The Wicked and the Witless coaaod-5

by Hugh Cook

  Glambrax promptly started pounding and pummelling and pounding Sarazin's back like a professional masseur. Under his ministrations, Sarazin gained freedom of move- ment, and soon had the satisfaction of standing and pissing into the brazier.

  Take a shit while you're about it,' said Glambrax generously. 'We're in no hurry.'

  'No thanks,' said Sarazin. Then, by way of explanation: 'Constipation.' Then, seeing Glambrax was making for the door: Where are you going?' Won't be a moment,' said Glambrax.

  He was in fact several moments, but returned in due course with an armful of clothes. Sarazin's clothes. Sarazin dressed, somewhat dismayed to find that his boots were missing. 'What about my boots?' said Sarazin.

  "Don't worry,' said Glambrax. We'll get you some boots before we get out of here.'

  'That raises another question,' said Sarazin. 'Just how are we going to get out of here?' 'Follow me,' said Glambrax.

  And led the way through the dawn-quiet building, out through a side door, up one stairway, down another, and out through another door. Glambrax scuttled across an open courtyard, then paused, listening at yet another door. Sarazin joined him. He could hear a demented animal wailing within the building, and was frightened. 'What's that?' he hissed. 'Nothing to worry about,' said Glambrax.

  Then Glambrax opened the door. Sarazin slipped through. Glambrax nipped in after him, slammed the door and sidled away. Laughing horribly. And Sarazin, to his horror, found himself back in the throne room where he had confronted Drake Douay the day before.

  Douay was now striding up and down the room playing on a skavamareen, which was the source of the abominable noise which Sarazin had incorrectly identified as a demented animal.

  The next moment Sarazin was seized by two black- masked torturers. And realised that all the events so far were but moves in a game of destruction being played by the fiendish Drake Douay.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Skavamareen (aka the Ruptured Cat): an instrument frequently mentioned in discussions of fates worse than death. It is said to have been invented in Chi'ash-lan by the notorious anarchist Han Dran Ilk, who is alleged to have been sentenced to five years' penal servitude after he repented and confessed to the offence.

  The veracity of this story is often disputed, on the grounds that the sentence detailed is manifestly grossly inadequate for the crime in question. Be that as it may, Chi'ash-lan was certainly the first place to ban this instrument, though it was later outlawed everywhere from Jatzu to Quartermain.

  In all the Ravlish lands, the skavamareen (and the delinquents who played it) could find no refuge. Except in Sung. There it won welcome, for it fitted in well with the discord of the back-thumping sklunk, the honk of the kloo, the crash and scatter of the krymbol and the blare of the bray.

  While Sung is many leagues from the Gates of Chena- meg, the chances of these troubled times have brought a skavamareen to the ruler of those Gates, and, having plenty of time on his hands, he has set himself to master it. A formidable task indeed, for the skavamareen is a complicated instrument having the following parts: The gut (some say: the demon hole) which is a capacious bag of greased leather. According to the scholarly account given in the 'Protocols of the Pipers of Prion', the gut contains the tormented soul of a murderer (or, in the low-budget version, that of a cat) which has been imprisoned there by sorcery. The funnel (alternatively: the strangled python) which is a valved tube used by the player to inflate the gut. And, finally, the Three Demons and the Demonmaster, which are, respectively, three reed drones and a special- ised pipe equipped with finger-holes which help the player degrade the environment with a peculiarly horrible form of gratuitous violence which only Sung could welcome as music.

  'Do you like it?' said Douay, obviously referring to the music he had been making.

  'Since I am human,' said Sarazin, with the bitter courage of a man who is certain of his death, 'I welcome the confirmation of my prejudices.' 'What mean you by that?' said Douay.

  'I mean,' said Sarazin, 'I knew you at first sight for a barbarian. To find you embracing a skavamareen does but confirm my opinion.'

  Douay grinned again, and patted his trusty skavamareen. Then said: 'Did you sleep well?'

  You know very well how I slept,' said Sarazin, on the verge of losing his temper. You had me strapped down for torture throughout the night.'

  "Man, why so fierce with the voice?' said Douay. 'I was but searching for truth. Is that not right, that I should seek to improve myself?'

  Douay's merry face and effortless bonhomie were the very last straw. Sarazin, who had fear worse than nightmare, thought Douay's merriment the worst kind of mockery.

  You tortured me for fun!' said Sarazin. 'As a joke! What kind of monster are you?'

  'I am no monster,' said Douay, sounding hurt. 'I am but a diligent student of the arts and philosophies. 'Twas in Selzirk that I studied in torture. Was I wrong to remember my lessons?'

  'Whatever was done to you in Selzirk,' said Sarazin, 'there were grave matters of state involved.'

  'Oho!' said Douay. 'Matters of state, is it? The world's excuse for everything. Well, man, get this straight – here I rule. I am the state.'

  He started to blow into the funnel of the skavamareen, inflating the instrument for another onslaught on the sensibilities. If Sarazin had restrained himself, speech would shortly have become impossible. But Sarazin lost his temper entirely and spoke:

  You're like every bully,' said he. 'Brave when the numbers are with you.'

  Almost immediately, Sarazin regretted having spoken. Such words might well lead to instant death. But the blond- haired Douay did not order his execution. Instead, he stopped inflating the skavamareen, and said:

  'Speech is easy, man. But I'd doubt you brave even with the numbers on your side.'

  You doubt my courage?' said Sarazin. 'I tell you this – if I had a sword I'd prove you coward soon enough.'

  You say?' said Douay. 'Truly, you are rash, for I have yet to meet the man to match my blade. In truth, I lately killed a man named Plovey, who counted himself the best swordsman in Selzirk.'

  Sarazin knew he must be bluffing, for Plovey had been known in Selzirk as a master swordsman. Surely a bar- barous uitlander like Douay could never have defeated a sophisticate like Plovey. The young man was over- confident. This might be the way out I If Douay could be provoked into combat, Sarazin could surely kill him.

  'Talk, talk I' said Sarazin, urging scorn into his voice. 'I know well the talk of dwarves, for I have one of my own.'

  Tou called me what?' said Douay, an edge of ice in his voice.

  What do you expect me to call you?' said Sarazin. T)are I name you giant when the dog which raped your mother was taller than the brat he spawned?'

  Douay laid aside the skavamareen and drew his sword. The thugs holding Sarazin gripped him tighter.

  'Is this the way you prove your courage?' said Sarazin. Through butchery?'

  'Nay, man,' said Douay, with contempt. He selected another blade from the wall, held one in each hand and said to Sarazin: 'Choose. My left or my right.' 'The left,' said Sarazin.

  'It makes no difference either way,' said Douay, laying the weapon in his left hand down on the stone floor. 'For the blades are of equal quality.' Then he said to his strong- men: 'Leave. Close the door. Stand without. Let none enter until we are finished.'

  Douay stepped back from the weapon on the floor. Sarazin, edgy, heart quick-pulsing, dared himself forward, snatched up the blade and screamed his defiance: 'Scaaa!'

  Douay, standing some five sword-lengths' distance, said with indifference:

  'No need to hurry. We've got all day. Take your time. Test your weapon to start with. I don't want this to be too easy.'

  Sarazin did not know what to think. Was this a trap? He backed off. Then, with a decent distance between himself and Douay, checked the linkage of blade to hilt, and tried the sword for balance.

  'I cannot fault the weapon,' said Sarazin, trying to keep a tre
mor of fear from his voice.

  He was beginning to think that this was not exactly fair. He had been on short rations for many days. He had not slept through the night. He was still stiff, bruised and sore from the pounding Douay had given him the day before. He was cold, hungry, tired, thirsty. But there was no time to protest for Douay was advancing. Obviously for the kill.

  'Scaaa!' screamed Sarazin desperately, throwing himself on the defence.

  Douay, still well out of weapon-reach, eased himself to a halt, then, amused beyond measure by Sarazin's evident desperation, threw back his head and laughed.

  This is – is a joke?' said Sarazin, starting to hope that Douay would call off the fight. 'You are the joke,' said Douay softly.

  Then graced closer, sword at the ready. His face had become hard, cruel, predatory. He was finished with laughter. Sarazin realised that only one of them would leave this room alive. -One chance then. One blow to kill him.

  Thus thinking, Sarazin seized the initiative, putting all his strength into a blow designed to decapitate his opponent. 'Ha!' screamed Sarazin, striking.

  Douay ducked. Sarazin's sword hissed through the air, missing Douay's scalp by no more than the black of a fingernail. And Sarazin was for a moment off-balance, wide open and helpless to save himself. Douay struck.

  Douay slammed into Sarazin with his shoulder, hitting so hard that Sarazin was sent staggering backwards. As he flailed for balance, Douay kicked him in the chest. Down went Sarazin, his sword discarding to the air. Sklang!

  Thus sang steel against steel as Sarazin's blade tumbled into cold metal racked on the walls of the armoury. It was well out of reach. And Drake Douay was already standing over him. Sword in hand. 'What sayest thou, Watashi?' said Douay. And Sarazin found courage to answer:

  'I was taught to match my blade against swordsmen, not streetfighters.'

  Whereupon Douay said, in a perfect imitation of the voice of Plovey of the Regency:

  'Ah, darling boy! But I am a swordsman! Swordsman and streetfighter both.'

  Sarazin closed his eyes. Waited for his death. And heard Douay say: Take him to the guest room.'

  Almost immediately, Sarazin was seized and dragged away to the unknown horrors of the guest room, whatever that might be.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  The Favoured Blood: the aristocracy which by tradition rules in Argan. The legends of Argan claim that only those of the Favoured Blood can rightfully rule, and that disaster will befall any state otherwise governed.

  While in practice much power in Argan fell to other hands generations ago, concessions have always been made to popular belief. The kingmaker of the Harvest Plains, for instance, has always been consecrated in sacred cere- mony as a member of the Favoured Blood.

  Even the elections which take place in Runcorn and Provincial Endergeneer are not (in theory) mere popularity contests, but are (again, in theory) an appeal to the populace to decide which of the candidates (if any) shows any trace of descent from the Blood.

  ***

  The guest room proved to be a quiet bedroom painted pink. It held an enormous double bed. The linen was clean, the sheets smelling of lavender, and Sarazin was shortly sound asleep between these sheets.

  He slept right through that day and through the night which followed, only waking when he was roused for breakfast the following morning. Breakfast was good, very good. Fish fresh from the Velvet River. Roast pigeon. Fried potatoes. And a draught of dandelion wine to wash it all down.

  Once breakfast was over, Sarazin was led into the presence of the formidable Drake Douay. 'Do you acknowledge me as your equal?' said Douay. 'You are the greater swordsman,' conceded Sarazin.

  'Greater by nature and greater by birth,' said Douay. Then he took something from his pocket, held it up and said: 'What's this?'

  Douay was holding a jet-black necklace chain from which hung a cool, glossy lozenge of an identical black. The lozenge turned slowly, so Sarazin saw first a golden sun disk, then seven stars and a crescent moon on the obverse. 'What's this?' insisted Douay.

  'That,' said Sarazin, wearily, 'is the Lost Bard of Untunchilamon. My bard. Bought with my own money.'

  'How do you know it as yours? Maybe it's somebody else's bard.' 'There was but one in all the world,' said Sarazin. 'Are you sure?' said Douay. 'Positive,' said Sarazin. 'Look at it!' said Douay. Sarazin took the bard and examined it.

  'There,' said Sarazin. 'See? There's the damage done when you got my precious cut up in a street fight.'

  'So,' said Douay, 'that is the Lost Bard of Untunchi- lamon. Then what is this?'

  And Douay dangled before Sarazin's eyes another bard. He let Sarazin take it into his hands. Sarazin tried to make this new bard speak. It did so – in the voice of Saba Yavendar.

  'Where – where did these come from?' said Sarazin, bewildered.

  'I told you,' said Douay. 'I won many of such from Guardian Machines in desperate battle. All but one were stolen from me in Narba. As lord of the Gates I've been on the lookout for my stolen property. Man, don't look so shocked!'

  'But – but Epelthin Elkin – he told me – he said – just one, that's all, that's what he said, only one of these was ever made.'

  As Sarazin was blathering, Douay took back both bards, pocketed them, then said: 'You believe everything you're told?' 'Elkin's a wizard!' said Sarazin.

  'A pox doctor, then,' sneered Douay. 'Aye, I've had dealings with wizards myself. Man, this magic stuff is fraud, if you ask me.' 'But the Confederation built Drangsturm and-'

  'Oh, Drangsturm was pretty enough – I saw it myself before the South all turned to shit and custard. Aye, that and other things, Doors and flying islands and such, not that you believed me when I told. But I doubt that wizards ever made such, for the ones I've met can't do something as simple as a love philtre.'

  'So Elkin was wrong,' said Sarazin. 'Or else he lied to me.'

  'Whichever way, Watashi, I tell you straight. The bard you owned in Selzirk was but one of many. That I told you true. Yet you believed me not. Aye, tortured me on account of disbelief. I told you of Doors, too. You wouldn't believe those, either. Yet I've people here who've been through such.'

  'I believe now,' said Sarazin. 'I've seen monsters come through a Door in Chenameg.'

  'Oho!' said Douay. 'What you see you believe, and the rest of the world is a lie. If you weren't ready to believe speech, why torture me for speech?'

  'I… I'm sorry. But… you… there were… I mean, you told not one story but five. You were… I mean, think of the names for a start. First you were Drake Douay, then the son of a Demon, then something else, then…' 'Aye,' said Douay, softly.

  'Anyway,' said Sarazin, 'it was Jarl who did the torture. Jarl and Plovey and others.'

  'But you who condemned me! I was innocent, yet you let me be taken for torture!'

  'But… but it was so difficult,' said Sarazin. 'So difficult to believe your innocence when you told us so many different names and all.'

  'Many names I went by, yes,' said Douay, 'for not all could be revealed. But now the worst has happened, so all may be revealed. It will do no harm.' 'I… I should like to know the truth,' said Sarazin.

  Then Drake Douay revealed himself to Sarazin as Lord Dreldragon, heir to the Scattered Empire, a seapower realm of the Central Ocean.

  'I am of the Favoured Blood,' said Douay, 'for it is the Favoured Blood which rules in the Scattered Empire. Mighty are our weaponmasters and beautiful our women. But, more than either, our kingdom values its honour.'

  Then Douay explained that, years before, he had learnt of the doom which threatened Argan.

  T learnt of it through prophecy,' said Douay, 'for we have true prophets in the Scattered Empire. My kith and kin thought Argan doomed, but then I was vouchsafed a prophetic dream. If I came to Argan on my lonesome, I might have a chance to save the place.

  'But there was something I had to do, aye, this dream of mine showed me what was needed. There's a price for everything, man, and t
his is the price I had to pay. I had to come humble like, concealing my true identity.

  This was the burden that was placed upon me. To leave all that was dear to me. To go humble, aye, like a sick cat slinking past a thousand hounds in kennel. Then, when doom came upon Argan, I was to rally the strongest and fight against the Swarms.

  That I have done. Hence you find me here as lord of the Gates of Chenameg. But I've been weakened, aye, weakened by vile tortures, by filthy dungeons, by punish- ments unnatural and undeserved, and most of all by torture. It was you who did it, Watashi. You punished me in my innocence. You broke my strength. Hence, when Argan's peril came, I lacked the power to save the continent.'

  Now Sarazin saw the depths of his own guilt, and he knelt at the feet of the noble Douay and he wept, helplessly. Until Douay raised him to his feet.

  You know me now for what I am,' said Douay gently. 'I am of the Favoured Blood. You thought me a pirate, but I am no pirate, though hardship may have forced me to keep company with such. I am the scion of a noble house. Truly. I am of the Favoured Blood.

  'When I came to these Gates, the evil Groth held them against the people, ruling with rape and torture. I over- threw his tyranny which oppressed the people, and now I hold the Gates in justice for all the people. My fee upon the traffic is moderate, for I take but ten per cent of all that moves.

  'I rule, as I have said, in justice. Are you ready to receive my justice?' Sarazin dried his eyes and said in a voice without life: 'I am.'

  'This, then, is my justice,' said Douay. 'I will not kill you, though death you richly deserve. Instead, I will let you depart from here with your life. Aye, with your life, and with food for the journey, and new boots for the trail.'

  Then Douay led Sarazin to the eastern exit of his fortress palace, where Glambrax was waiting with two leather packs, one sized for a dwarf, one for a man. They were old, weather-scarred packs, smelling of the sweat of many soldiers.

  'They're not pretty,' said Douay, seeing Sarazin looking at the packs dubiously. 'But they'll do the job. Strong, see?'