by Hugh Cook
In Jone's bars and taverns, in brothels and wharfside gambling pits, Sarazin saw no sign of Lod. But he did meet several people whom Lod would usually have seen on a typical visit to the quarter. All averred that Lod had certainly not been in Jone that day. By evening, Sarazin was thoroughly frustrated. Lod was the key to his life. Lod alone would know how he should pursue Amantha now that the lady had left Selzirk. Should he write her letters, send her poems? Or saddle a horse and ride to Chenameg in person?
Sarazin also believed Lod might also be able to help him work out a strategy for securing admission to Jaluba's charms without paying exorbitant amounts of money to Madam Sosostris. Yet he had no idea where he should look next.
On his way home, Sarazin had to pass through Libernek Square, the site of the Voat Library where the old man Elkin worked as Archivist. Sarazin wondered if his tutor could help him. Epelthin Elkin had a very organised intel- lect. Any problem discussed with him automatically became clearer, even if it did not necessarily become soluble.
Without further ado, Sarazin invited himself into the library and was shortly discussing his woes with the elderly scholar. Who told him, of course, what he would have been told by Thodric Jarl, or Bizzie, or his father or mother. Namely: to go home, get to bed, and forget Amantha and Jaluba both. And not to waste so much as another dorth on fortune-tellers!
'Fine advice!' said Sarazin, unimpressed by Elkin's little homily. 'But it hardly helps me find Lod.'
'You want Lod, do you?' said Elkin, rummaging around for a map. 'Very well,' he said, one map-stabbing finger striking. This is Selzirk. And this?'
The Velvet River, of course,' said Sarazin.
'Where, no doubt, you'll find young Lod,' said Elkin maliciously. 'Floating downstream with his throat cut.'
'Some help you've been!' said Sarazin, rising to go.
Elkin showed him to the door. The night was dark and clouded, and Sarazin would not be surprised if the weather broke on the morrow. He was weary, and could smell his own body. He wanted a wash. Then bed. Sleep. Dreams. It had been a long, long day.
'Well,' said Sarazin, 'I'll tell you this, I wouldn't pay much for your advice.'
You're not being asked to,' said Elkin. 'But—' He broke off. Peered into the dark, suddenly intent. Then said, in a loud voice: You! Yes, you! Come here!'
Someone came forward into the lamplight spilling from the library's open door. It was Benthorn.
What were you doing lurking around out there?' said Elkin.
'Just waiting for Sarazin,' said Benthorn. 'I didn't want to disturb you.'
You waited all this time?' said Elkin. 'Why?'
'Oh, it's nothing, nothing, just a personal thing.'
'Come inside,' said Elkin.
'Sorry,' said Benthorn, "but I don't have time.'
'All night to play shadows but not a moment to spare for me? Don't give me that nonsense. Inside!'
Reluctantly, Benthorn came into the library, bringing with him a pervasive smell of dung. Out in the streets his condition could pass without notice, since there were so many stinks and smells in Selzirk. But in enclosed spaces he was positively offensive.
'Did you know Benthorn was waiting for you?' said Elkin.
'No,' said Sarazin.
'So how did he know you were here?' said Elkin. Why, he ... I ... I don't know . . .' 'Is he psychic?' said Elkin.
'My best beloved Benthorn?' said Sarazin, looking his half-brother in the face. Why, no, I don't think so.' Therefore what follows?'
'He . . . why . . . perhaps he was following me.' 'Perhaps? Of course! What do you want with Sean Sarazin, boy? Why were you following him? Speak!'
Benthorn said:
'I haven't been following Sarazin, but I have been looking for him. I've been hunting for him all over Selzirk. At last I thought of the library here. A servant departing told me he was within. I did not care to disturb him, for my news is for his ears, not all ears.'
'Speak!' said Elkin.
Benthorn was silent.
'I've had a long day,' said Sarazin. 'I'm tired, I want to go to bed. I've no time for plots, plans, conspiracies or revela- tions. If my best beloved Benthorn wishes to say something unfit for Elkin's ears them I'm in no mood to hear it.'
Whereupon Benthorn blurted out the truth. Tarkal had kidnapped Lod. Servants had seen Lod — dragged and unconscious — being bundled on to one of the baggage wagons which were going east to Chenameg with the embassy.
'He'll likely be killed!' said Sarazin in alarm. 'He told me often that Tarkal meant to kill him.'
"Now, now,' said Elkin, 'don't over-react. I've heard myself that King Lyra wants Lod back in Chenameg. This is a small city, you know. News travels. Doubtless Tarkal's used methods somewhat underhand simply to get the young scallyway to conform to his father's wishes. We've no proof that murder comes into it.'
"No proof!' said Sarazin. What then is proof? A corpse? Lod's been kidnapped! We must turn out the Watch!'
You cannot,' said Elkin. There is such a thing as diplomatic immunity. Have you never heard of that?'
'It gives no licence for kidnapping,' said Sarazin. We can still rescue Lod, even if we cannot prosecute Tarkal.'
We can do neither legally,' said Benthorn, 'for the law of Selzirk is specific. No person can move against an embassy on any provocation without prior written per- mission from the kingmaker.'
'But that's absurd!' cried Sarazin. 'My mother's gone to Androlmarphos. Tarkal goes east, she goes west — the thing's impossible.'
'By law, yes,' said Benthom. 'But there is another way. I've mustered some friends, good people who owe all manner of debts. We're ready to ride in pursuit. Do you join us?'
'Of course he won't!' said Elkin.
But Sarazin said:
They left at noon. Could we possibly catch them?'
"My informants say the embassy will have halted for the night at the village of Smork,' said Benthom. "We can be there long before dawn. We can win Lod's freedom tonight. With swords.'
'Good,' said Sarazin, rising to leave. Then let's be gone.'
Elkin caught hold of him.
'Are you both mad?' said Elkin. You're not going anywhere!'
'Are you threatening us?' said Sarazin.
There are ways of handling this old man if he's a danger to us,' said Benthorn.
In the company of youths so reckless and ruthless,' said Elkin, 'I feel like a man environed with dragons. Yet speak I must, regardless of fear. To rush off blindly—'
This has nothing to do with you!' said Sarazin, giving way to his anger. 'Stay out of it, or you'll get hurt. Badly!'
No sooner had he spoken than his body began to grow heavy. He could not see properly. Mists of darkness veiled his eyes, as if the world had become a dream. A millstone was crushing his chest. In panic he kicked and flailed. But his limbs refused him obedience. Then, slowly, the darkness cleared.
'How do you feel?' said Elkin.
'I don't know,' said Sarazin, surprised to find himself on the floor. He got up, slowly. 'I had — I had some kind of turn. I almost felt as if I was going to pass out.'
You did,' said Elkin. You were unconscious long enough for me to have boiled an egg, had I been so inclined.'
The epilepsy!' said Benthorn, in dread. That's what it is! The epilepsy!'
T)on't look so scared,' said Elkin. If he did have a touch of the epilepsy, that's nothing to worry about. It's not contagious.'
'But it is!' said Benthorn. 'Fearfully so!'
Benthorn, like most people in Selzirk, believed the epilepsy to be a disease akin to that which sets mad dogs on the growl in the streets with jaws foaming. But Elkin knew better, and managed to assuage Benthorn's fears. Slightly.
'I hope it wasn't the epilepsy,' said Sarazin, not one jot reassured himself. Seeking a more favourable verdict, he said: 'Perhaps it was a stroke. Or a heart attack.'
"You're too young for strokes or heart attacks,' said Elkin. Maybe it's just something you ate. I would
n't bother about it. Off you go!'
Then — for Sarazin, at least — the world dimmed again. And when it cleared he found himself leaning against the wall. Legs weak, ears ringing, chest tight.
'Perhaps I'd better sit down for a bit,' said Sarazin, for he was trembling, his heart was tottering, and there was sweat cold on his brow. He was afraid he was truly having a heart attack. It no longer seemed so preferable to epilepsy.
'On your bike!' said Elkin.
Or, to quote him in the Galish he used: 'Sam tarn jertotham.' Meaning, literally, 'ride quick this stolen camel'.
'Where's Benthorn?' said Sarazin.
Your brother's waiting for you out in the street.'
'How did he get out there? He was standing here just a moment ago. Did I — did I pass out again?'
You did,' said Elkin. If you have another such turn it may be the death of you, particularly if you're riding a horse at the time. But that's your problem, not mine.'
With that, Elkin showed Sarazin out to the street, where Benthorn was indeed waiting.
'Are you all right?' said Benthorn.
'I think so,' said Sarazin.
Then let's be going,' said his brother.
And off they went. Sarazin, though unsteady on his feet, durst not complain, lest complaint be taken as proof positive of cowardice.
At Farfalla's palace, half a dozen of Benthorn's friends were waiting, already armed, saddled up and ready to go. It was dark, and Sarazin was introduced to none of them. Yet one betrayed himself by his voice. Qid! Yes, Qid, the man of the Watch who had earlier tried to tangle Sarazin in conspiracy.
A horse was brought for Sarazin and he mounted up. Then they were challenged by a voice from the dark:
What's going on here?'
At first, Sarazin thought the voice belonged to Bizzie's husband, Hof-Gof. Then, startled, realised it was Fox who was speaking. Already, Benthorn was explaining. About Tarkal, Lod, Smork. Fox heard him out, then said:
You can't do this! It's lunacy! Sarazin! Where are you?'
'Here,' said Sarazin.
'Get off that horse!' said Fox.
'I ride for my friend and my honour,' said Sarazin. 'I'll not be turned from this venture.'
Then Fox tried to use force, but some of Benthorn's men overpowered him before he could grapple with Sarazin.
What shall we do with him?' said Qid.
TCill him,' said Benthorn, curtly.
"No!' cried Sarazin.
He spoke without thought. Fox was a peasant, true, a breeder of bastards, a political madman and a fool to boot. But Fox was still his father.
'Sarazin, be reasonable,' said Benthorn. 'He's a danger to us. There's nine of us here and he's but one. What if he betrays us to the law?'
'Let him ride with us,' said Sarazin. That then makes him as guilty as us.'
'A pretty thought but a foolish one,' said Benthorn. 'He needs but shout once as we exit the gates to doom us all dead.'
'His word will bind him,' said Sarazin. 'Let him swear himself to our cause. If he won't, why, then kill away. But if you'll not give him the chance then my sword will claim you before yours claims his.'
So saying, Sarazin drew his stout blade Onslaught, hoping he would be able to tell Benthorn from his comrades in the dark if it came to a matter of killing.
'I don't know about this,' said Benthorn. 'Can we trust Fox if he gives his word?'
'Fox,' said Qid, impatiently, 'what say you?'
'I still say you're all mad,' said Fox. Then, to Sarazin's surprise, his father laughed, and said: 'But something in your madness makes me glad. As a sword against princes — yes, if I must die, that's a good way to go. I'll ride with you tonight, aye, ride hard, then fight by your side when we get to Smork.'
'Fox has a reputation for honour,' said Qid. 'I trust him to live to his word. Get him a horse. Have we spare weapons? Good! Give him one . . .'
Shortly, Fox himself was armed and saddled up, and they were off.
Sarazin, Benthorn, Fox, Qid and the others quit Selzirk then rode for the east. A long ride it was, too. As the leagues slipped by, fatigue conquered tension, and Sarazin found it hard to stay awake. Once or twice he woke with a start, realising he had been asleep in the saddle. He remembered stories Thodric Jarl had told him about brutal marches in the Cold West when men roped themselves together so they would not be left behind, then stumbled through the night asleep on their feet.
He wished Jarl was with them.
'Got any water?' said Qid. 'Anyone got any water?'
Sarazin's exploring fingers found a leather waterbottle tied to his saddle. He loosened it, felt the weight of it, judged it half full. Uncorked it, took a swig himself.
'Has nobody any water?' said Qid.
'I have,' said Sarazin, 'Here. Catch.'
He tossed the waterbottle to Qid. Who saw the shadowy object as it was lobbed towards him. Grabbed for it. But unaccountably missed.
'Gah!' he said.
You missed?' said Sarazin. 'Butterfingers!'
'Stop, stop,' said Qid, 'I have to look for the water.'
'No time to stop,' said Benthorn. 'Onward!'
And on they rode, a band of shadows striving through the night. Sarazin once more fell asleep, waking to hear a cock scream, a dog bark. They were at the village of Smork. And already more dogs were waking, rousing the night to fury.
'Wagons!' shouted Sarazin, as villagers began to spill into the streets. 'Look for wagons, they had him in a wagon.'
Even as he shouted, his voice began to fail. Strength drained from his limbs. He could not see properly. As his hands loosened on the reins he slid from the saddle. He was sliding, was falling, was helpless to save himself. He hit the ground, but found it soft. Heard Fox screaming a slaughter-shout. But the scream was distant. Fading. To a whisper, then to nothing.
When Sarazin regained consciousness, buildings all around were burning. Dead men and dead horses lay in the street. Above the uproar of flames he could hear sounds of distant fighting, women wailing, dogs howling.
Unsteadily, he got to his feet, remembering what Jarl had often told him:
'Look first to your weapon.'
The brave blade Onslaught was still at his side. Sarazin unsheathed it. Flamelight ran blood red down the steel. Fearfully, he looked around. Saw a man coming down the street, a sword in his hand. Who? The man came closer, and Sarazin saw it was Tarkal.
Tarkal recognised Sarazin. Smiled. Said nothing, but advanced with his blade at the ready. A burning building collapsed with a crash, spewing burning beams across the street between the two would-be fighters. Fire-fumes wraithed across Sarazin's face, yet he smelt them not. He saw Tarkal dare himself forward, leap the burning beams.
Where is Lod?' said Sarazin.
His voice to his own ears sounded flat. Distant. Dis- torted. Yet Tarkal heard it clearly enough. 'Dead,' said Tarkal.
Then coughed on smoke, shook his head, and, blinking to squeeze tears from his smoke-watering eyes, abandoned speech for action. As Tarkal strode forward, murder his intent, Sarazin scuffed his feet on the street as he had been taught to do, testing the surface for purchase without taking his eyes off his opponent.
—My feet. What's with my feet?
His feet were numb. But Tarkal was almost upon him, and there was no time left for worry.
Tarkal closed for the kill. Reflected fire blazed in his eyes. Sarazin feinted, sidestepped, feinted again. Then Tarkal stumbled, fell.
Ah-hai!'screamed Sarazin, striking at his fallen opponent.
His sword sliced through Tarkal's flesh, meeting no resistance. As if Tarkal was made out of smoke. Tarkal scrambled to his feet. Unwounded, unmarked. Sarazin stared at him in horror.
'Are you a ghost?' said Sarazin.
In reply, Tarkal merely coughed, grimaced — then stab- bed. Sarazin, caught off-guard by the sudden blow, back- stepped to avoid it. And stepped so far back that he fell into darkness. He fell for a long time, screaming, finishing in a pi
t of snake-twisting dreams and incontrovertible delusions.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Plovey zar Plovey: spokesman for the Regency of Selzirk and mortal enemy of the kingmaker Farfalla.
Selzirk's first news from Smork was panic-garbled, contradictory and fragmentary. But by noon a supposedly reliable version of the night's events had been compiled. Terrorists, Fox and Sean Sarazin among them, had struck at Smork during the night, attacking Chenameg's embassy and liberating three score chaingang slaves who had then run amok, killing, raping, looting and burning. When presented to a meeting of the Regency, this news was greeted with uproar.
"Where then,' said one bureaucrat, 'is Sean Sarazin?'
'He has fled,' came the reply. 'Tarkal of Chenameg wounded him sorely in combat, but was then overcome by smoke and was unable to pursue him.'
Then,' said another bureaucrat, 'let us have warrants sworn out for the arrest of Sean Sarazin on charges of assault, hooliganism, conspiracy and high treason, liberating slaves and wanton arson.'
'And cruelty to animals, too,' said another. 'Doubtless the terrorists rode their horses harder than the law permits.'
'Do we have witnesses?' said yet another bureaucrat. Witnesses who will swear to Sean Sarazin's complicity? After all, Tarkal is a foreigner. His word might not hold good against Sarazin's in a court of law.'
We have two reliable witnesses,' came the reply. They have turned state's evidence to save their own skins. They are Fox's son Benthorn and a man of the Watch called Qid. Both will testify to the guilt of Sean Sarazin and Fox.'
