The Wicked and the Witless

by Hugh Cook

  —Saba Yavendar, 'Hero Talk'

  * * *

  When Thodric Jarl heard of the duel, he cursed Sarazin for a fool. Jarl, the Rovac warrior who had taught Sarazin weaponwork during his long captivity in Voice, knew full well that Farfalla's son was unready for combat. Oh, he had exchanged cuts in duels in Voice, for sure. But that was mere sport undertaken for the sake of scars. This was a matter of death.

  'Still,' said Jarl, 'what's done is done.'

  After making formal arrangements for the fight — which would take place on the morrow's dawn on the palace battlements — Jarl worked Sarazin hard, thinking fatigue better than fear.

  'I'll be wrecked by tomorrow,' said Sarazin at one stage, drenched with sweat from sparring.

  You're young,' said Jarl. You'll live.'

  Jarl, being the war-wise veteran that he was, thought it best to deny Sarazin the leisure that would allow fear to unman him. Wine and women he saw as equally dangerous before a fight, for they comfort, pleasure and relax, mellow- ing the world — whereas battle thrives on bone-cold hatred.

  'We have but an evening,' said Jarl. 'That's no time at all. Concentrate! Think combat!'

  With Jarl setting the pace, they practised. Not with the dance-light rapiers with which Sarazin had duelled in Voice, but with war weapons of Stokos steel. Strong blades, light enough to be wielded with one hand but heavy enough to cleave through leather and bone. Swords built for endurance in war, blade and tang forged from a single piece of firelight steel, free from weak points such as welds and rivets. While Sarazin's blade was a gift from Lord Regan, Jarl had won his own on a battlefield.

  'Likely your nobleman knows no shieldwork,' said Jarl. 'He won't be used to the weight, or trained for it.'

  Why?' said Sarazin. 'Surely Tarkal has his place in Chenameg's army.'

  'Chenameg has no army,' said Thodric Jarl. 'So Tarkal has never trained for war. So how will he fight?'

  'Duelling style. In and out. In and out.' "Yes. Quick as a frog after flies. What will his feet be doing?'

  'Quickwork also' said Sarazin. 'In and out, in time with his blade.'

  'Right! So watch. Wait. Brunt him with the shield. Let him exhaust himself. Then, when you get a good chance, strike. Hard! But not at his head, mind. Nor at his shield. Strike for his sword.'

  'Why?'

  'Likely as not, he'll bear a flimsy Chenameg duelling sword. I've seen no firelight steel with this embassy. Since they do no soldiering in Chenameg, all the stuff of local make is designed for fashion.'

  'But sharp regardless,' said Sarazin.

  'Sharp, yes, but weak. Likely blade will be riveted to the hilt. That's weakness. Sword against sword, you can likely break him.'

  'If I'm going to try that,' said Sarazin. 'I don't think I'll use Lord Regan's gift. I'll use my second-best sword. It's strong enough, I think. I've given it a name: Onslaught.'

  'A good name for a good weapon,' said Jarl. 'But second- best is not good enough for tomorrow. You'll use the weapon Lord Regan gave you.'

  'But I might damage it! It's fearfully valuable!'

  Jarl laughed, and clapped Sarazin on the shoulder. Feeling the young man's linen wet with sweat.

  It's your liver to worry about,' he said. 'Never your steel. That's war. Listen: here's a lesson for your life. Always take your best steel to war. Best sword, best horse, best boots, best men. Expense saved means nothing to a corpse.'

  Lightly he spoke, yet his words brought home to Sarazin the reality of the doom which faced him. As Jarl took Sarazin through a series of stretching exercises, Sarazin realised that this time tomorrow he might be dead. He tried to imagine his death, but found it impossible. The world was but an extension of himself — so how could the world exist if he did not?

  —Yet once, before I was born, the world existed without me. Or so it claims.

  The thought was so improbable that Sarazin — not for the first time — doubted that the world really existed. Quite apart from its denial of the centrality of Sean Sarazin, there were other things about the world which struck him as unreal. Mortality, for instance.

  —A world of people, all doomed to certain death. How could that be possible? If all flesh were truly mortal, how could there be laughter?

  —If the world were a fact, and death universal a fact in that fact, surely the streets would run screaming from dawn to dusk. To be born, just to die? What kind of reality is that?

  As he had done in the past, Sarazin conjured with the notion that perhaps he was really a god, dreaming. That he would wake, shortly, and resume his true life of power and creation.

  Death?

  A word beyond meaning.

  This ends our training,' said Jarl, for Sarazin had worked through the last of his stretching exercises while doing his thinking. 'I judge you tired enough to sleep by now. Mind you do! A warrior gets his head down and sleeps whenever the chance is given. That's one of the first lessons of war!'

  But, though Jarl had thought Sarazin tired enough to sleep, Farfalla's son lay sleepless long, staring at the dark, conjuring with skulls and bloodclot disaster.

  Throughout the night, Thodric Jarl slept soundly on a pallet outside Sarazin's door. If the young man had been fool enough to venture forth to search for card companions or other distractions, Jarl would have woken on the moment. As it was, his guard duty proved eventless.

  Sarazin did in fact divert himself. With wine — yes, and with Amantha's flesh. And (lust cruel, direct and

  shameless, like something done by the body of one insect to another) the very heat of his mother herself. But all this, of course, took place within dream's world of delusions.

  Sarazin was still sleeping, still dreaming, when Jarl shook him awake. The young man who would be king startled awake. Smelt the roughwork sweat of the Rovac warrior.

  It's dark,' said Sarazin.

  'Yes, but near dawn,' said Jarl. 'Rouse yourself. It's a great day for it.'

  —A great day to die.

  To his discomfort, Sarazin found he had diarrhoea. He refused breakfast, but accepted the cup of hot green tea which Bizzie brought him. Tea was drunk by few people in Selzirk, but Sarazin indulged himself in it daily. Every morning its savour conjured up memories of Voice, and he wished himself back in that city.

  'Fighting, are we?' said Bizzie. Well, good luck to you.'

  Thanks,' said Sarazin.

  Grateful, despite himself, for such good wishes, even though they came from the low-bred mother of his bastard brother Benthorn.

  'Get this inside you,' said Jarl, offering Sarazin a tot of rum to follow the tea.

  'I thought you told me never to drink and fight.'

  'A smahan of rum will do you no harm. Drink I'

  Sarazan drank. It was good. Heat in his belly. Warmth in his veins. He longed to linger to enjoy that heat. To rest. To sleep a little more — till noon perhaps. But Jarl was setting the pace and, all too soon, Sarazin was fastening his swordbelt.

  'My shield?'

  'I'll carry it,' said Jarl.

  Then they were on their way to the battlements where Sarazin would confront Tarkal at dawn. The morning was cold, yet the last icechip stars were melting. Pink clouds swathed the eastern horizon.

  Sarazin shivered.

  'Are we late?' he said, seeing Tarkal and his courtiers clustered on the battlements ahead. 'Let's not be late. They'd think me a coward.'

  "No need to hurry,' said Jarl. They won't run away. Step loose. Step even.'

  Jarl persuaded Sarazin to unstring his battle-tense muscles, making him take it slowly.

  Think now,' said Jarl. Think of a stone in water. Deepen your breathing. Deep and slow. Think of a stone steady amidst water. You are that stone. Deep and slow. Breathe in. And out. Deep and slow . . .'

  The lull of Jarl's voice and the steady rhythm of walk- ing calmed Sarazin. Then he looked up, and saw the opposition close ahead, a gaudy cabal of silks and smirks, ready, waiting. The morning light was stronger. Conjuring with col
ours.

  His footsteps faltered.

  'Take the shield, then,' said Jarl, loudly, to give the impression that Sarazin had halted to ask for that object.

  Sarazin took the weight.

  'Onward,' urged Jarl, low-voiced.

  Sarazin closed the distance. Amantha, her hands buried deep in a wolverine muff, studied him with disdain. Her maids exchanged glances and giggles. A courtier indulged himself with a pinch of snuff. Yawned. As Tarkal stepped forward.

  'So,' said Tarkal, beginning a devastatingly witty speech which he had carefully prepared the night before. 'Our young peasant friend has condescended to join us at last. I see he—'

  Without warning, Jarl slapped Sarazin on the back and shouted: 'Draw!'

  Sarazin drew. Sword lept from sheath. He shouted as he had been taught: 'Ah-hai!'

  The battle-cry came from his gut, focusing energy on action. He quivered with warlike aggression. Which made Amantha laugh. Her laughter tinkled like fractured glass.

  It shivers,' she said. 'See? It is frightened.'

  'That,' said Tarkal, no sword in his hands but no fear in his voice, 'reflects its breeding.'

  'Draw, dog!' shouted Sarazin, enraged.

  'No need for amateur theatricals,' said Tarkal, his voice as cool as bone beneath water. 'Shall we wait until the sun has warmed the world before we fight?'

  'We wait for nothing,' said Jarl. We fight. Now!'

  Sarazin, quick-breathing, was gladdened by Jarl's voice. He remembered to slow his breathing. The iron grip of the shield was warming beneath his fingers. He was ready.

  'No games now,' said Jarl. 'Fight to kill.'

  But Tarkal, with studied insolence, delayed while he cracked his knuckles one by one, donned leather gauntlets, accepted sword and shield from retainers, then paused to test the weight and balance of his equipment.

  Then, finally — when Sarazin was tense enough to scream — Tarkal settled himself for combat. A sardonic smile on his face. And Sarazin found himself—

  Paralysed.

  Incapable of action.

  Strange gnat-sized squiggles of darkness scrawled across his field of vision. His legs were shaking. And Tarkal, smiling, smiling, was leisuring towards him, sword on guard and—

  'Strike!' screamed Jarl.

  The word snapped Sarazin into action. His blade leapt for Tarkal's throat, as if of its own volition. Sword clashed with sword. Then the two broke apart. Panting.

  Jarl shouted:

  'Lunge!'

  Tarkal moved to parry a lunge which never came. The unaccustomed shield-weight tricked his feet. Momen- tarily, Tarkal stumbled. Sarazin seized his chance. He charged. Shield smashed against shield. All Sarazin's bodyweight was behind the charge. Tarkal staggered back- wards, went down.

  'No!' screamed Amantha.

  But already Tarkal was getting to his feet. He scrabbled for shield and sword, found sword alone, brought the blade to the challenge — and saw Sarazin's shield flying through the air towards him. Thrown full force. No time to dodge. No time to duck. Steel must avail. Tarkal met shield with sword.

  'Hal' screamed Jarl, expecting the sword to break.

  But sword deflected shield.

  Take him as I've taught you!' shouted Jarl.

  Sarazin advanced upon Tarkal. Breathing harshly. Both hands on the hilt of his sword. As both combatants had lost their shields, it was bare blades now. To the death.

  'Ska!' screamed Tarkal.

  Striking with all his force.

  'Hal' screamed Sarazin.

  Striking full-force at Tarkal's oncoming blade.

  The blades met. The full strength of two men was devoted to their meeting. And one blade broke. Steel went flying, somersaulting, sun-spangling. Tarkal dared a thrust — then realised his fist held nothing but a swordhilt. The Chenameg princeling gaped at the hilt of the sword. The blade had been torn clean away from the hilt.

  'Kill!' yelled Jarl.

  But before Sarazin could lunge, Tarkal was running. He fled slap-bang into the arms of his startled supporters. 'Now!' screamed Jarl.

  Sarazin lunged. And spiked Tarkal's left buttock.

  'The spine!' roared Jarl. 'Stab him in the spine!'

  But Tarkal dropped to his hands and knees and rabbited away between the legs of his courtiers. Two of those worthies drew swords and advanced on Sarazin, meaning to kill him.

  'None of that,' said Jarl, interposing his death-blade between the would-be murderers and their intended victim. The courtiers, who were but overgrown boys, stepped back smartly, unwilling to fight such a hard-bitten veteran. 'All right,' said Jarl. 'Clean the rat's blood from your blade and we'll be going.'

  So saying, he gave Sarazin a rag with which to clean his blade. Meanwhile, Amantha had gone to the aid of her wounded brother.

  'Tarkal!' she cried.

  'It is nothing,' he said, waving her away. 'My darling,' she said, dabbing at the blood with her handkerchief.

  While his sister tended his wound, Tarkal said to Sarazin:

  'You have ended my quest. You have ruined my hopes of glory. Does that give your warped peasant brain some grain of satisfaction?'

  'What quest is that?' said Sarazin.

  And heard one of the retainers whisper to another, in shocked delight:.

  'He doesn't know!'

  'What have I done?' said Sarazin, bewildered and distressed.

  But they gave him no answer.

  'Come,' said Jarl to Sarazin. 'Let's be going.'

  Once they were decently removed from the courtiers, Sarazin asked:

  'How did I do?'

  'Better than I expected,' said Jarl. 'After all, you're alive.'

  'But — but I did something wrong, didn't I? Because they were so upset — about the quest, I mean. What was that all about?'

  Their own business,' said Jarl, 'which is no concern of ours. Tarkal was on the quest which is traditional for the oldest son of the king of Chenameg.'

  'What quest is that?' said Sarazin.

  To search for the tectonic lever and set the same in action.'

  'Tectonic lever?'

  'A war machine from the days of the Technic Renais- sance. Legend sets it in the terror-lands of the Deep South, far beyond Drangsturm. It is said to have the power to sink Argan.' 'To sink . . . ?'

  'To plunge the continent beneath the waves.'

  'A weapon indeed!' said Sarazin. 'But how would Chenameg profit if Argan sank? Chenameg is itself but a part of Argan.'

  'Ah!' said Jarl. 'But legend holds that Argan North would not entirely be swallowed by the sea. While waves would swamp the Harvest Plains entire, the rising seas would leave Chenameg with a border with the ocean.'

  'I see! The Harvest Plains would drown, and Chenameg—

  'Chenameg would become a great seapower,' said Jarl, lording its power over the ruins of a sunken world.'

  'And we — we allow these princes thus to try to encompass our doom?'

  Jarl laughed.

  'By tradition, each questing hero turns back on getting his first wound. You gave Tarkal a scratch, so he goes home a hero.' .

  'That's not much of a quest!' said Sarazin, with a touch of outrage in his voice.

  'Ah,' said Jarl, "but it's the best kind of quest for one in line for wealth and power. A survivable quest, quickly undertaken near to home. No prince in the last five generations has needed to quest beyond the borders of the Harvest Plains to get the scratch which sent him home.'

  'If I were a prince of Chenameg—'

  Yes,' said Jarl, 'yes, I know. You'd feel yourself honour- bound to quest through danger until you came to this tectonic lever, yea, though you had to fight through fifty thousand dragons to reach its doorstep.'

  Sarazin, chagrined to be so easily read, blushed. To cover his confusion, he went on the attack:

  'How come you never told me this in Voice? Surely I should have been told!'

  Why?' said Jarl. 'I taught you weapons. That was my responsibility. Nothing more, nothin
g less. Anyway, I never knew much of Chenameg till I came to Selzirk. But since then, I've found out much.'

  As members of the Watch were still trying to persuade Jarl to mastermind a coup and put Sarazin on the throne of the Harvest Plains, Jarl was doing his very best to learn all he could of both the internal and external politics of the nation.

  I've never asked you this before,' said Sarazin, 'but — why did you come back with me? From Voice, I mean.'

  'I like to finish what I start,' said Jarl.

  Which reminded him: it was about time for him to complete his latest report and send it off to Lord Regan of the Rice Empire. Master of Combat, conspirator, spy and tutor to Sarazin to boot: Thodric Jarl was a busy man indeed.

  'I've another question,' said Sarazin. 'What?'

  'At the end of the fight, why did Amantha go to Tarkal, not to me?'

  'What a senseless question!' said Jarl. 'He's her brother, hence owns her allegiance. What did you expect?'

  'But it was for love of her that I got myself into all this trouble!'

  'Then the more fool you,' said Jarl, 'for she's a nasty piece of work, if I'm any judge of womanflesh.'

  Perhaps. But she was the woman Sarazin wanted. And he was still determined to make her his before the embassy left Selzirk to return to Chenameg.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lod: gambler, layabout and professional debtor who also happens to be the youngest son of King Lyra of Chenameg and guest of Farfalla of the Harvest Plains.