The Wicked and the Witless coaaod-5

by Hugh Cook

  When Sarazin saw Glambrax grinning at him – a wicked, knowing grin was his – he felt forced to protest. 'The agreement was no armour,' said Sarazin. 'Armour is stuff made out of steel and such,' said Jarl.

  'But cloth in such quantity can often turn a blade,' said Sarazin. 'Armour is defined-'

  'You're here to win a war,' said Jarl. You're a soldier, not a lexicographer.' 'As a soldier,' said Sarazin stiffly, 'I have my honour.'

  Yes,' said Jarl, 'and your men have lives of their own which they'd rather not lose for that honour.' 'If I die that's my business,' said Sarazin.

  'If you die,' said Jarl, 'many of your men will die trying to stop the enemy crossing the river.'

  What are you talking about?' said Sarazin. 'I agreed to the herald's terms! If I die, my army withdraws then the enemy 'Shut up! Here, put on this cloak, it'll hide the cloth. Here. Rope for a belt. Tie the cloak in close, you don't want it catching on anything. Got your sword? Good. Take this.' 'What? Mud!?'

  'Mud, yes, mud!' said Jarl fiercely. 'Mud in his eyes, that's the first thing. Mud and blood, that's what wars are made of.'

  Then he led Sarazin down to the river's edge where hundreds of loud-talking soldiers were already waiting. They cheered hoarsely when he unsheathed his sword. On the opposite bank was a similar boisterous congre- gation. Sarazin had no time for second thoughts, for Jarl was already hustling him into the water. Glambrax followed.

  'Back, mannikinl' said Jarl, swiping at him with the back of his hand. Jarl missed.

  And Glambrax, chuckling, dodged past the Rovac warrior and hastened after Sarazin, who was swiftly sinking as he waded forward. Ankle deep. Then knee deep. He would be up to his waist if this went on! His one consolation was that his foeman was having similar problems.

  'Let go of me!' said Sarazin, as Glambrax clutched at him from behind. 'I can't,' answered the dwarf. 'I'm in love with you.' 'Tough,' said Sarazin. "You're the wrong sex.'

  'Ah!' said Glambrax. 'So that's the secret! I was won- dering what won your horse your favours when all my efforts-'

  Sarazin tried to cuff him, and almost lost his sword while doing so. 'Attend to your front!' yelled Jarl from the riverbank.

  Sarazin's enemy, waist-deep in mud and water, was labouring steadily towards him. The man's elegant silks were torn away by an underwater snag, revealing the blood-red lacquered armour which he wore.

  'Blood!' said Sarazin. 'He's in armour! Glambrax, will you let go of me!?' 'If I let go I drown.' 'Drown, then!' 'I would if I could, master, but it's against my religion.' 'Gah!' said Sarazin, gripping his sword more tightly.

  Onward came his f oeman, brawning through the water with lumbering strength invincible. By now, Sarazin's men had seen that the enemy challenger had cheated by wearing armour. They began to jeer, to beat spears against shields. Sarazin scarcely heard the noise, for his concentration was devoted to his foe. Then He put down a foot but felt nothing. Betrayed by a pot- hole, he struggled for balance. Teetered one-footed on the edge of the pothole. Then felt the edge crumble. He snatched a breath – then the river swallowed him.

  Spluttering, Sarazin surfaced. Glambrax was riding on his shoulders, legs locked around his neck. His sword? Gone! And his enemy was close, closing, white teeth grinning. 'Shit!' screamed Sarazin.

  He ducked beneath the surface. The sword! The sword! It had to be there! In confusions of water, weed and mud he thrust, probed, raked, grappled – and laid his right hand open as he found his weapon's blade.

  With the sword secured, Sarazin struggled to the surface. Stale air exploded from his lungs. He gasped, gasped again, spat, squidged water from his eyes. Gripped his sword's hilt double-handed. Blood streaming between his fingers. Coughed harshly.

  You die,' said his challenger, ponderously, raising his weapon to strike.

  Then floundered backwards, clutching his throat. Sarazin seized the opportunity, and stabbed. His dying enemy flung wide his arms: and Sarazin saw a miniature crossbow bolt buried in the man's throat. You!' said Sarazin.

  'Good shooting, eh?' said Glambrax, with a grin in his voice.

  The men on the northern bank were hooting with triumph. Were mounting their horses. Sarazin turned and – too late! – saw what they were doing. With a scream of triumph, Sarazin's cavalry squadrons charged. Straight down the bank to the swampmud river.

  "No!' he screamed, waving his arms frantically. No! No! No!' But it was useless.

  Soon, half a thousand horse were floundering in the river, some already starting to drown. With wild halloos, the Rice Empire's heroes attacked their helpless enemy, despite the best efforts of their officers to restrain those heroes.

  Soon both armies were helplessly bogged in the mud. 'Shit!' said Sarazin, punching his head from sheer frustration. Where the hell was Jarl?

  The answer came a bare ten heartbeats later when Thodric Jarl led Sarazin's skirmishers on the attack. 'Ahyak Rovac!' screamed the Rovac warrior.

  Clad in nothing but a loin cloth, Jarl leapt down the bank and into the river, sword in one hand and a knife in the other. The skirmishers, most as lightly dressed as he, followed like so many rabid rats. Barefoot they came, screaming in excitement: 'Wa-wa-Watashi! Wa-wa-Watashil'

  Some of the smarter of the boot-burdened enemy cavalrymen were already struggling out of their heavy mud-logged battle-gear. But the skirmishers were on them before all but the quickest could escape their burdens.

  In whdt was more or less a waist-deep swamp, the half-naked skirmishers had the edge and then some. Knives, hatchets and sickles flashed bloody in the glitter- ing sun. Men bubbled blood, clutched hands of mud to gaping intestines. Mud-blind, blood-blind, a swordsman staggered, was struck by a rock, pierced by an arrow, was- But Sarazin could watch no longer.

  Some considerable time later, the Rovac warrior Thodric Jarl found Sean Kelebes Sarazin sitting dazed on a rock some five hundred paces distant from the river. Glambrax sat at his feet, barbecuing a frog over a frugal fire.

  Silently, Glambrax tore free a frog's leg and offered it to Jarl, who accepted it with a nod and ate it slowly while he studied Sarazin. The young man's leathers were damp, his legs clagged with mud. He had not cleaned his sword.

  'We dine at twilight,' said Jarl. 'Roast horsemeat. And, for those who like that kind of thing, long pig.' Then he turned and walked away.

  But shortly sent one of the army's barbers to cleanse Sarazin's swordhand, anoint the wound with the crushed garlic which Jarl favoured as an antiseptic, then bind it with clean white cloth to protect it from the summer dust and the summer flies.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Tyte: province in north-west of Harvest Plains. Most prominent feature is some 2,500 square leagues of swamp- lands lying north and south of the River Iggle.

  'It was horrible,' said Sarazin. 'Blood, filth, screams. And – and the horses. That was the worst of all, the horses. I saw the skirmishers – well – I saw-'

  Lost for words, he threw up his hands in disgust. Here, in the Voat Library, amidst the dusty smell of ancient books and manuscripts, it was harder than ever to under- stand such barbarity.

  'You must have seen things as bad in Chenameg,' said Epelthin Elkin. 'I understand that peasant revolt in Shin was a moderately sanguinary affair.'

  Yes, but that was against peasants. One might expect a brawl with the mob to be ugly. But this – this was army against army. You know. Honoured foes and all that. I expected-' 'Honour? Glory?'

  'Something! Not… not deaths so indecent. What's worse – they ate the dead. Thodric Jarl organised it. At least half of the men took part. They were – they were disgusted with themselves, yet at the same time they were grinning. Laughing. It was – it was obscene.'

  'So,' said Epelthin Elkin, resting an old hand on a treasured book. Sarazin waited for revelation, but none came. 'Is that all you can say?' said Sarazin.

  'I could say many things,' said Elkin. 'But what would be the point, when you know them all yourself? You know, for instance, that warfare is
not your metier. You were not born to be a warlord. However, with effort, you might yet make yourself a tolerable poet.'

  'But that's just the thing!' said Sarazin. They want me to do it again. War again. In Tyte, this time. They want me to bring the anarchists to heel. To collect back taxes for the last ten thousand years or whatever it is.' 'Jarl's going with you, I suppose,' said Elkin.

  'No,' said Sarazin. 'He says I don't need his talents. He says the job's too simple. What he really means is that it's hopeless however brilliant the general.' 'Why so?' said Elkin.

  'Because tactical brilliance is useless when your soldiers are neck-deep in mud!' said Sarazin. 'So Jarl won't help. But I thought maybe you could give me some ideas. Either to cope with the situation. Or else to get out of this fix.'

  'I thought your brother Celadon was taking care of Tyte,' said Elkin.

  "No' said Sarazin. 'Celadon was in Shin till I got there, and now he's been sent back there again. Jarnel was supposed to conquer the anarchists, but he failed. It's a hopeless job. Right now he's off with Peguero hunting bandits in the Spine Mountains.'

  'Well,' said Elkin, I'm sure they're having the time of their lives.'

  'Oh, doubtless,' said Sarazin. 'They're like kids playing at ores and elves – only they're getting paid for it.' 'Doesn't that suggest anything to you?' said Elkin. Sarazin thought about it. 'No,' he said, finally. 'It doesn't.' Elkin sighed.

  When you go to collect taxes in Tyte,' said Elkin, 'you'll have young lieutenants equally as eager as your brother. So! Unleash them. Let them go sloshing through the mud in pursuit of the anarchists. Meanwhile, you find a nice, dry spot by the seaside and camp there till it's time to come back to Selzirk.' You're brilliant,' said Sarazin.

  But he spoke only from politeness, for he doubted things could be so easy.

  Once Sarazin had left Elkin's presence he gave way to despair. He had fought at the headwaters of the Shouda Flow; now he was doomed to go campaigning in Tyte; when that campaign was over no doubt there would be further military duties awaiting him elsewhere.

  All his ambitions had come to nothing. He was a prisoner of the system. He had tested his ambition, will and ability against the social order: and he had failed. He was condemned to exactly the fate the Constitution prescribed for him: an endless life of soldiering.

  Would he win fame through his sword? Fame, glory, renown? Would he make a name for himself? Perhaps. But it would make no difference. For some reason, he lacked the ability to change the world to suit himself, even though Lord Regan had always made it very clear that any determined person could alter reality at will. -Maybe I'm not trying hard enough. Thus thought Sarazin.

  But, such was his state of doubt and depression that he lacked the will to try at all.

  Sarazin's military lifestyle had brought him at least one advantage: an improved relationship with his mother. Now he was conforming to society's expectations, and no longer trying to reshape the world for his own benefit, Farfalla was prepared to indulge him to a certain extent. Indeed, it was a pleasure for her to do so: she took no joy in disciplining her long-lost son.

  One of her little indulgences was the present she gave him before his departure to Tyte.

  'This is for you,' she said, handing him a little package. 'With my love.' 'What is it?' said Sarazin. 'Something practical,' she said.

  He opened the package and, finding a purse of money, duly tendered his thanks. But what was he to do with this money? He was not in the mood for whores, gambling or drink.

  In the end, it was Sarazin's half-brother Benthorn who took the money off his hands. Benthorn sold him an amulet which was, or so he claimed, an heirloom from an ancient elven kingdom now remembered only in legend.

  This intriguing trinket was a flawless lozenge of glossy black on a necklace-chain of similar colour. On one side was a gold sun disk, while seven silver stars and a sex-sharp silver moon adorned the obverse. Sarazin, unable to resist this bauble, bought it for fifty skilders. Then marched for Tyte.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Epelthin Elkin: elderly scholar who serves in the secret service of the Rice Empire and works as Archivist in Voat Library in Selzirk.

  Sean Sarazin knows Elkin to be a wizard of the order of Ebber, but does not know him to be a spy. The Rovac warrior Thodric Jarl, a spy himself, knows of Elkin's intelligence work, but, though he dislikes Elkin, does not know him to be a wizard.

  Once Sarazin reached Tyte with his army he tried to put Elkin's advice into practice. The trouble was, his fiery young lieutenants lost all their enthusiasm the moment they saw Tyte's hopeless bog-mud tidal flats.

  Still, Sarazin did his best. He camped by the seashore and occupied himself with busy work, such as sending out endless patrols to 'gather intelligence'. He wrote long reports. He had his picture painted by a soldier eager to prove his artistic talent if that would keep him out of the swamps for one day longer. Then, on a whim, Sarazin had that same soldier design a coat of arms for him.

  This coat of arms,' said Sarazin, improvising a story to protect him against any possible accusation of treasonous intent, 'is a toy for the son of a friend of my half-brother Benthorn.'

  The 'toy', when it was finished, was a shield emblazoned with a black rustre, with seven stars and the crescent moon on the surrounding red. Sarazin, in his dreams, conjured with images of a fabulous future in which this coat of arms would be recognised as the emblem of his line, and all of Argan would recognise his suzerainty.

  So far, Sarazin's campaign had been comfortable enough. However, after ninety days of timewasting, boredom got the better of him, and he started a major drive to seek out anarchists and (with luck) capture some so they could be tortured till they paid their back taxes.

  The campaign that followed is best described as follows: mud, swamp, bog, quicksand, rain, wind, swamp fever, blood fever, blue fever, green coughing fever, toad fever, eel fever, yellow frog fever and vomit fever.

  Sarazin campaigned right through the autumn and into the depths of the following winter, by which time he had caught two anarchists (both of whom had leprosy) and had lost over 700 men to assorted diseases. As he had started his campaign with an army of only 900, this made it somewhat difficult to continue operations.

  At this point he was recalled to Selzirk and chastised severely by his superior officers.

  He scarcely cared, for he had come down with hepatitis, and was too sick to worry. The army surgeons Were called in and sent him home to recuperate. There he stayed through the rest of the winter and the spring which fol- lowed, on a strict regime of bland meals (no spices, no alcohol) and bedrest.

  His social circle was very small. Bizzie attended him constantly, and his dwarf Glambrax was always under- foot. His mother saw him daily. Jarl and Elkin dropped by now and then. His half-brother Benthorn paid him the occasional social visit, and offered to sell him sundry treasures which he could not possibly afford to buy.

  Apart from that, he saw nobody.

  Glambrax twice smuggled in notes from Jaluba. So Sarazin knew his delectable whore was still in Selzirk, still working for Madam Sosostris. But Sarazin had money and appetite for neither fortune telling nor woman- chasing.

  Plovey zar Plovey visited him once. The spokesman for the Regency was happy to find Sarazin subdued, depressed and – without a doubt – tamed. Plovey had not suc- ceeded in encompassing Sarazin's death as he had planned but was, nonetheless, happy with the way things had turned out. Sarazin, it seemed, was going to live out his life as an obedient, apolitical soldier, just like his three brothers.

  Occasional word reached Sarazin of the doings of those brothers. Celadon was still in Shin, while Peguero and Jarnel were still campaigning against bandits.

  As for the other people in his life, Tarkal – now King Tarkal – ruled the Chenameg Kingdom. Amantha still dwelt in Shin. There was no word of Lod, who was generally believed to be dead.

  As summer approached, Sarazin was at last allowed to get up and about. His recovery
thereafter was rapid, so the army surgeons shortly pronounced him once more fit enough for war. Before very long, he was back at the Voat Library, again seeking advice from his elderly tutor, Epelthin Elkin. 'What is the army doing to you this time?' said Elkin.

  They're sending me to Hok,' said Sarazin. 'There's a marauding ogre on the loose in the province with a gang of bandits.'

  What do you want from me?' said Elkin. "More tactical advice?'

  "No!' said Sarazin. 'I want you to get me out of this mess! It's intolerable! Unless you can help me, I'll spend the rest of my life chasing round the provinces after assorted dog- rapists and delinquent lawyer's clerks.' 'So what can I do?' said Elkin.

  'Get me out of it!' said Sarazin. You can change minds.'

  'One at a time,' said Elkin, 'and with great effort. But minds do not stay changed.'

  You can't – can't you change people's minds so they stay changed?'

  "You can't make bricks out of jellyfish,' said Elkin, shaking his head.

  'Then – would it change matters if I killed some- one? Just one or two people? Plovey of the Regency, perhaps?' 'I don't understand,' said Elkin.

  'What I mean,' said Sarazin, 'is simply this: can I win rule of the Harvest Plains by a couple of murders? Killing off key people, I mean.'

  You're not up against individuals,' said Elkin. You're up against a social dynamic. Kill Plovey tonight and the Regency will have another spokesman talking the same by tomorrow. You are not struggling with men but with an organisation. Unless all its members are killed at once, the Regency is immortal.' 'So I'm doomed,' said Sarazin woefully.

  'Ease up on the self-pity I' said Elkin. You're doomed to go to Hok, but that's no big deal. After all, I'll be going to Hok myself.' You?' said Sarazin. 'I am being blackmailed,' said Elkin, quietly. 'Blackmailed?'