The Wicked and the Witless

by Hugh Cook

  He was amok now, berserk, no man left, only battle. But the heat was rising, he was hot, too hot, he was burning, scalding, to breathe was pain, and the heat and pain together made battle give way to the man.

  —One ladder left!

  Sarazin strode to the last ladder, hacked away a bulbous shadow, put boot to the ladder, pushed, felt it slide, saw it fall, heard shadows wail away. Then turned. This way.

  That. Scanning the roof. One shadow remained, a shadow too tall to be Glambrax.

  Sarazin advanced.

  The shadow—

  Saw him? Heard him?

  It put itself and its weapon on guard. But Sean Sarazin, invisible, smote the filthy thing, saw red sliced open, yes, he had wounded it sore, had opened its polluted belly. Should finish the job now. But the heat was almost at killing point.

  Smartly, Sean Sarazin stepped backwards. Drove his sword into the roof's timbers to free both hands.

  Then tore the ring from his finger.

  Ice-cold it felt while he was wearing it, but the moment he got it free it felt red-hot. He dropped it sharply, grabbed his sword with both hands, wrenched it from the timbers, then stood on guard. Blinking and gasping. Blinking at light near blinding, gasping for heat and for sweat.

  Where was his enemy?

  The thing was there, in front of him. Tottering on the edge of the roof. Not a near-shapeless shadow, not a hell- fiend Enemy, but a man. Hands clutched to his gut, red blood outspilling between his fingers. Face deformed by agony, wrenched by pain, but the face, the face, it was—

  'Fox!' screamed Sarazin.

  He dropped his sword and raced forward. Fox was teetering on the edge. Sarazin slithered on the greasy wood, slipped, fell. Reached. Grasped. Clawed. Grabbed at his father's ankle. And, trying to save him, toppled him. Clutched, held — then lost the man to a jerk which nearly dislocated his arm.

  'Father!'

  Thus screamed Sarazin. For his father was gone, falling, doomed, dead. And it was Sean Sarazin who had killed him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The prophecy: that a prince will return from exile to Selzirk, will be scorned and reviled when he proposes a way to save the city from dangers unleashed by wicked and witless men, will endure great hardship and greater danger, will win the name Watashi, will marry the princess of an ancient kingdom, will win the power he needs to save Selzirk by killing his own father in war, will save the city and win great praise and everlasting glory.

  Still fell the rain, drowning down from grey eternities of sky while Sean Sarazin lay abed. By night he lay there and by day also, rousing out reluctantly to use the chamber pot and for no other purpose. He supped on broth which Glambrax brought him and, on occasion, ate a little fish fresh-caught from the Velvet River.

  Otherwise he lay almost as if catatonic, a huddle of half- dreaming flesh slow-breathing and mostly motionless. And all the while the rain fell without the Great House, drench- ing down to the mud, to the streets of Shin, to the dank forest, to the broad-backed river.

  With time, Sarazin roused himself. Not to action, but at least to thought. At first, his thoughts were near as incoherent as his dreams. A jumble of grief, guilt, regret.

  —My father dead!

  —J killed him!

  Thus ran the burden of his thoughts. At first.

  But, with time — and a few days are a long time in the life of an active intellect — Sarazin began to rationalise what had happened. He had killed Fox, true. Fox must be dead, what with the gut wound and the fall from the roof, though the enemy had dragged away all their dead when they beat a retreat. Sarazin had killed him. Had killed his father.

  But had excuses.

  Item: Fox was doomed to die in that manner anyway, for prophecy had proclaimed that Sarazin would kill him.

  Item: Regardless of prophecy, Fox had long been marked for death, for when Fox rode forth with Benthorn and others to attack an embassy at Smork he had made himself an outlaw.

  Item: Sarazin had not known it was Fox he was fighting until the fight was already over.

  Item: Sarazin had then tried to save his father's life. His strength had been unequal to the task but then ... he was only human.

  Sarazin toyed with those ideas and with others for some time, and was almost satisfied. But not quite. Then he considered the recent events in more depth and detail, and slowly realised that Fox had chosen his fate.

  If Fox had truly valued survival then he would have fled far further than Chenameg after he was declared an outlaw. If he loved life he would have gone far south to Drangsturm or across the seas to the Scattered Islands. Instead, he had lent his strength to a sordid uprising of the disorderly elements in Chenameg . . .

  As Lord Regan had often said, we do choose our own fate. We are responsible for what happens to us. The lives we lead are shaped by our own free will. Ultimately, though Fox had died by Sarazin's sword, it was the decisions Fox had made which had led to his death.

  Sarazin remembered . . .

  The hunt for the girl through the forest of Chenameg. The exhilarating excitement of the chase. The girl caught, fallen, captured, his. Then, before he could truly claim his prize, Fox had appeared to steal away the woman.

  Was that not evidence of choice?

  The girl must have had a victim mentality otherwise she would hot have become a victim in the first place. Lord Regan's teachings made that plain. Victims must bear full responsibility for their own fate for, as Lord Regan had often said, history cannot pardon the defeated. If Sarazin had raped the woman then he would have been doing no more than help her work out the fate she had chosen for herself.

  The victims have made their choices. Those who suffer, those who are sick, those who are poor, those who are enslaved, those who are ignorant, have chosen their suffering, their sickness, their poverty, their servitude, their ignorance. To say otherwise is, surely, to deny the reality of free will.

  So Fox, by linking his fate with that of the victim class, had doomed himself by an act of his own free will. First by allowing Sarazin's lawful prey to escape, then by joining a mob of ragged anarchists making war on lawful authority in Shin.

  Yet . . .

  When Fox rode from the forest to rescue the woman there was something lordly in his bearing. Something noble in the gesture. And,Sarazin had felt. . . had felt like dirt. Had known shame. Had been humbled.

  But . . . was that rational?

  In any case, there was nothing noble about the attack on the Great House in Shin. The criminal mob had assaulted the Great House while one of their number was at the front door pretending to negotiate. A shameful thing to do. In that battle it had been the defenders who were noble, if not heroic, fighting off an attack by an enemy vastly superior in numbers.

  In any case . . .

  Sarazin remembered a fine summer's day in Voice, years ago, and Lord Regan saying:

  'When something has happened it has happened. You must then realise exactly what has happened so you can take advantage of the situation. But grief, sorrow, pity, regret — those are useless emotions. Worse, they cripple us, they make us useless for action.'

  With that remembered, Sarazin considered his own behaviour. Had he not made himself a cripple? In truth, he had. He had killed his father, he had won himself the name Watashi in battle and now, if he seized his oppor- tunity, he could surely marry his princess and thus take one more step towards fulfilling the fate which was prophesied for him. Yet he lay in bed an invalid, though in battle he had sustained but a couple of cuts and a few bruises scarcely worth mentioning.

  After a brief but rigorous session of self-criticism Sarazin rose from his bed and went to work.

  As yet, nobody knew what had become of Tarkal or of Lod. But the immediate situation was clear enough. A small army of ragged criminals, anarchist outlaws all, was still within striking distance of Shin. If Sarazin and Thodric Jarl marched away and left the city undefended then doubtless those outlaws would seize it.

  'So,
' said Sarazin, 'we should make command of Shin and, indeed, the governance of all of Chenameg our price for staying here.'

  Then he told Jarl exactly what he wanted.

  You want to marry Amantha?' said Jarl. You want to set yourself up as king?'

  'Nothing less will do,' said Sarazin.

  'I caution you against it,' said Jarl, his voice serious, his mien severe.

  'Why?' said Sarazin, who, for the life of him, could not see why the Rovac warrior should be taking this line.

  'Because,' said Jarl, 'as things stand, all our actions are lawful. We do but defend property in Shin against crimi- nals. That can but win us praise in Selzirk and elsewhere. But if you set yourself up as king in Chenameg then you usurp the law of the Harvest Plains, for the kingmaker herself must approve the crowning of any new king of Chenameg.'

  Impossible,' said Sarazin, 'for Chenameg lies beyond the jurisdiction of the Harvest Plains. My mother Farfalla is called kingmaker only on account of her powers of appointment within the Harvest Plains itself.'

  "You may think so,' said Jarl, "but I believe the law of Selzirk holds things to be otherwise.'

  How so?' said Sarazin.

  'Details I cannot give you, for I am no lawyer,' said Jarl. 'But trust me. Things are as I have said they are.'

  Sarazin laughed.

  You disbelieve me?' said Jarl.

  'Friend,' said Sarazin, 'why so serious?'

  'Because it takes but a single witless error to put your life at risk,' said Jarl. 'Believe me, to reach for the crown of Chenameg is to make such an error. Selzirk will punish you for such a breach of the law.'

  'I trust you not, at least not in this,' said Sarazin, 'for what you have said is absurd. All know Chenameg to be a state in its own right, an entity entirely separate in law from the Harvest Plains. No law of Selzirk can claim to rule in Shin.'

  'You are wrong,' said Jarl.

  In this I trust to my own judgment,' said Sarazin. The question now is whether you are for me or against me.'

  'I am neither,' said Jarl. 'Whatever you do I will remain here with my men, but only to protect Shin against outlaws.'

  "Will you seek to restrain my actions?' said Sarazin.

  'I will advise you again against kingship,' said Jarl, 'making sure that my men witness such advice. That much I must do for my own protection. But I will not restrain you, no.'

  Thodric Jarl would not restrain Sean Sarazin because there was a chance — not a strong chance, but a chance regardless — that Sarazin could triumph. Winning the throne itself would, of course, be the easy bit. The hard part would be retaining it in the face of the wrath of the Harvest Plains.

  The big question was simply this: would Lord Regan send an army from the Rice Empire to Chenameg to support Sean Sarazin? Thodric Jarl had no way to answer that question. In his secret coded despatches to Lord Regan, Jarl had often enough asked for guidance. He had asked directly:

  —What, Lord Regan, are your plans for Sean Sarazin?

  —Would you send an army to support any coup staged by Sean Sarazin in Selzirk?

  —If I cannot know the answers to these questions now, when can I know?

  But, since Lord Regan had not seen fit to grant Thodric Jarl an insight into his intentions, Jarl still faced the future blindfold. But of this he was sure: a lot of blood would be spilt before the rule of Chenameg was finally decided one way or another.

  Sean Sarazin found it very easy to bargain with Amantha. She believed that Thodric Jarl was Sarazin's oath-bound servant, and would obey him in all things. She believed Jarl would quit Shin and leave the city defenceless if Sarazin but said the word. Nightmares had troubled her lately, and, in the worst of those nightmares, she found herself the victim of a lust-crazed mob of verminous anarchists.

  If Sarazin abandoned her, she was doomed.

  On the other hand, if Sarazin stayed and married Amantha, order could be restored, her life guaranteed and Shin itself saved from the anarchists.

  'We'll marry then,' said Amantha, after a very brief discussion indeed.

  Tomorrow,' said Sarazin, with determination.

  'Not so fast!' said she. 'I need a few days' grace at least.'

  'Why?' said Sarazin.

  "Well, if you really must know, I'm having my period right now.'

  'Oh,' said Sarazin, entirely defeated by Amantha's most eloquent argument.

  And he agreed to a postponement of five days.

  During those five days, much happened, some good, some bad. The bad was very bad. Anarchists slipped into Shin by night and set a dozen buildings alight, and the Great Hall was one of those which burnt to the ground.

  The good, on the other hand, was quite good. The manager of a mine some fifty leagues north, alerted to the trouble in Shin by a lone refugee, had exacted an oath of allegiance from the men under his command then set off to march for the capital. This little army arrived two days before the wedding and put itself under Jarl's command.

  With his forces thus bolstered Jarl chanced a recon- naissance in force of the surrounding forest, a reconnais- sance which brought good news: the enemy appeared to have withdrawn.

  'Doubtless,' said Jarl, 'they have been unable to feed themselves, for all the stocks of food worth mentioning are under our command.'

  This was some comfort. Even though, of course, Sarazin's kingdom would have to face threats far worse than that posed by a ragged gang of criminal anarchists. Jarl began making plans for a war to defend Shin against Selzirk. And began assessing his men, wondering which of them — if any — could be trusted to take a message all the way to the Rice Empire to alert Lord Regan to the latest developments in the life of his protege Sean Sarazin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Amantha: second-oldest child of King Lyra of Chenameg and, therefore, heir to the throne if Tarkal is dead (as he is presumed to be).

  * * *

  At dawn on his wedding day, Sarazin was woken by a big, sloppy wet kiss.

  'Gaaa!' shouted Sarazin, flailing wildly.

  Chuckling, Glambrax ducked and dodged. Sarazin leapt out of bed and pursued him. But, by the time he had driven Glambrax into a corner, the dwarf had armed himself with Sarazin's chamber pot. Which was far from empty.

  'I'll let you off this time,' said Sarazin.

  'Just as well,' said Glambrax, 'for dead dwarves are the worst of luck at a wedding feast. As it is, the omens are not the best.'

  'What do you mean?' said Sarazin.

  In answer, Glambrax waddled to the shutters and threw them open. The sky was bruised black and orange. It was raining blood.

  'Call off the marriage,' said Sarazin. 'We'll try again tomorrow.'

  The next day brought another sodden dawn. But at least this time the rain was water and not blood. 'Today's the day,' said Sarazin.

  Since the Great Hall of the House of Chenameg had been burnt by anarchists, Amantha and Sarazin were married in a barn. The roof leaked, but strategically placed buckets caught the worst of the drips. First the wedding guests gathered in the barn, then Sarazin and Amantha entered.

  Sarazin wore his battle-leathers. Thanks to his upbring- ing in the Rice Empire, he still thought of leather as an ugly, uncouth, obscene material — but nothing better was to be had in Shin. So, though uneasy, he made do with what he had.

  Amantha, for her part, arrived at the barn dressed in a bright-hued sontag, which was comely enough, but did not match his imaginings, for he had dreamed of her arrayed in silks and gorgeous with diamonds. She looked

  somewhat sullen, which made him uncomfortably aware that she was not marrying him for the glamour of his cock, but as a matter of pure survival.

  As Sarazin entered the barn with Amantha, the guests cried:

  Ave Amantha! Ave Sarazin!'

  He could not help resenting the fact that they called Amantha's name before they called his.

  The wedding ceremony then commenced, but they had got no further than sacrificing a chicken to the Household Gods When
there was a crash of thunder and the door to the barn split asunder.

  Then into the barn walked a heavy figure, bringing to the shocked assembly a reek most foul. It was King Lyra! His scalp dangled from his skull, there was mud in the sockets of his eyes, yet he was on his feet, walking, pointing, trying to speak.

  'Og-gorog,' said King Lyra.

  Upon which Thodric Jarl hurled a hatchet. It took the dead king in the head. The skull exploded in a spray of dirt, stench, pulp and shattered bone. King Lyra's corpse swayed on its feet then crashed to the ground. Amantha screamed hysterically. She did not stop until Jarl slapped her across the face.

  Once. Twice. Three times.

  Then:

  'Get that thing out of here!' said Jarl.

  Two of his men each grabbed a leg of the corpse and dragged it outside into the rain. Jarl turned to face the silent audience.

  'A corpse walking,' said Jarl. That's no great trick. I've seen it done often enough before. It takes but little power — any tenth-rate necromancer can arrange as much. Such a one must have chosen to play a practical joke on these young lovers here. But that tells us nothing of the king's opinion, for the corpse is not the king himself.'

  But one of the stable hands spoke up and said:

  "The king is angry because Sean Sarazin has never made the quest.'

  And others, muttering, said as much themselves. Where- upon Sarazin, realising what he was talking about, said: