by Hugh Cook
'Oh, Elkin,' said Madam Sosostris. The Archivist. No, I couldn't let you take it to him. Nor could I let you bring him here. If he saw a text so valuable he'd likely commandeer it for his own library.'
So Sarazin, this help denied him, went to work, while Madam Sosostris got on with her knitting. After much painful labour, Sarazin's version of the book's opening lines ran as follows:
To feed four you will need half a basket of mushrooms, a cup of pork pieces, one bundle of vermicelli, some dragon-tongue sauce, some fresh asparagus and a hedge- hog. First wrap the hedgehog in clay and put it amidst coals to bake. Then take a pan of cast iron and—'
Sarazin, after racking his brain to extract some mystic meaning from this, closed the book angrily.
This is a joke' he said. 'And a very poor joke. This is a cookery book!'
"Tis a wondrous book rich in things both rare and strange,' said Madam Sosostris, looking up from her knitting. The part of interest to you is near the end. It's marked by a wafer.'
You could have told me that to start with!' said Sarazin.
'I was testing you,' said Madam Sosostris, 'to see whether you command any of the Art in your own right.'
'An idiot thing to do,' said Sarazin.
'Perhaps, perhaps not. For there are those in Selzirk who swear still that Sean Sarazin rode to Smork. That they were there. That they saw him, heard him, touched him, smelt him. Yet others of equal reputation swear he lay lifeless in Selzirk all the while. I do not believe the contradiction of stories suggests untruth. No: I believe it suggestive of magic at work.'
Then look elsewhere for that magic,' said Sarazin, 'for I've none of my own. Anyway, now you've tested me, how about translating this for me? You obviously know what it says.'
'Not at all. As I told you, I bought it from a pox doctor. 'Twas he who placed the wafer for me. I myself can read but little, and that weird script — why, that is known only to scholars like yourself.'
So Sarazin turned to the place marked by the wafer and began work in earnest. A bitter struggle he had, too, for it was hard to make sense of the tangled syntax of the complex Churl. He did not finish his translation till early evening. But he did not regret investing so much energy, for it made fascinating reading.
The book contained a prophecy which could be sum- marised thus:
—A prince of the Favoured Blood would be exiled from Selzirk in his youth, but would later return to the city.
—Wicked and witless men would unleash great dangers threatening the very survival of the city.
—The prince would see how to save Selzirk, but would be scorned and reviled by the city when he revealed the solution to Selzirk's dangers.
—He would endure great hardship and greater danger, earn himself the name Watashi, marry the princess of an ancient kingdom and wage a war against his own father, whom he would kill.
—His father's death would bring the prince the power he needed to save Selzirk. He would rescue the city from danger; the people would praise him with great praises, and his name would endure forever in glory.
Sarazin thought things through. Carefully. While Selzirk's law did not recognise him as a prince of the Favoured Blood, he truly thought of himself as such. His mother, Farfalla, had been consecrated as one of the Blood on becoming kingmaker. Prophecy might well accord her sons with rights, titles and prerogatives which the Consti- tution of the Harvest Plains denied them.
Certainly Sarazin had been exiled from Selzirk in his youth. Also, in a sense, he could be said to have killed his father. After all, if Sarazin had not agreed to go with Benthorn to attack the embassy at Smork, Fox would not be an outlaw. As an outlaw, he could not hope to live long.
So who were the wicked and the witless against whom Selzirk must be defended? Undoubtedly, the men of the Regency. The bureaucrats like Plovey.
What about the prophecy's other points?
The prophecy spoke of hardship. Of great danger. That fitted. After all, Sarazin had endured poverty, scorn and fever in Selzirk. Had dared his life, blade against blade, with a genuine questing hero, Tarkal of Chenameg. That much had come to pass.
The name, though. That was a bit of a problem. Watashi? An odd word to conjure into a name. Perhaps that was why the fates had willed that he should see the prophecy now: so he could fulfil it by changing his name. Easily done!
But what about the next point? Marriage to the princess of an ancient kingdom? Chenameg was doubtless that kingdom, and Amantha that princess. But how could he woo her when his mother forbade him to leave Selzirk? Did he dare disobey her? She'd be fearfully angry. And he feared her dragon-wrath rages.
Before running such risks, he'd like some assurances as to the validity of the prophecy. He should talk it through with . . . well, someone like Elkin.
Though, if truth be told, in his heart of hearts he believed the prophecy already. He was already prince. Some day he would be king. Emperor. Lord of Selzirk! Master of the Harvest Plains! The prophecy did but confirm his own vision of the radiant future.
—Hallelujah!
Thus thought Sean Sarazin. Staring hard at a flyspeck on the wall in an effort to control his face and betray nothing.
'Finished?' said Madam Sosostris, on seeing his blank, vacuous stare.
'No,' said Sarazin, thinking that the safest answer. The script is near impossible to read, the grammar worse, the words rare beyond my understanding. I am defeated.'
Then you must come again,' said Madam Sosostris, 'and study the book further.'
And with that she showed him out into the street.
Sarazin did not ask if he could see Jaluba on his next visit, since such a display of interest could only tend to raise the price Sosostris surely intended to place on that delightful damsel. There had to be some pay-off for Sosostris in all this, there just had to. And how else could she make money out of Sarazin except by selling him Jaluba?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Theodora Turbothot (nee Thrug): wife of Troldot Heavy Fist' Turbothot.
Although she is an alumnus of the Santrim Institute for Feminine Arts, Theodora is not one of Selzirk's chaste and respectable matrons, but is instead a wanton foreigner, an import from far-distant Untunchilamon.
In truth, in terms of appetite, there are few women in the upper echelons of Selzirk's society who could compete with Theodora. With the exception, of course, of Farfalla, whose approach to the flesh is equally direct and vigorous.
Once out in the streets, Sarazin had the uneasy feeling he was being followed. However, there were so many people out and about in the early evening that it was impossible to tell for sure.
'Follow me, then,' muttered Sarazin, to whoever it was who might be tracking him.
And made his way to Jone, where he shortly entered his favourite tavern and called for a tankard of the best ale in town. At first he drank alone, wishing Lod was there to help celebrate the prophecy which promised Sarazin such a spectacular future. Then some of Lod's friends turned up, and, remembering Sarazin's earlier enquiries, asked if he had any news of their mutual acquaintance.
'I have,' said Sarazin. 'He rots in jail in Shin, in Chena- meg, waiting to come up on trial.'
'On what charge?' said one of Lod's friends.
'It is claimed he is a wastrel,' said Sarazin.
'A wastrel? Nay! He's a philosopher, man. Truth is his pursuit, and ever he seeks it in wine and in women. Have they no knowledge of things academic in Shin?'
'None,' said Sarazin, 'for they are but peasants. Come — may I buy you a beer?'
"You could,' said one of his interlocutors, "but only if you let us buy you three. We're in luck, see. The cards have been running our way. It's a night for celebration.'
Yes,' said Sarazin, with a sudden grin. He was thinking of his prophecy. 'It must be an omen. A good omen. We'll celebrate sure. But let's not forget our friend. Let our first toast be in honour of Lod.'
The first toast was indeed in honour of Lod. So was the third — and the seve
nth. Sarazin did not usually drink very much, but tonight was a special occasion, and Lod had been long and deeply honoured by the time Sarazin and his drinking companions stumbled from the tavern. Arm in arm, they staggered through the streets, singing:
'I took a little magic pill Which made my dragon scream; I raped a golden daffodil In a pool of curdled cream.'
While they were singing thus, a palankeen drew up beside them. The chairmen halted, and a voice from behind the palankeen's screen said (with a whisper of perfume):
'Are you Sarazin Sky?'
Sarazin, leaning heavily on one of his comrades, said:
'Who is it who wants to know?'
Theodora,' came the answer. The ruling goddess of love.'
Sarazin untangled himself from his comrade, who slid helplessly to the ground.
'Let me see your face,' said Sarazin to the palankeen.
'Get in,' said the perfume-whispering voice, 'and you shall see all that and more. Yes, you shall see all.'
The palankeen lurched as Sarazin got in. Within a bafflement of shadows he found what seemed to be a veiled woman. She giggled as he grappled with her perfumed flesh.
'Not so fast,' she said. 'Only goats and peasants lech in haste.'
'Oh,' said Sarazin.
Even drunk he did not want to behave like a peasant. He tried his drunken best to behave himself: and succeeded so well that he fell asleep. He woke to find muscular doormen carrying him into a house. They dumped him into an enormous bed where he wallowed, dazed by drink and fatigue, while his new-found mistress stripped herself by the light of a lamp so dim it was scarcely more than a living shadow.
He submerged himself in her heat as she fondled herself to his flesh, fold by fold and crease by crease. He was drowning, billowing, lumbered, laden. Lost amidst flesh enfolding. He was failing. Then, urging him, she cried:
"My stallion! Most Favoured Blood, most noble prince!'
Prince. Yes. Lordly in conquest. The thought excited him.
'Govern me,' she whispered, her voice husky. 'Govern me, rule me, beloved.'
Urged by that voice, nourished by an ooze of lips, teased by fingers sly and well-practised, Sarazin found himself hard as a hero. Thrusting and striving, he abandoned himself to his lust. Then finished, subsided and slept.
He floundered long through hippopotamus dreams, clagged and digested, rolled up with lard then toasted by fatlight. Woke bleary by darkness to find hands and lips at work, breasts jiggling, a voice giggling, teasing his manhood, flattering his thighs.
"My prince . . .'
He managed. Then, weary beyond dreams, he slept.
At dawn, Sarazin woke to find himself in bed with an elephant-rivalling woman on the wrong side of fifty. She was big and fat and grey and frowsty. Teeth brown, except where they were black. A nose like a potato, stubbed with purple warts.
As he cringed from her rolls of lard-soft skin, she burped, farted, then seized him. Her strength was enormous. He held his breath as she slobbered him.
"Wonderful,' she crooned. You were wonderful, beauti- ful, sweet. A frabjous night.'
Who are you?' said Sarazin.
'Theodora, as I told you,' she said.
After a little hard questioning, he learnt that she was Theodora Turbothot. Mistress Turbothot, in fact, patron of the Seventh College of the Inner Circle of the Fish-Star Astrologers. That rang a bell! Yes: the Fish-Star sect was quartered not far from Madam Ix's premises. Ix was a friend of Sosostris. Who had let Sarazin see her precious book of prophecy for nothing.
'Someone followed me when I left Madam Sosostris last night,' said Sarazin.
'Did they?' said Theodora. 'How very strange!'
Then she giggled.
That giggle made Sarazin — at last! — remember their first meeting. He had gone to see Sosostris some days ago, but the gateman had demanded an outrageous fee just to let him inside. He had hung around outside. And this dreadful overaged creature, her face then masked by a veil, had called him 'darling boy' and had begged his name.
Which he, thinking nothing of it, had given.
Sarazin could see the dreadful truth now — or part of it, at least. Madam Sosostris had procured him for this dread- ful creature. He had been watched, spied on, manoeuvred, trapped, tricked, used, abused. Raped, in a word!
He threw back the bedclothes, intending to make his escape. But Theodora grabbed him by the neck. They wrestled, and, to his shame, she got the better of him.
'Ease up!' cried Sarazin, panting. You'll break my arm.'
She relaxed her grip. All she kept in her possession was the smallest finger of his left hand. But the sly pressure she put on the digit warned him not to struggle.
'Darling,' she said. 'Do it to me again.'
Who are you to command me?' said Sarazin.
Well, once,' she said, slyly, 'I was a princess. The sister of an empress.'
Sarazin tried to persuade himself that Mistress Turbothot was indeed a princess. He tried to rouse his flesh to its duty. He tried: but failed. But she giggled, and let him go. Hurriedly, he dressed, and tried to make his escape. But found the front door blocked by a stocky little man who said:
'I am Troldot Turbothot. Who the hell are you?'
'Never mind,' said Sarazin. 'I'm just leaving.'
He tried to barge past the man. But Troldot 'Heavy Fist' Turbothot was a formidable wrestler, and Sarazin ended up flat on his back.
'Guards!' shouted Turbothot. 'Help me with this rub- bish!' Then, as guards came rushing to his assistance, he raised his voice and shouted: Theodora, you shameless hussy! You've gone too far this time!'
The only answer he got was a giggle.
Sarazin was held by Troldot Turbothot's guards until the Watch could be summoned. Then he was dragged away and thrown into prison. The charge: debauching another man's wife. The maximum penalty: death.
At the time of Sarazin's arrest, Selzirk's judicial system was in such a mess that he could easily have languished in a rat-ridden dungeon for three to four years before his case came to trial. Then his chances of dying before trial would have been high, for tuberculosis and other diseases equally as lethal flourished in the crowded cells.
Fortunately, since a number of judges were among those hoping to be made king of Androlmarphos, Farfalla was able to pull strings, with spectacular results: Sarazin's case came to trial after he had been in jail for only twenty- three days.
Plovey of the Regency attended the trial as a spectator. Farfalla, also in attendance, wondered if that murderous master of conspiracy had arranged for the Turbothot woman to ensnare her son. She would not have put it past him.
Then, as Sarazin's lawyer arrived in court, Farfalla saw Plovey's face fall. Immediately she felt better about the extravagant amounts of money she was paying to retain Childermass Imbleprig to defend her son. Imbleprig was the best — which was what Sean Sarazin needed! Bribery had bought Farfalla details of the prosecution's evidence. Thus she knew that Mistress Turbothot was prepared to swear that Sarazin had indeed debauched her.
Imbleprig had prepared an elaborate defence. Medical evidence to prove Sarazin an invalid, a victim of fevers and epilepsy, and likely so debilitated as to be impotent. A publican who would happily testify that Sarazin had been incapably drunk on the night of the alleged crime. Experts willing to testify that alcohol in quantity was incompatible with lust. And Sarazin's drinking companions had been found, and, suitably bribed, were ready to say on oath that they had left him unconscious in the gutters of Jone.
The defence would claim, then, that Sarazin had been medically incapable of performing when Mistress Turbothot picked him up off the street, and that she must therefore be fantasising. If that failed, and Sarazin was found guilty, then Imbleprig would appeal on grounds of temporary insanity.
But first Imbleprig tried a simple move which might just work. Once the charges had been read, he had Mistress Turbothot brought forth, then said to the judge:
'It is alleged that somewher
e in this bloated cow there is a woman. We'd need an autopsy to get to the truth of that — but clearly nothing less like an aphrodisiac has ever before walked the earth on two legs. My client is charged with debauching this thing. Absurd! Patently absurd! What man would touch it, let alone couple with it, except under the pain of instant death? I ask that the charge be struck out on grounds of its patent absurdity.'
The judge looked from Mistress Turbothot to the slim Sean Sarazin.
Said 'hm', said 'hum', then said:
'Agreed. Your charge is so struck out.'
Farfalla watched Plovey trying to make his face an inscrutable mask — and making quite a good job of it. Then looked to Mistress Turbothot. Nothing inscrutable there! Wrath incarnate. Pity help Childermass Imbleprig if the Turbothot woman ever got hold of him. For that matter, pity help Sean Sarazin when Farfalla got hold of him . . .
Pity did not help Sean Sarazin. Alone and unaided he had to endure an exquisitely painful interview with Farfalla on their return to the palace.
You,' she said, 'will be the death of yourself, if not the death of me. What a lunatic thing to do! What will you do next? Rape a pig? Or what?'
Sarazin knew exactly what he would do next, but kept it a secret. While enduring the horror of Selzirk's dungeons for twenty-three days, he had sworn a sacred oath to himself. The burden of that oath was this: if he got out of prison alive then he would ride to Shin to give whatever help he could to Lod.
His determination to do just that was reinforced when a second petition arrived from Lod, once more entreating Farfalla to send her eldest son to Chenameg to be a witness at Lod's trial.
