The Wicked and the Witless coaaod-5

by Hugh Cook

  Shortly, Fox himself was armed and saddled up, and they were off.

  Sarazin, Benthorn, Fox, Qid and the others quit Selzirk then rode for the east. A long ride it was, too. As the leagues slipped by, fatigue conquered tension, and Sarazin found it hard to stay awake. Once or twice he woke with a start, realising he had been asleep in the saddle. He remembered stories Thodric Jarl had told him about brutal marches in the Cold West when men roped themselves together so they would not be left behind, then stumbled through the night asleep on their feet. He wished Jarl was with them. 'Got any water?' said Qid. 'Anyone got any water?'

  Sarazin's exploring fingers found a leather waterbottle tied to his saddle. He loosened it, felt the weight of it, judged it half full. Uncorked it, took a swig himself. 'Has nobody any water?' said Qid. 'I have,' said Sarazin, 'Here. Catch.'

  He tossed the waterbottle to Qid. Who saw the shadowy object as it was lobbed towards him. Grabbed for it. But unaccountably missed. 'Gah!' he said. You missed?' said Sarazin. 'Butterfingers!' 'Stop, stop,' said Qid, 'I have to look for the water.' 'No time to stop,' said Benthorn. 'Onward!'

  And on they rode, a band of shadows striving through the night. Sarazin once more fell asleep, waking to hear a cock scream, a dog bark. They were at the village of Smork. And already more dogs were waking, rousing the night to fury.

  'Wagons!' shouted Sarazin, as villagers began to spill into the streets. 'Look for wagons, they had him in a wagon.'

  Even as he shouted, his voice began to fail. Strength drained from his limbs. He could not see properly. As his hands loosened on the reins he slid from the saddle. He was sliding, was falling, was helpless to save himself. He hit the ground, but found it soft. Heard Fox screaming a slaughter-shout. But the scream was distant. Fading. To a whisper, then to nothing.

  When Sarazin regained consciousness, buildings all around were burning. Dead men and dead horses lay in the street. Above the uproar of flames he could hear sounds of distant fighting, women wailing, dogs howling.

  Unsteadily, he got to his feet, remembering what Jarl had often told him: 'Look first to your weapon.'

  The brave blade Onslaught was still at his side. Sarazin unsheathed it. Flamelight ran blood red down the steel. Fearfully, he looked around. Saw a man coming down the street, a sword in his hand. Who? The man came closer, and Sarazin saw it was Tarkal.

  Tarkal recognised Sarazin. Smiled. Said nothing, but advanced with his blade at the ready. A burning building collapsed with a crash, spewing burning beams across the street between the two would-be fighters. Fire-fumes wraithed across Sarazin's face, yet he smelt them not. He saw Tarkal dare himself forward, leap the burning beams. Where is Lod?' said Sarazin.

  His voice to his own ears sounded flat. Distant. Dis- torted. Yet Tarkal heard it clearly enough. 'Dead,' said Tarkal.

  Then coughed on smoke, shook his head, and, blinking to squeeze tears from his smoke-watering eyes, abandoned speech for action. As Tarkal strode forward, murder his intent, Sarazin scuffed his feet on the street as he had been taught to do, testing the surface for purchase without taking his eyes off his opponent. -My feet. What's with my feet?

  His feet were numb. But Tarkal was almost upon him, and there was no time left for worry.

  Tarkal closed for the kill. Reflected fire blazed in his eyes. Sarazin feinted, sidestepped, feinted again. Then Tarkal stumbled, fell. Ah-hai!'screamed Sarazin, striking at his fallen opponent.

  His sword sliced through Tarkal's flesh, meeting no resistance. As if Tarkal was made out of smoke. Tarkal scrambled to his feet. Unwounded, unmarked. Sarazin stared at him in horror. 'Are you a ghost?' said Sarazin.

  In reply, Tarkal merely coughed, grimaced – then stab- bed. Sarazin, caught off-guard by the sudden blow, back- stepped to avoid it. And stepped so far back that he fell into darkness. He fell for a long time, screaming, finishing in a pit of snake-twisting dreams and incontrovertible delusions.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Plovey zar Plovey: spokesman for the Regency of Selzirk and mortal enemy of the kingmaker Farfalla.

  Selzirk's first news from Smork was panic-garbled, contradictory and fragmentary. But by noon a supposedly reliable version of the night's events had been compiled. Terrorists, Fox and Sean Sarazin among them, had struck at Smork during the night, attacking Chenameg's embassy and liberating three score chaingang slaves who had then run amok, killing, raping, looting and burning. When presented to a meeting of the Regency, this news was greeted with uproar. "Where then,' said one bureaucrat, 'is Sean Sarazin?'

  'He has fled,' came the reply. 'Tarkal of Chenameg wounded him sorely in combat, but was then overcome by smoke and was unable to pursue him.'

  Then,' said another bureaucrat, 'let us have warrants sworn out for the arrest of Sean Sarazin on charges of assault, hooliganism, conspiracy and high treason, liberating slaves and wanton arson.'

  'And cruelty to animals, too,' said another. 'Doubtless the terrorists rode their horses harder than the law permits.'

  'Do we have witnesses?' said yet another bureaucrat. Witnesses who will swear to Sean Sarazin's complicity? After all, Tarkal is a foreigner. His word might not hold good against Sarazin's in a court of law.'

  We have two reliable witnesses,' came the reply. They have turned state's evidence to save their own skins. They are Fox's son Benthorn and a man of the Watch called Qid. Both will testify to the guilt of Sean Sarazin and Fox.'

  Several voices spoke at once, but one query was clearly heard: Where is Fox?' Tvlissing,' came the reply. 'Hed with Sean Sarazin.'

  Plovey zar Plovey, who had listened to this impassively, then called for silence. Granted silence, he asked for wine to be served. The delay allowed the hysterical excitement to die down. Then Plovey, emphasising that he wished to be heard in silence, unfolded his tale.

  "Most cherished colleagues,' said he, 'young Benthorn is a most useful agent whom I hold in the highest regard. Yet he and his witnesses must on this occasion be mistaken.

  You see, dearest friends, last night I was summoned by Sarazin's tutor. Not his weapon master, Thodric Jarl, but Epelthin Elkin, who learns him in scholarship. It seems Sarazin was studying with Elkin when he collapsed, seized by a fit.

  'Sarazin could not be roused, and Elkin feared him dying – perhaps from the epilepsy. He summoned army surgeons to his assistance, and, that the death might be well-witnessed, called on certain people to mount a death watch. One of those people, dear friends, was me.'

  Incredulity greeted his words: but his tale proved true. In all, a dozen people had stood watch at Sarazin's side throughout the night; he was unconscious still, scarce breathing, and obviously close to death. The Regency there- fore had Benthorn and Qid interrogated under torture: an acknowledged road to the truth. Before the torturers could draw blood, both Benthorn and Qid had confessed that:

  Fox had planned the raid on Smork, and had coerced them into joining him by extracting oaths of obedience from them under threat of death.

  Amongst the raiding party's riders had been a masked man whom Fox had named as his son Sean Sarazin; neither Qid nor Benthorn had actually seen his face.

  Fox had personally freed the slaves then incited them to torch the buildings and commit all manner of atrocities.

  This confession fitted the circumstances fairly well, so it was accepted as truth. Warrants were sent out for the arrest of Fox and troops began to quarter the countryside, hunting for him. And Plovey of the Regency had an angry interview with both Qid and Benthorn, at which he chastised them severely for being so unreliable.

  This, then, was the situation to which Sean Sarazin awoke after being unconscious for a night, a day and a night. But he, of course, found the publicly accepted explanation entirely unacceptable, and very soon reached his own conclusions.

  ***

  Farfalla was still officiating at the protracted funeral rites for the dead king of Androlmarphos when the news reached her. Fox missing, outlawed, on the run. Sarazin bedridden following a life-t
hreatening collapse. The village of Smork burnt to the ground by runaway chaingang slaves now pillaging their way across the countryside while soldiers hunted them.

  To abort the funeral rites and return to Selzirk would have been an unthinkable insult to the dead king. Besides, Farfalla had work to do in 'Marphos, for she was already negotiating with some of those who wished to become king in that city.

  These powerful yet power-hungry men included two generals, three bankers, and the master of one of the guilds. To remain in contention they would have to glut Farfalla's greed with money, information, and political favours. Farfalla had few chances to exercise such power, so wanted to make the most of this one.

  As Farfalla was therefore unable to interrogate personally those involved in the latest scandal, she could only guess at the truth. However, even at a distance she divined – rightly – that there was more to this affair than met the eye.

  Why had Benthorn and Qid turned state's evidence so promptly? From what she knew of them – and her spies kept her well-informed about those whose lives were entangled with Sarazin's – she did not think them cowards. Logic suggested they had not been terrorists at all, but agents of the Regency sent to tangle Fox (and, perhaps, Sarazin as well) in treason.

  Ten days later, with the rites at an end, Farfalla was aboard a slave-powered galley slowly making its way upstream against the flow of the Velvet River. The slaves worked like brute animals, like animated corpses. Yet Farfalla was sure their minds were active, imagining the dance of power bringing them the rule of empire, the possession of silken women, the fame of forever.

  From thinking of the slaves Farfalla went on to think of Benthorn and Qid. Why should they conspire to evil at the behest of the Regency? Unlike chained galley slaves, both had reasonable jobs, reasonable lives. But they wanted more. Everyone wanted more.

  That was her opinion: and it was founded on experience. Take her own case, for example. She had a palace of her own (an architectural monstrosity, admittedly, but never- theless a palace), had comfortable clothes, had three meals a day (four or five if she wished), yet was not satisfied. It was not enough. -Nobody is ever satisfied.

  Watching the slaves at labour on the oars, Farfalla knew all they wanted for the moment was release from pain and effort. But, set free, if given palaces, clothes and food, they would soon be wanting more. Focusing on one young man in particular, she wondered how he would look dressed in silks. Or undressed. A notion occurred to her. She suppressed it. Then thought, defiantly: -But I could.

  It was one privilege of her position. Selzirk's Constitution forbid the kingmaker to marry, but did not forbid mating or breeding. Nobody cared who she mated with, as long as she did not take that person too seriously. She had made her first mistake with Fox. Her only mistake. Her worst mistake.

  In the first year of her reign, the young and lovely Farfalla had fallen heavily for the apprentice farrier Fox, and their love had been both tender and passionate. If content with the possession of her body, he would have done her no harm. But this ambitious young man had sought to convert her to his own political beliefs. Which had been wild. Naive. Fantastical.

  For Fox, believing in the equality of all, had campaigned for the abolition of slavery, very soon converting Farfalla to his own cause. She herself had been cautious, knowing such radicalism would wrath the established order.

  But, soon enough, her commitment to the cause of the slaves had been suspected, and suspicion alone had been sufficient to unite the Regency in the unanimous vote which had so early in her career taken away nearly all of her executive powers. Since then, kingmaker and Regency had been forever at odds, their best energies devoted to power politics while the practical issues of the day were ignored.

  Issues such as inflation, now painfully high; poverty; unemployment; military indiscipline; the growth of the criminal classes; and the (possibly insoluble) problem of slowly but steadily declining crop yields. Long years of irrigation had led to ever-increasing amounts of salt in the soil of the Harvest Plains, threatening to doom Argan's greatest civilization within a few short generations. Salt? Yes, salt alone could overthrow an empire.

  In idle fantasy, Farfalla imagined herself as an all- powerful ruler mastering the practical tasks of empire: salt, water, work, crime, inflation, law, trade, language, literacy, treaties, diplomacy, matters of war and peace. All that and more. But her actual life was dominated by political intrigue, much of it devoted to the business of simply staying alive. Her war with the Regency was the tragedy of her life. She exhausted herself simply struggling to stay alive. As for the slaves, why, they were no better off.

  What if she had never met Fox, had never fallen under his spell, had never been intoxicated by his radical rhetoric? Then, doubtless she would never have taken it into her head to worry about the slaves. By ignoring their suffering, she would have achieved far more both for herself and for her country. As it was, history would record her reign as one long exercise in procrastination.

  Still, she had loved Fox dearly, dunking him ever faithful in a world of uncertainty. Her only lover, her only friend. Her emotional investment in the man had been enormous. She had even forgiven him when he had betrayed her love, siring his bastard son Benthorn upon the varletess Bizzie. But one can only forgive so much… Recently, there had been days of rain as summer gave way to autumn. But today the sun shone, it was hot, and, stirred by the heat of old memories, Farfalla at length summoned the slavemaster. He stood there silent while she hesitated still. Was this what she really wanted? At last she said: 'I want…' The one with the dragon tattoo?' Yes,' said Farfalla.

  Though she had meant to say 'no'. And the slavemaster was gone before she could cancel her order. Well, time enough to do that when the boy had been brought to her. She could send him back easily enough, no harm done, though it would be courteous to offer him some wine first.

  Farfalla retired to her cabin to wait. At length the dragon-adorned slave was brought to her. He had been washed, cleansed, scrubbed. His hair was still wet. And, watching the grace with which he seated himself, she was no longer so certain she had made a mistake

  …

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sean Sarazin: oldest son of kingmaker Farfalla. Is doomed by Constitution to spend his life in the armed forces of the Harvest Plains, but is most reluctant to accept that fate.

  Sarazin was in no hurry to rise from his sickbed. Indeed, having much to gain from illness, he did his best to stay there. When the army surgeons visited, he took care to answer their questions in a slow and stumbling voice. He complained of joint pains, dizziness, inexplicable echoes and shadows which spoke to him. Thus they decided to defer his enlistment into the armed forces for a full three years, 'that time may determine whether he is possessed by the demons of epilepsy'.

  In secret, Sarazin smiled, for this was the outcome he had been seeking. But still he lay abed, busy with brain- work: brooding, planning and plotting. It was very pleasant to lie there warm and comfortable while autumn rains drummed against the shutters. However, on Farfalla's return his holiday ended. She listened to his recital of symptoms with every appearance of sympathy – then ordered him out of bed.

  'Get fit!' she said. 'And fast! For you're joining the army in spring whatever the surgeons say.'

  Next, a petition from Lod came to Selzirk by diplomatic courier. Unlike a certain notorious group of chaingang slaves, Lod had not had the good luck to be freed during the battle at Smork, but had been carried all the way back to Chenameg as a prisoner of his kidnappers. On reaching Shin, he had been imprisoned by his father on a charge of being a wastrel, a crime carrying a penalty of thirty years' penal servitude. Lod begged Farfalla to send Sarazin to Shin to be a character witness at his trial.

  'I must go!' said Sarazin, when he learnt of this. 'Lod needs my help.' "No,' said Farfalla. 'But he's my friend,' protested Sarazin.

  True. Also, Amantha had returned to Shin, and Sarazin needed to follow to pursue his destiny.

/>   "You are not going to Chenameg,' said Farfalla. The very thought is lunatic' "But Lod needs my help.' 'What do you know of Lod?' said Farfalla.

  Why,' said Sarazin, 'that he's a fine fellow with a spritely wit. I'd not want him dead.'

  "Nobody wants him dead, but his father obviously wants him chastised. Who are we to argue with that? I got the boy's measure while he was here. Lod's an idle wit, a reckless gambler, a profligate whoremaster – in a word, the wastrel he's alleged to be.' "You condemn him?' said Sarazin.

  'I leave that to Chenameg's courts. But surely if you evidenced in Shin, you yourself would condemn him. For you know yourself of his idleness, his debts, his drinking, his debauchery.' lod wants me,' said Sarazin stubbornly. "Then Lod,' said Farfalla, 'is a fool.'

  And she sent a message back to Shin saying the petition was denied.

  A day after this disappointment, Sarazin received a letter from Madam Sosostris inviting him to inspect the new book of prophecy which she had discovered. From Madam Ix, he already knew this book concerned a prince called Watashi; he could not deny that he was curious.

  However, he suspected curiosity might cost him dear, and he was saving his dorths to finance a projected journey east to Shin. Despite Farfalla's interdict, he yet hoped to attend Lod's trial, save his friend, win Amantha's hand – and kill Tarkal, thus clearing the way to the throne of Chenameg.

  The next evening, another letter arrived from Madam Sosostris. With it was a note written in the Rice Empire's Geltic in a familiar hand. All it said was: 'I will be there.'

  This Sarazin could not resist. However, he could not hurry to Jaluba's charms immediately, for Farfalla required him to banquet that night with certain candidates for the kingship of Androlmarphos. Sarazin was abstracted throughout the feast, to his mother's great annoyance. She took him aside to say:

  Those here tonight are all powerful people well worth cultivating. Charm them. Delight them. Impress them. Win their confidence. It may be worth your while.'