brawl,' said Tarkal, 'if not how to duel, but you'll never make a poet in a million years.'

  'How dare you sneer at me?' said Sarazin. 'I beat you in fair combat!'

  You came armed as if for a gutter fight,' said Tarkal, 'armed with a common brawler's weapon. How was I to know you would stoop so low?' 'I came with a weapon of war!' said Sarazin.

  'Oh, indeed!' said Amantha. 'A weapon of war! Do you expect me to hold you in great wish when you try for your honour with a common soldier's bludgeon?'

  'My blade's no bludgeon!' protested Sarazin. 'It's a weapon-sword true, a tooth of Stokos steel, the world's most expensive bladework!' 'Money,' said Amantha, 'never yet bought class.'

  And, as Sarazin stood there, dismayed, his mouth agape, she flicked the reins of her horse and rode away.

  Sarazin was devastated by Amantha's rejection of his poem. He had laboured on it long and hard, first writing it in Geltic, then translating it into Churl, then trying it out on Bizzie (no other critic being available).

  Still, he could survive the rejection of his art. He knew genius creates the taste by which it is appreciated; this takes time, a commodity Amantha was not prepared to afford him. But the insult to his weapon was a more serious matter. Sarazin took his woes to his swordmaster. 'What's the problem?' said Thodric Jarl. They say my blade is that of a common soldier.' 'Who says?' 'The people from Chenameg.'

  "Who heeds the defeated?' said Jarl, scornfully. This much I've learnt from a lifetime's campaigning: no loser was ever outclassed or outfought. The victor always bluffed, cheated or was aided by the weather. Thus speak the defeated.' 'But they-' They play at battle as if it was a game,' said Jarl.

  'Duelling,' said Sarazin, with more than a touch of pomposity, 'has ever been a feature of the noble life.'

  'Games,' repeated Jarl. Well, that's not what I was hired to teach you.' What have you taught me, then?' said Sarazin, unwisely.

  'Death, not dancing. Survival, not style. If princes and such wish to charade with steel and call it combat – well, that's no business of mine. But – mark well! – you'll meet with no fighting for fashion's sake in a brothel brawl or a battlefield bloodbath.'

  Sarazin had the impression he had heard all this before. As indeed he had. Six or seven times at least. 'So I was right to fight with my Stokos steel?' said Sarazin.

  To stay alive? Of course! Whatever weapon serves, that's the one to use. Over the years, I've defended my life with everything from a dead cat to a full-charged chamber pot.'

  'But I wasn't being fair to Tarkal, was I?' said Sarazin. 'I knew he wouldn't know the tricks of shieldwork. I knew my blade would likely break his.'

  "You were right to fight on your terms, not his,' said Jarl. 'After all, he started it. Anyway, that's one of the greater parts of the art of war: forcing the enemy to fight on ground of your choosing.' 'But they laughed at me!'

  They laughed
, you lived,' said Jarl. 'I wouldn't complain too much about that.'

  'What about my poem?' said Sarazin. 'They laughed at that, too. Amantha in particular.' 'That does you no lasting harm either,' said Jarl. 'But why did she laugh at my poem?'

  'Ask the sun, the moon or the fish in the sea, but don't ask me. Poems are pretty enough, if you like that kind of thing, but one sounds much like another to me.'

  Then, since Sarazin was on hand, Jarl launched him upon a session of sword-training.

  One sweaty training session later, Sarazin surrendered his blade of firelight steel to Thodric Jarl and went hunting for Lod. Who was nowhere to be found. It was scarcely practical to quarter Selzirk entire in the hope of finding him by chance, so, after some thought, Sarazin went to ask Madam Ix for news of Lod.

  Since Sarazin sometimes had his doubts about the efficacy of fortune telling he had often wanted to test the skills of the mystery workers on some practical problem. This looked to be the ideal opportunity.

  I'm hunting for Lod,' said Sarazin, when he was admitted to the presence of Ix of the Mystery.

  'Does this look like a brothel?' said Madam Ix. 'Or a booze barn? Or a gambling den? You'll not find him here. But just for interest's sake – how much money does he owe you?' "None,' said Sarazin, promptly.

  On a little reflection, he was surprised to realise it was true. Jarl's lecturing must have taught Sarazin some wisdom, because he had never let Lod borrow money from him. Mind you: he had never really had money spare to lend.

  Then,' said Madam Ix, 'if he owes you no money, what do you want him for? Have you decided you love him?'

  "Nay,' said Sarazin. 'We exhausted love in our last incarnations when we were dogs in the street together. He's missing. I'm worried about him. If he's not here, can your Art find him?' 'Of course,' said Madam Ix, 'for the Art knows no limits.'

  But the price she named was very, very high. Sarazin, entirely unable to meet such a price, asked:

  'Pray tell, why is this service priced so high? Do you seek to avoid a true test of your Art by setting such a price?' 'Selzirk is a sewer,' said Madam Ix, 'and Lod a clod lost somewhere in that sewer. The price I set is the price for delving in unclean things. If you must use the Art for improper purposes you must pay the penalty.'