The Wicked and the Witless coaaod-5

by Hugh Cook

  'I thought you didn't want me to play politics,' said Sarazin. 'It never hurts to make friends,' said Farfalla. You won't play politics with these people, but their friendship, if you can win it, may yet save your life.'

  But Sarazin was too deeply engrossed with thoughts of Jaluba to pay much attention. He slept poorly that night, woke at dawn, and was soon off and away. laluba' he murmured. 'Heart of my heart. Dream of my dreams. Shortly, my darling, shortly. Soon…'

  Thus murmuring, he hurried to the Sosostris lair. He was allowed in through the door without charge, but his attempts to see Jaluba were rebuffed.

  'She has a headache,' he was told by Madam Sosostris herself, a much-scented heavily ornamented woman who shrouded her face with an inscrutable veil.

  'I see,' said Sarazin, 'so this is a con! You've tempted me here on false pretences. Well, you're out of luck. You'll not gouge money out of me today, no, not so much as a dorth. I'm leaving.'

  You misjudge us!' said Madam Sosostris. Is it my fault that Jaluba is ill? Her beauty is tender, like that of a flower. It bruises easily. You must have patience, patience. She will recover shortly, if not today then tomorrow. Mean- time… surely you wish to see this marvellous book which speaks of power and princes.' 'I cannot afford such marvels,' said Sarazin. 'But this is free,' said Madam Sosostris. 'Free?' said Sarazin. 'What do you mean by free?' 'I mean, there's no charge for it.' "Then what are you demanding by way of donation?' 'I demand no donation.'

  Colloquy continued further along these lines, for Sarazin was sure there had to be a catch. Somewhere. But, at length, he allowed the seer to usher him into a small uncarpeted upstairs room where an immense volume with a cracked leather binding lay on a reading desk. Open shutters showed the morning bluesky bright. Perhaps the autumn rains would resume on the morrow, but today was perfect. Sarazin took this as a good omen.

  Now… why were there bars on the windows? 'What's with the bars?' said Sarazin.

  This was built as a strongroom,' said Madam Sosostris, settling herself into a chair. You're staying?' said Sarazin, still standing. 'It is a valuable book,' said Madam Sosostris.

  Sarazin hesitated, then drew up a chair and sat down at the reading desk. Touched the cracked leather. Opened the book, carefully. Breathed antiquity's dust. Gazed upon the ornate illuminated text, and knew at once that this could not possibly be a forgery worked up for his benefit.

  A book of this quality, so painstakingly illuminated, took immense labour to create. Its colours glowed. The gold of gold, the silver of silver. Sky, leaf, river, sea. The orange of a dusty sunset, the purple of aubergine. The capital letters were works of art in themselves, each evolving itself into a plant, an animal or an element.

  In wide white margins other fantasies ran amok. Trailing vines grew leaves, grew flames. Fish metamorphosed to dragons. Eagle-winged cats chased yelping dogs beneath trees from which skulls hung as fruit. A basilisk peered from beneath a rock, eyes smouldering. An armed and armoured warrior, mounted on a gryphon, assailed a gigantic wasp with a flaming spear. A huntsman with a vulture's head rode an oliphant, urging a pack of carrion- eaters to close with their helpless human prey. Fascinating.

  Now Sarazin knew why his hostess was sitting there watching him. And why there were bars on the windows. This was a priceless treasure, whatever the text might say. And what might that be?

  Turning his attention from art to content, he was dismayed to see that the elaborately decorated text was written in Churl in the antiquated Spiral Style. He could decipher it, but only with great difficulty.

  'I don't speak Churl that well,' said Sarazin. 'Could you translate this into Galish for me?'

  "Why, no,' said Madam Sosostris, 'for I know not what it says.'

  'But you must,' said Sarazin. 'for Madam Ix had know- ledge of its contents. It's about princes and prophecy and such. How did she come by such knowledge except through you?'

  'I bought this book from a travelling pox doctor,' said Madam Sosostris. 'He himself told me what was in it. But it was only the outline he gave me. I know no more than the outline.'

  'I don't suppose I could take this book away,' said Sarazin.

  'Impossible,' said Madam Sosostris. Then: Why do you ask?'

  'There's someone who could help me with it. Epelthin Elkin.'

  Ever since his collapse in the Voat Library, Sarazin had steered well clear of Elkin, believing the old scholar to have previously unsuspected powers. Powers that were poten- tially very dangerous. But he would rather risk further acquaintance with Elkin than grapple with the complexities of Spiral Style.

  'Oh, Elkin,' said Madam Sosostris. The Archivist. No, I couldn't let you take it to him. Nor could I let you bring him here. If he saw a text so valuable he'd likely commandeer it for his own library.'

  So Sarazin, this help denied him, went to work, while Madam Sosostris got on with her knitting. After much painful labour, Sarazin's version of the book's opening lines ran as follows:

  To feed four you will need half a basket of mushrooms, a cup of pork pieces, one bundle of vermicelli, some dragon-tongue sauce, some fresh asparagus and a hedge- hog. First wrap the hedgehog in clay and put it amidst coals to bake. Then take a pan of cast iron and-'

  Sarazin, after racking his brain to extract some mystic meaning from this, closed the book angrily.

  This is a joke' he said. 'And a very poor joke. This is a cookery book!' "Tis a wondrous book rich in things both rare and strange,' said Madam Sosostris, looking up from her knitting. The part of interest to you is near the end. It's marked by a wafer.' You could have told me that to start with!' said Sarazin.

  'I was testing you,' said Madam Sosostris, 'to see whether you command any of the Art in your own right.' 'An idiot thing to do,' said Sarazin.

  'Perhaps, perhaps not. For there are those in Selzirk who swear still that Sean Sarazin rode to Smork. That they were there. That they saw him, heard him, touched him, smelt him. Yet others of equal reputation swear he lay lifeless in Selzirk all the while. I do not believe the contradiction of stories suggests untruth. No: I believe it suggestive of magic at work.'

  Then look elsewhere for that magic,' said Sarazin, 'for I've none of my own. Anyway, now you've tested me, how about translating this for me? You obviously know what it says.'

  'Not at all. As I told you, I bought it from a pox doctor. 'Twas he who placed the wafer for me. I myself can read but little, and that weird script – why, that is known only to scholars like yourself.'

  So Sarazin turned to the place marked by the wafer and began work in earnest. A bitter struggle he had, too, for it was hard to make sense of the tangled syntax of the complex Churl. He did not finish his translation till early evening. But he did not regret investing so much energy, for it made fascinating reading.

  The book contained a prophecy which could be sum- marised thus:

  – A prince of the Favoured Blood would be exiled from Selzirk in his youth, but would later return to the city.

  – Wicked and witless men would unleash great dangers threatening the very survival of the city.

  – The prince would see how to save Selzirk, but would be scorned and reviled by the city when he revealed the solution to Selzirk's dangers.

  – He would endure great hardship and greater danger, earn himself the name Watashi, marry the princess of an ancient kingdom and wage a war against his own father, whom he would kill.

  – His father's death would bring the prince the power he needed to save Selzirk. He would rescue the city from danger; the people would praise him with great praises, and his name would endure forever in glory.

  Sarazin thought things through. Carefully. While Selzirk's law did not recognise him as a prince of the Favoured Blood, he truly thought of himself as such. His mother, Farfalla, had been consecrated as one of the Blood on becoming kingmaker. Prophecy might well accord her sons with rights, titles and prerogatives which the Consti- tution of the Harvest Plains denied them.

  Certainly Sarazin had
been exiled from Selzirk in his youth. Also, in a sense, he could be said to have killed his father. After all, if Sarazin had not agreed to go with Benthorn to attack the embassy at Smork, Fox would not be an outlaw. As an outlaw, he could not hope to live long.

  So who were the wicked and the witless against whom Selzirk must be defended? Undoubtedly, the men of the Regency. The bureaucrats like Plovey. What about the prophecy's other points?

  The prophecy spoke of hardship. Of great danger. That fitted. After all, Sarazin had endured poverty, scorn and fever in Selzirk. Had dared his life, blade against blade, with a genuine questing hero, Tarkal of Chenameg. That much had come to pass.

  The name, though. That was a bit of a problem. Watashi? An odd word to conjure into a name. Perhaps that was why the fates had willed that he should see the prophecy now: so he could fulfil it by changing his name. Easily done!

  But what about the next point? Marriage to the princess of an ancient kingdom? Chenameg was doubtless that kingdom, and Amantha that princess. But how could he woo her when his mother forbade him to leave Selzirk? Did he dare disobey her? She'd be fearfully angry. And he feared her dragon-wrath rages.

  Before running such risks, he'd like some assurances as to the validity of the prophecy. He should talk it through with… well, someone like Elkin.

  Though, if truth be told, in his heart of hearts he believed the prophecy already. He was already prince. Some day he would be king. Emperor. Lord of Selzirk! Master of the Harvest Plains! The prophecy did but confirm his own vision of the radiant future. -Hallelujah!

  Thus thought Sean Sarazin. Staring hard at a flyspeck on the wall in an effort to control his face and betray nothing.

  'Finished?' said Madam Sosostris, on seeing his blank, vacuous stare.

  'No,' said Sarazin, thinking that the safest answer. The script is near impossible to read, the grammar worse, the words rare beyond my understanding. I am defeated.'

  Then you must come again,' said Madam Sosostris, 'and study the book further.' And with that she showed him out into the street.

  Sarazin did not ask if he could see Jaluba on his next visit, since such a display of interest could only tend to raise the price Sosostris surely intended to place on that delightful damsel. There had to be some pay-off for Sosostris in all this, there just had to. And how else could she make money out of Sarazin except by selling him Jaluba?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Theodora Turbothot (nee Thrug): wife of Troldot Heavy Fist' Turbothot.

  Although she is an alumnus of the Santrim Institute for Feminine Arts, Theodora is not one of Selzirk's chaste and respectable matrons, but is instead a wanton foreigner, an import from far-distant Untunchilamon.

  In truth, in terms of appetite, there are few women in the upper echelons of Selzirk's society who could compete with Theodora. With the exception, of course, of Farfalla, whose approach to the flesh is equally direct and vigorous.

  Once out in the streets, Sarazin had the uneasy feeling he was being followed. However, there were so many people out and about in the early evening that it was impossible to tell for sure.

  'Follow me, then,' muttered Sarazin, to whoever it was who might be tracking him.

  And made his way to Jone, where he shortly entered his favourite tavern and called for a tankard of the best ale in town. At first he drank alone, wishing Lod was there to help celebrate the prophecy which promised Sarazin such a spectacular future. Then some of Lod's friends turned up, and, remembering Sarazin's earlier enquiries, asked if he had any news of their mutual acquaintance.

  'I have,' said Sarazin. 'He rots in jail in Shin, in Chena- meg, waiting to come up on trial.' 'On what charge?' said one of Lod's friends. 'It is claimed he is a wastrel,' said Sarazin.

  'A wastrel? Nay! He's a philosopher, man. Truth is his pursuit, and ever he seeks it in wine and in women. Have they no knowledge of things academic in Shin?'

  'None,' said Sarazin, 'for they are but peasants. Come – may I buy you a beer?'

  "You could,' said one of his interlocutors, "but only if you let us buy you three. We're in luck, see. The cards have been running our way. It's a night for celebration.'

  Yes,' said Sarazin, with a sudden grin. He was thinking of his prophecy. 'It must be an omen. A good omen. We'll celebrate sure. But let's not forget our friend. Let our first toast be in honour of Lod.'

  The first toast was indeed in honour of Lod. So was the third – and the seventh. Sarazin did not usually drink very much, but tonight was a special occasion, and Lod had been long and deeply honoured by the time Sarazin and his drinking companions stumbled from the tavern. Arm in arm, they staggered through the streets, singing: 'I took a little magic pill Which made my dragon scream; I raped a golden daffodil In a pool of curdled cream.'

  While they were singing thus, a palankeen drew up beside them. The chairmen halted, and a voice from behind the palankeen's screen said (with a whisper of perfume): 'Are you Sarazin Sky?' Sarazin, leaning heavily on one of his comrades, said: 'Who is it who wants to know?' Theodora,' came the answer. The ruling goddess of love.'

  Sarazin untangled himself from his comrade, who slid helplessly to the ground. 'Let me see your face,' said Sarazin to the palankeen.

  'Get in,' said the perfume-whispering voice, 'and you shall see all that and more. Yes, you shall see all.'

  The palankeen lurched as Sarazin got in. Within a bafflement of shadows he found what seemed to be a veiled woman. She giggled as he grappled with her perfumed flesh.

  'Not so fast,' she said. 'Only goats and peasants lech in haste.' 'Oh,' said Sarazin.

  Even drunk he did not want to behave like a peasant. He tried his drunken best to behave himself: and succeeded so well that he fell asleep. He woke to find muscular doormen carrying him into a house. They dumped him into an enormous bed where he wallowed, dazed by drink and fatigue, while his new-found mistress stripped herself by the light of a lamp so dim it was scarcely more than a living shadow.

  He submerged himself in her heat as she fondled herself to his flesh, fold by fold and crease by crease. He was drowning, billowing, lumbered, laden. Lost amidst flesh enfolding. He was failing. Then, urging him, she cried: "My stallion! Most Favoured Blood, most noble prince!' Prince. Yes. Lordly in conquest. The thought excited him.

  'Govern me,' she whispered, her voice husky. 'Govern me, rule me, beloved.'

  Urged by that voice, nourished by an ooze of lips, teased by fingers sly and well-practised, Sarazin found himself hard as a hero. Thrusting and striving, he abandoned himself to his lust. Then finished, subsided and slept.

  He floundered long through hippopotamus dreams, clagged and digested, rolled up with lard then toasted by fatlight. Woke bleary by darkness to find hands and lips at work, breasts jiggling, a voice giggling, teasing his manhood, flattering his thighs. "My prince.. .' He managed. Then, weary beyond dreams, he slept.

  At dawn, Sarazin woke to find himself in bed with an elephant-rivalling woman on the wrong side of fifty. She was big and fat and grey and frowsty. Teeth brown, except where they were black. A nose like a potato, stubbed with purple warts.

  As he cringed from her rolls of lard-soft skin, she burped, farted, then seized him. Her strength was enormous. He held his breath as she slobbered him.

  "Wonderful,' she crooned. You were wonderful, beauti- ful, sweet. A frabjous night.' Who are you?' said Sarazin. 'Theodora, as I told you,' she said.

  After a little hard questioning, he learnt that she was Theodora Turbothot. Mistress Turbothot, in fact, patron of the Seventh College of the Inner Circle of the Fish-Star Astrologers. That rang a bell! Yes: the Fish-Star sect was quartered not far from Madam Ix's premises. Ix was a friend of Sosostris. Who had let Sarazin see her precious book of prophecy for nothing.

  'Someone followed me when I left Madam Sosostris last night,' said Sarazin. 'Did they?' said Theodora. 'How very strange!' Then she giggled.

  That giggle made Sarazin – at last! – remember their first meeting. He had gon
e to see Sosostris some days ago, but the gateman had demanded an outrageous fee just to let him inside. He had hung around outside. And this dreadful overaged creature, her face then masked by a veil, had called him 'darling boy' and had begged his name. Which he, thinking nothing of it, had given.

  Sarazin could see the dreadful truth now – or part of it, at least. Madam Sosostris had procured him for this dread- ful creature. He had been watched, spied on, manoeuvred, trapped, tricked, used, abused. Raped, in a word!

  He threw back the bedclothes, intending to make his escape. But Theodora grabbed him by the neck. They wrestled, and, to his shame, she got the better of him. 'Ease up!' cried Sarazin, panting. You'll break my arm.'

  She relaxed her grip. All she kept in her possession was the smallest finger of his left hand. But the sly pressure she put on the digit warned him not to struggle. 'Darling,' she said. 'Do it to me again.' Who are you to command me?' said Sarazin.

  Well, once,' she said, slyly, 'I was a princess. The sister of an empress.'

  Sarazin tried to persuade himself that Mistress Turbothot was indeed a princess. He tried to rouse his flesh to its duty. He tried: but failed. But she giggled, and let him go. Hurriedly, he dressed, and tried to make his escape. But found the front door blocked by a stocky little man who said: 'I am Troldot Turbothot. Who the hell are you?' 'Never mind,' said Sarazin. 'I'm just leaving.'

  He tried to barge past the man. But Troldot 'Heavy Fist' Turbothot was a formidable wrestler, and Sarazin ended up flat on his back.

  'Guards!' shouted Turbothot. 'Help me with this rub- bish!' Then, as guards came rushing to his assistance, he raised his voice and shouted: Theodora, you shameless hussy! You've gone too far this time!' The only answer he got was a giggle.

  Sarazin was held by Troldot Turbothot's guards until the Watch could be summoned. Then he was dragged away and thrown into prison. The charge: debauching another man's wife. The maximum penalty: death.