The Wicked and the Witless

by Hugh Cook

  Description: a slim, graceful man of twenty who has athlete's foot and (alasl) syphilis, and a wary eye alert for approaching creditors.

  Rest lence: guest quarters (by the Hall of Wine), palace of the kingmaker, Selzirk.

  Once Sarazin was back in his quarters the full import of what had happened began to sink in. He was alive! Alive and — blessed be the gods! — unhurt. He was ebullient. He danced up and down on the spot for the sheer joy of being alive.

  Abruptly his mood changed. Realising how completely he had failed, he threw himself down on his bed. He was disgusted with himself. The duel had been his big chance: but he had bungled it. He could have killed Tarkal three times over if his heart had really been in the fight. But his enemy had escaped with little more than a scratch.

  —What could I have been thinking of?

  Unfortunately, he knew exactly what he had been thinking of: chiefly his own mortality. He had been scared. Shit scared. (Literally, since fear was the source of that morning's diarrhoea.) And he had let Tarkal escape. A bad mistake indeed, since he must kill Tarkal sooner or later, otherwise there was very little point pursuing Amantha.

  —What now?

  Self-disgust was already giving way to fatigue. He was very, very weary. He closed his eyes, intending to take just a little nap, and when he woke it was afternoon. A meal was sitting on a chair by his bed, the plate covered by muslin to protect it against the summer flies. Lunch, doubtless. He wished Bizzie had woken him when she brought the meal, for he had work to do.

  He had to arrange another meeting with Amantha so he could once more declare his love to her.

  When Sarazin found the embassy was returning to the Chenameg Kingdom the very next day, he looked for Lod, since he wanted advice urgently. He had decided to pen some lines in praise of Amantha and wanted Lod to tell him what would appeal to his sister. But Lod was nowhere to be found. Accordingly, Sarazin did the best he could unaided.

  The next day, Sarazin was on hand when the visitors assembled at noon to take their departure. They faced a long journey eastward from Selzirk to Chenameg's borders, then through the forests to Shin, which was King Lyra's capital.

  Farfalla herself was not there to farewell the embassy. Word had come from Androlmarphos to say the governor of the place had died, so she had departed for that city, where she would officiate at the funeral.

  She would not, however, appoint another governor. Not today, not tomorrow. The privilege of appointing such 'kings' was one of the few powers the Regency had been unable to alienate from her. Such positions were eagerly sought after, and competition would be fierce.

  For once, Farfalla would have real power, real influence. Of course, while she toyed with those who sought to become king of Androlmarphos, the city's administration would suffer. But — what of it? Once she appointed a king, another vacancy might not occur for twenty years. Or thirty. By which time she might be long dead.

  —This is not the game I would have chosen.

  Thus thought Farfalla.

  But it was the only game in town.

  Farfalla's downstream journey westward from Selzirk to Androlmarphos would be swift. But the embassy travelling east would have a slow journey, for the riders had but one horse apiece. Furthermore, three baggage wagons were going with them, heavily laden with goods usually un- obtainable in Chenameg, plus gifts from Farfalla and from the Regency.

  None of the travellers condescended to notice Sarazin's existence — least of all Tarkal, who was sitting bravely in his saddle with a plump swansdown pillow between his injured buttock and the unforgiving leather.

  In a few moments they would leave and Sarazin's chance would be gone. So:

  'In honour of the Princess Amantha,' said Sarazin loudly, 'I wish to read a poem.'

  'So it can read,' said Tarkal.

  'Hush,' said Amantha. 'Let it read. That can do no harm.'

  Amantha, despite herself, could not help being interested in a poem which promised to honour her. Sarazin produced his manuscript with a flourish, and cleared his throat.

  He had been trained in oratory, and had read his poems in public in Voice often enough, to generous applause — but, even so, could not help but feel nervous.

  Well,' said Tarkal. 'Get on with it. We haven't got all day.'

  So Sarazin began to read his poem: 'Though even phoenix must in time renew—' Tarkal sneezed, and his horse suddenly began to sidestep with a clatter of hooves on cobblestones. As if by black magic, an epidemic of coughing and sneezing broke out amongst the courtiers; their horses became restless; their hound-dogs howled—

  But Sarazin, raising his voice, continued his lines about petal-scented wonder, the worship of shadows, the adora- tion of hearts, the difficulties which must lovers sunder, and that fine renaissance of feeling which will in time splendour love anew.

  Concluding, he offered his manuscript to Amantha, saying:

  'Fair flower of inspiration, please accept this humble token of my esteem.'

  This kind of flowery phraseology had been all the fashion in Voice (though there, of course, Sarazin had couched his phrases in the Geltic of the Rice Empire, instead of the City Churl which he spoke in Selzirk).

  Amantha did not accept his offering. 'Ah, so it is in love,' said she. 'Poor thing! Like a pig- dog in lust with the moon.' And all the retinue laughed.

  'You know how to brawl,' said Tarkal, 'if not how to duel, but you'll never make a poet in a million years.'

  'How dare you sneer at me?' said Sarazin. 'I beat you in fair combat!'

  You came armed as if for a gutter fight,' said Tarkal, 'armed with a common brawler's weapon. How was I to know you would stoop so low?'

  'I came with a weapon of war!' said Sarazin.

  'Oh, indeed!' said Amantha. 'A weapon of war! Do you expect me to hold you in great wish when you try for your honour with a common soldier's bludgeon?'

  'My blade's no bludgeon!' protested Sarazin. 'It's a weapon-sword true, a tooth of Stokos steel, the world's most expensive bladework!'

  'Money,' said Amantha, 'never yet bought class.'

  And, as Sarazin stood there, dismayed, his mouth agape, she flicked the reins of her horse and rode away.

  Sarazin was devastated by Amantha's rejection of his poem. He had laboured on it long and hard, first writing it in Geltic, then translating it into Churl, then trying it out on Bizzie (no other critic being available).

  Still, he could survive the rejection of his art. He knew genius creates the taste by which it is appreciated; this takes time, a commodity Amantha was not prepared to afford him. But the insult to his weapon was a more serious matter.

  Sarazin took his woes to his swordmaster.

  'What's the problem?' said Thodric Jarl.

  They say my blade is that of a common soldier.'

  'Who says?'

  'The people from Chenameg.'

  "Who heeds the defeated?' said Jarl, scornfully. This much I've learnt from a lifetime's campaigning: no loser was ever outclassed or outfought. The victor always bluffed, cheated or was aided by the weather. Thus speak the defeated.' 'But they—'

  They play at battle as if it was a game,' said Jarl.

  'Duelling,' said Sarazin, with more than a touch of pomposity, 'has ever been a feature of the noble life.'

  'Games,' repeated Jarl. Well, that's not what I was hired to teach you.'

  What have you taught me, then?' said Sarazin, unwisely.

  'Death, not dancing. Survival, not style. If princes and such wish to charade with steel and call it combat — well, that's no business of mine. But — mark well! — you'll meet with no fighting for fashion's sake in a brothel brawl or a battlefield bloodbath.'

  Sarazin had the impression he had heard all this before. As indeed he had. Six or seven times at least.

  'So I was right to fight with my Stokos steel?' said Sarazin.

  To stay alive? Of course! Whatever weapon serves, that's the one to use. Over the years, I've defended my life with eve
rything from a dead cat to a full-charged chamber pot.'

  'But I wasn't being fair to Tarkal, was I?' said Sarazin. 'I knew he wouldn't know the tricks of shieldwork. I knew my blade would likely break his.'

  "You were right to fight on your terms, not his,' said Jarl. 'After all, he started it. Anyway, that's one of the greater parts of the art of war: forcing the enemy to fight on ground of your choosing.'

  'But they laughed at me!'

  They laughed, you lived,' said Jarl. 'I wouldn't complain too much about that.'

  'What about my poem?' said Sarazin. 'They laughed at that, too. Amantha in particular.'

  'That does you no lasting harm either,' said Jarl.

  'But why did she laugh at my poem?'

  'Ask the sun, the moon or the fish in the sea, but don't ask me. Poems are pretty enough, if you like that kind of thing, but one sounds much like another to me.'

  Then, since Sarazin was on hand, Jarl launched him upon a session of sword-training.

  One sweaty training session later, Sarazin surrendered his blade of firelight steel to Thodric Jarl and went hunting for Lod. Who was nowhere to be found. It was scarcely practical to quarter Selzirk entire in the hope of finding him by chance, so, after some thought, Sarazin went to ask Madam Ix for news of Lod.

  Since Sarazin sometimes had his doubts about the efficacy of fortune telling he had often wanted to test the skills of the mystery workers on some practical problem. This looked to be the ideal opportunity.

  I'm hunting for Lod,' said Sarazin, when he was admitted to the presence of Ix of the Mystery.

  'Does this look like a brothel?' said Madam Ix. 'Or a booze barn? Or a gambling den? You'll not find him here. But just for interest's sake — how much money does he owe you?'

  "None,' said Sarazin, promptly.

  On a little reflection, he was surprised to realise it was true. Jarl's lecturing must have taught Sarazin some wisdom, because he had never let Lod borrow money from him. Mind you: he had never really had money spare to lend.

  Then,' said Madam Ix, 'if he owes you no money, what do you want him for? Have you decided you love him?'

  "Nay,' said Sarazin. 'We exhausted love in our last incarnations when we were dogs in the street together. He's missing. I'm worried about him. If he's not here, can your Art find him?'

  'Of course,' said Madam Ix, 'for the Art knows no limits.'

  But the price she named was very, very high. Sarazin, entirely unable to meet such a price, asked:

  'Pray tell, why is this service priced so high? Do you seek to avoid a true test of your Art by setting such a price?'

  'Selzirk is a sewer,' said Madam Ix, 'and Lod a clod lost somewhere in that sewer. The price I set is the price for delving in unclean things. If you must use the Art for improper purposes you must pay the penalty.'

  'What, then, is the proper purpose of the Art?' said Sarazin.

  To read character,' said Madam Ix, 'to commune with the spirits, to speak with the dead, to tell the past and future both. To deal with the higher things and the greater purposes. Not to find lost boys, lost dogs or wayward debtors.'

  'I tell you,' said Sarazin, 'Lod owes me no money.'

  'So you have said already,' said Madam Ix. 'But he owes others. If he's missing I have no doubt he's missing from choice. I vum he's lying low while his creditors hunt him. Now tell me, young Sarazin, before you go — have you seen Madam Sosostris yet?'

  'No,' said Sarazin. 'I went there with Lod, but she was sick so we couldn't get in.'

  'You must go again,' said Madam Ix, 'for I hear my col- league Sosostris has discovered a new book of prophecy.'

  'I've no interest in prophecy,' said Sarazin.

  This book concerns a prince. A prince by name of Watashi.'

  Watashi?' said Sarazin. That is an ill name!' Indeed it was, for it meant, amongst other things, fear. Blood. And death. It was, for some reason, strangely familiar. Why? After a moment's thought Sarazin said: 'An ill name, yes, and the one you claimed that I myself would bear.'

  'So I did!' said Madam Ix, as if the thought had just occurred to her. 'I saw war, and saw you yourself named for war. Why, this is a strange coincidence!'

  'I hope this book's no forgery cooked up by grasping fortune tellers to gull a client,' said Sarazin, who also thought the coincidence strange.

  "No, no, it's no forgery,' said Ix. You'd see that in a moment. This is a text of great antiquity. Madam Sosostris claims the book most interesting. She thinks it may have a bearing on ... on the life of a certain person whom politics makes it dangerous to name.'

  Ancient books, prophecies, a promise of politics — it made a most enticing mix.

  'Once I've found Lod, I'll look into it,' said Sarazin. 'But I don't have the time right now.'

  "There's one more thing you should know,' said Ix. 'Madam Sosostris has a new assistant. A female beauty from the Rice Empire. Her name is Jaluba.'

  Electrifying news!

  But Sarazin, fearing interest on his part would be communicated from Ix to Sosostris and would raise the price of admission, pretended a complete lack of interest.

  Well,' said he, working so hard on the business of acting casual that his hands trembled, I'll look into that, too, in due course. But for now, I have to go hunting for Lod.'

  However, on escaping into the street Sarazin went directly to the Sosostris lair. The hunt for Lod could wait. Jaluba was in town! Melon-fleshed Jaluba, she of the scented omphalos, the ticklish armpits. Mistress of the raptures, the joys, the delights.

  On his way to see Sosostris (and Jaluba) Sarazin dreamt dreams and saw visions. But his prospects for converting these dreams and visions to reality fell sharply when the gateman guarding the Sosostris lair asked him a ridiculous price for admission alone.

  'Once you get the price down to something reasonable,' said Sarazin, I'll think about it.'

  But the gateman proved reluctant to bargain.

  'I'll wait for you to see reason,' said Sarazin, 'I'm in no hurry.'

  And wait he did, drawing his good sword Onslaught to practise his weapon-work. Though the sky was clouding over, it was still hot; in fact, though the weather promised rain, this was the hottest day Sarazin had endured in Selzirk. He was soon sweating profusely.

  A small boy challenged him with a stick, and Sarazin indulged him by engaging in a slow-motion duel. While he was amusing himself thus, a palankeen came by. It halted, and a woman dismounted.

  Sarazin paid her no attention till she spoke to him.

  'Do you think it will rain?' she said.

  Sarazin turned to examine the body which went with the voice, and found himself face to face with a veiled matron awash with scent. The child who had been duelling with Sarazin poked him in the gut with his stick and said 'Die!' Sarazin brushed the stick away, said 'Vanish!' in a tone which commanded instant obedience, then said: 'Madam Sosostris?'

  'Oh no, oh no,' said the perfume-drenched matron, with a girlish giggle which ill befitted her years. 'I am Mistress Turbothot. I have an audience with Sosostris, though. And you?'

  'I'm just leaving,' said Sarazin.

  The Turbothot woman was obviously rich. Her silks, her rings and her gold-braided shoes told him that. The waiting palankeen, of course, also spoke of wealth. Whatever plans Madam Sosostris might have for Sean Sarazin, he was unlikely to command her attention when she had a client so wealthy waiting for her services.

  Wait, wait, don't go!' said Mistress Turbothot, as Sarazin turned to go. 'Or, if you must, tell me at least this — who are you, darling boy?'

  'I am no boy but a warrior,' said he. 'I am Sean Kelebes Sarazin, son of the kingmaker Farfalla.'

  'Oh, a prince!' she said, in tones of unabashed admiration.

  While Sarazin liked the title, he saw no point in smallchat with a woman older than his mother and twice the weight, so without further ado he departed for Jone to search for Lod amongst the streets of the poor and the ruthless.

  Now that the prospect of an im
mediate interview with Jaluba had vanished, Sarazin finally began to think. And realised he had indeed a lot to think about. Obviously, Ix and Sosostris already knew of his lust for Jaluba. The wench must have told them her past. But this was a strange coincidence, was it not?

  —Too much of a coincidence. —It must be conspiracy!

  Madam Ix and Madam Sosostris must have learnt Sarazin's past from Lod — who had, after all, introduced Sarazin to these practitioners of the Art. They must have sent all the way to Voice for Jaluba. Hoping for — for what? Money?

  —Perhaps Lod told them I'm rich. Perhaps he gulled them completely. As a joke, perhaps.

  —Or it could be that this is political. Perhaps they think I've influence over my mother.

  Either way, the really intelligent thing would be for Sarazin to forget about Jaluba. Because, one way or another, he would surely be made to pay heavily for the privilege of bedding the woman. Sarazin knew this. But could not help himself.

  — The world would be well lost for such a woman.

  Then Sarazin reminded himself that he was wrong to be thinking thus, for he was in love with a princess. Yes, his true love was Amantha of Chenameg, who came complete with a kingdom, whereas Jaluba owned little more than a giggle.

  Sarazin diligently conjured with visions of Amantha (and of power, of fame, of fortune) as he strode on towards Jone.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Benthorn: Sarazin's half-brother, son of Fox and Bizzie. The owner-operator of a dung cart who has an uncom- monly keen interest in the Constitution and other matters political.