The Wicked and the Witless

by Hugh Cook

  'I see war,' she said. 'I see, too, you youfself named for war. Watashi they will call you.'

  'A strange name!' said Sarazin, perplexed by this. Then, keen to know how he would fare with Amantha, he said: 'What do you see of love?'

  The fortune-teller looked at his face and saw there what she took to be the hormone-hyped gleam of puppy love, though it was in fact the lust for power, fame, wealth and glamour. She told him what he wanted to hear.

  You love a lady,' she said. Through love, your destiny you'll find.'

  'But how?' said Sarazin, in a voice close to despair.

  'The how and the why are not in my keeping,' she said.

  And, lacking the money to persuade her to say more, he had to depart unsatisfied.

  That night, Sarazin lay dreaming of Amantha. He dreamed in particular of the pink flesh which lined her naos, the holy of holies which he wished to penetrate. By force, if there was no other way. Force? Yesl In his dreams, at least, that much was possible. He raped her: and woke pumping.

  'Shtig!' said Sarazin, giving vent to sour obscenity.

  Unable to sleep, he took to his sword and trained with the blade until the moth-shy light of morning began to unshadow the world. The sword in question was not, of course, the blade of firelight steel given to him by Lord Regan. It was a workaday weapon which Farfalla bade him keep with him always for protection.

  At sunrise, Sarazin finally gave this sword a name.

  'Onslaught be your name,' he said. Yes, you are Onslaught from now on.'

  The name expressed Sarazin's own grim determination to renew his attack on Amantha, to press home the assault, to give no quarter, to strive, to win, to conquer. To make the woman his.

  Sarazin, realising it was going to be difficult to persuade Amantha to yield to his charms, decided he needed to know more about her, particularly her likes and dislikes. Therefore early that morning he went looking for Lod, hoping for a long and productive talk with his friend from Chenameg.

  However, Lod was not available for such a talk. The young prince was closeted in conference with his brother Tarkal. So Sarazin, impatient to bring his campaign against Amantha to a successful conclusion, took his problem to Thodric Jarl, whom he found renewing the sharkskin grip on a favourite sword.

  Now Jarl was Master of Combat for the Watch, he usually only saw Sarazin during their daily combat training sessions. But, knowing his young charge well, he had no trouble divining his problem.

  'A woman, is it?' said Jarl.

  His hard face unsympathetic. Gnarled by the weather of half a dozen wars.

  'Not just a woman!' protested Sarazin. 'I'm in love!'

  'Oh, love,' said Jarl, in a dismissive tone. 'A sorry sickness! Haven't you yet got a regular whore? Believe me, these fevers pass soon enough if properly treated.'

  But Sarazin knew merely slaking his lust would not cure his passion. He wanted Amantha. Not just for a night, but for life. As his true love. His wife.

  'This is a special woman,' said Sarazin. 'It has to be her. Nobody else will do.'

  'Then knock her over the head and have your wicked way with her,' said Jarl. 'Have you anything else on your mind? If not, I've got work to do.'

  Sarazin left Jarl, mind full of plots and plans. Could he seize Amantha by force? No! The very idea was absurd! Kidnapping would scarcely serve his purposes. He wanted a legal marriage which would see him in line for the throne of Chenamag.

  Again he asked after Lod. On finding his friend was still in conference with Tarkal, Sarazin took his problem to his aged tutor, the venerable Epelthin Elkin.

  'In love, are you?' said Elkin. 'Ah, love! I've not learnt much of love in my life of dusty scholarship.'

  'But you must have some ideal' said Sarazin. 'How can I win the woman? Not just for a night, but for life.'

  You can never win a woman for life,' said Elkin, 'for all liaisons are but treaties which must nightly be renewed.'

  'For a night, then! A night would be a start. How can I win her for a night?'

  'Jewels, boy,' said Elkin. That's the answer. The scin- tillation of diamonds. The gleam of rubies, glowing like blood amidst yellow butter.'

  You suggest I give her gemstones in butter?' said Sarazin, who was always hoping to catch Elkin in open senility.

  'Nay, boy. Jewels and gold.'

  'But I'm broke!'

  He was certainly impoverished, since whatever money came his way soon went on drink, cards and fortune tellers. And tips for Bizzie, his maid. Besides, he did not want to bribe Amantha. He wanted her to choose him out of love, lust, respect, admiration. Or any combination of those.

  'So you've no gold,' said Elkin.

  'None.'

  'Any diamonds?' 'No.'

  'Jade? Silver? Amber? Silk?'

  You know the answer already.'

  Sarazin's one valuable possession was his blade of firelight steel. But his mother had taken away that weapon. Thodric Jarl had been given custody of it, and Sarazin only saw it during training sessions with the Rovac warrior.

  Then,' said Elkin, maliciously, 'all I can suggest is that you take your problem to Amantha's brother.'

  'Lod can't help me,' said Sarazin.

  'I didn't mean Lod. I meant Tarkal.'

  'Tarkal?' said Sarazin, incredulously.

  Trust me,' said Elkin, sure that Tarkal would beat some sense into Sarazin — and sure, also, that this was the neatest way to deal with the problem.

  Thus, on the advice of his tutor, Sarazin sought out Tarkal, who, having finished his business with Lod, was busy with his armourer in the guest quarters.

  'I want to talk to you,' said Sarazin.

  'Then wait,' said Tarkal brusquely.

  Then resumed his conversation with his armourer. He wanted the aventail of his helm modified. This subject was dear to his heart, and very technical. Sarazin, listening, was embarrassed to find the niceties of the matter completely beyond his comprehension.

  'What do you want?' said Tarkal, when the armourer had left.

  'A private audience with your sister.' Who are you?' said Tarkal.

  'I am Sean Sarazin, a prince of the Harvest Plains.' You are no prince,' said Tarkal. Tvly mother is Farfalla.'

  I've seen that fat sow for myself. If such spawned you, that makes you a piglet at best.'

  Sarazin declined to be insulted. Deciding boldness would serve him best, he said:

  'I wish to—'

  'To what?'

  'To marry your sister.'

  You are refused,' said Tarkal, not bothering to laugh since he had no audience to appreciate the laughter.

  And, when Sarazin persisted, Tarkal booted him. Hard. Since the event happened in privacy, Sarazin chose to ignore it. He left the Chenameg princeling's presence, and went and sought out Lod.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Bizzie: a matronly woman who is wife of the ostler Hof- Gof, a past lover of Farfalla's sometime paramour Fox, and mother of Sarazin's half-brother Benthorn.

  You were with Tarkal for a long time,' said Sarazin. 'So I was,' said Lod.

  'How did it go?'

  'Badly,' said Lod. Tarkal claims my father demands my return to Chenamag. But he showed me no proof of this order, so I refused absolutely to obey. He then threatened me. But I've no fear of his threats, for he has no powers in Selzirk.'

  'Still,' said Sarazin, 'it can't have been pleasant. Tell me — have you always been at odds with Tarkal?'

  'No, not always,' said Lod. 'Only for twenty years.'

  This was one of Lod's jokes, since Lod was, as Sarazin knew well, twenty years old — two years younger than Amantha and five years younger than Tarkal. But, as the joke was so weak, Sarazin did not waste time laughing. Instead he asked:

  'How about Amantha?'

  'Oh, we get on all right,' said Lod. 'I don't think she's much of a sister, but then I've nothing much to compare her with, have I?'

  'No,' said Sarazin, 'I meant Amantha and Tarkal. How do they get on?'

  'Oh
, very well,' said Lod. "Very well indeed. Friend Sarazin, you wouldn't believe how well they get on.'

  Then Lod laughed aloud at some very private joke, which he declined to share with Sarazin even when asked to.

  'Why do you ask anyway?' said Lod.

  'I want to know as much about Amantha as I can,' said Sarazin. 'I want you to tell me everything you know about her.'

  Why,' said Lod, dismissively, 'she's a woman, is she not? That tells you everything you need to know.'

  'But not how to make her love me I'

  'Friend Sarazin, I'm no expert on love. What say we take your questions to a fortune-teller?'

  We've done that.'

  Ah, but so far you've only consulted the second-rate. Now it's time to seek help from the best. The woman I'm talking of is Madam Sosostris. Let me tell you about her . . .'

  What Lod told Sarazin of the skill, power and ability of Madam Sosostris convinced him that she was worth a visit. So he allowed Lod to lead him to her premises. However, on arrival they found she was laid up with a bad cold.

  'Nevertheless,' said Lod, 'she's known to be the wisest woman in Selzirk.'

  'I believe you,' said Sarazin, who did. 'But, when do you think I can see her?'

  'I'm no doctor,' said Lod, 'so I couldn't tell you. How about we try again tomorrow?'

  'All right,' said Sarazin.

  But when they called round early the next day they were told Madam Sosostris was still sick in bed. So Sarazin had to continue his campaign against Amantha without her advice.

  Later that day, there was an official banquet at which Sarazin was one of the guests, Amantha another. Music tranced around them as they gorged themselves on delight. Clean napery and the sparkle of jewels. A night to remember.

  Sarazin tried to catch Amantha's eye, yet her very gaze refused him.

  Disgruntled, he quit the banquet early, pleading nausea, and retired to his own quarters, where he lay on his bed in something close to a sulk. Dreaming of taming Amantha with whips and chains, spurs and goads. Her pride wet- whimpering at his feet.

  'What is the problem?' said Bizzie, his maid, on seeing that he was downcast.

  'A woman,' he said gloomily.

  He knew what she would suggest, and wanted nothing to do with it. While he had only recently begun taking advantage of her availability, he was already tired of her fat red face, her bloated body. There was something disgusting about her earthy intimacies: so different from the silken soft-voiced pleasures he had enjoyed with Jaluba in Voice.

  'In lust again, ducks?' said Bizzie. 'Well, never mind.'

  She laid herself down on his bed and pulled up her skirts, exposing her triangle. Hating himself for his weakness, Sarazin once again made good use of her flesh. It humi- liated him, this traffic with a member of the lower orders. But he could not deny his animal.

  'Cheer up,' said Bizzie. 'It can't be that bad.'

  Then she licked, tickled and told rude jokes, but got not the whisper of a smile out of him.

  'You'll feel better tomorrow,' she said, taking her accustomed silver.

  'Tomorrow,' said Sarazin gloomily, 'never comes.'

  But Bizzie was already gone, for she had work to do. Left alone, Sarazin lay staring up at the ceiling. Brooding. Degraded by tumbling with a common servant.

  'Farfalla,' he muttered, a touch of hatred in his voice.

  It was her fault. She it was who had bred him to his station. And who had, shortly after his recovery from the river-fever, encouraged him to make an arrangement with Bizzie. Lust will out somehow, Farfalla had said — pointing out that Selzirk's whores were rich with venereal diseases.

  'Amantha,' said Sarazin, treasuring the name of his princess.

  Was he really in love? He hoped so. After all, there was no other genuine princess on the horizon. So if he was not in love with this one, then he was in trouble.

  He touched his limpness. Dank thing smelling, now, of woman.

  Why is it this?' he said, in a voice which was almost a moan. This which rules us?'

  Love, thought Sarazin, should not be so physical. So vulgar. Smells and slurpings. Stickiness of skin against skin. Wet exudate aftermath.

  —Music. I wish for a love like music.

  Maybe he could make a poem out of that.

  Attempting to do just that, Sarazin sat up late, trying to pen lines which would body forth his regret for his possession of a body, and enshrine in deathless verse his wish to be made out of music. He was still hard at it towards midnight, when Bizzie came to him again.

  'Still awake?' she said. 'I thought you might be.'

  'It's no use,' he said. 'Apart from anything else, I've no more silver.'

  'Goodwill's got a value of its own,' she said. 'And my husband's out late again with his darts team. Come on, love, shove over.'

  She did her best, as ever. And his flesh, as always, could not deny its nature.

  That night, Sarazin dreamed he possessed Amantha. His dream was so real, so intense, so certain, that, on waking, he was ready to dare her scorn again. His chance came when he was sent to escort the noble guests, who were going hawking for the day.

  It was the very end of summer: hot, dry and dusty. Soon, autumn rains would cool the weather. But, for the moment, the heat and dust were almost unendurable. They were favoured with very little sport, for shooting birds was a standard child's pastime in the Harvest Plains, so little was left for royal hunters.

  When far from Selzirk, Sarazin again tried Amantha's temper, riding up alongside his princess so he could pro- position her.

  'Sweetest charm,' he began.

  'Forget it,' said Amantha.

  You haven't even heard me out!'

  'I know what you want to talk about. About tupping.'

  'About marriage!' protested Sarazin.

  'The substance,' said Amantha, 'is the same.'

  'What's your objection?' said Sarazin. 'Do you wish to be virgin forever?'

  'You know my objection already,' said Amantha. 'You are not of the Favoured Blood, and never will be.'

  Meaning he was not royal.

  At which point Sarazin realised Tarkal had ridden up beside him.

  'Are you troubling my sister?' said Tarkal.

  While Sarazin was still trying to think of a diplomatic reply, Tarkal grabbed him by the collar then raked his horse with his spurs. The horse reared. Sarazin was hauled from the saddle and flung to the dust. He landed heavily. Looking up, he saw Tarkal staring down at him from horse-height.

  'Peonl' said Tarkal. 'How dare you proposition my sister?'

  Thus spoke Tarkal. Then spat. Accurately.

  Sarazin wiped saliva from his face. Slowly. He hoisted himself from the ground. It hurt to move, but nothing was broken.

  'Does it demand satisfaction?' asked Tarkal.

  'I have gutted dung-eating pigs before,' said Sarazin. 'I already know the colour of their offal.'

  "Now I demand satisfaction!' said Tarkal. You have the choice of weapons, of course.'

  Sarazin hesitated.

  'Do you deny me satisfaction?' said Tarkal.

  'Are you a coward?' asked Amantha, her scorn de- nouncing him as exactly that.

  They began riding round and round him, their horses kicking up dust which infiltrated his nose. Sarazin tried hard not to sneeze, because that would have been undig- nified. Some dust got in his eyes, which began watering furiously.

  'He's crying!' said Tarkal.

  'I am not!' shouted Sarazin.

  'Of course you are,' jeered Tarkal. You're scared. You're a coward. Crying like a baby!'

  'There's dust in my eyes,' protested Sarazin.

  'Heroes fight and cowards run,' said Tarkal. 'Heroes fight and cowards run.'

  He made a chant from the words, like a big child taunt- ing a smaller. His companions joined him in the chant.

  'I'll fight then!' shouted Sarazin.

  Amantha laughed.

  'Did I hear aright?' she said. 'I thought I heard it say
it will fight.'

  'I will fight!' said Sarazin.

  'With what weapons?' said Tarkal.

  'Swords, of course,' said Sarazin. 'Swords and shields.'

  The reply came naturally, for these were the weapons ne used when training with Thodric Jarl. Training for battle. Training for war.

  'You mean to fight with shields?' said Tarkal, incred- ulously. What kind of daffing is this?'

  'Swords and shields,' said Sarazin. 'I can bear the weight, even if you cannot.'

  'He means it,' said someone.

  And there was a titter of poorly suppressed laughter. 'Shields, then,' said Tarkal.

  And grabbed the reins of Sarazin's horse, and galloped away.

  'Hey!' shouted Sarazin. 'Hey! Hey! Come backl' Laughing, they jaunted away with a jingle of sharps and spurs. Sarazin was left to walk back to Selzirk. Which he did. Counting the paces. With every step, he added details to Tarkal's death.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Come, daemon of war, enchant my sword, That dead as daddock may my enemies fall, Their uninhabited bodies sprawl To fields where carrion crows May glutton their blood as potage. I will be a hero,

  And wage to war forever in foreign fields:

  For my mother-in-law guards the gates of my return.