The Wicked and the Witless

by Hugh Cook

  'I take upon myself the duties of the heirs of Chenameg as well as their rights. I will make the quest. Ten days hence I will set forth just as Tarkal in his day set forth. I will quest beyond Drangsturm to the terror-lands of the Deep South. I will dare the dangers of the Swarms until I find the tectonic lever and throw the same.'

  He meant what he said. He felt drunk with his own heroism, and Jarl's frown did not dampen his exultation. Certainly Sean Sarazin had said the right thing as far as the audience was concerned, for cheers greeted his proclamation.

  The rites proceeded without further interruption, and Sean Sarazin was duly married to Amantha of Chenameg. Since he had wed the only surviving daughter of the ruling house of Chenameg, and since there was no male heir in evidence, he was, of course, now king of Chenameg himself.

  It was true!

  Yes, Lord Regan was right. You can have whatever you want. You can get whatever you wish for. You can be whatever you want to be. The will is free, so all things are possible. All that you need is ambition.

  With ceremony done, feasting began, the slaughter of sick horses having provided plentiful meat for the same. After feasting came dancing to the tune of various in- struments musicking. Then, finally, late in the evening, Sarazin and Amantha were bundled through the rain to the Great House, there to take their nuptial rites to their logical conclusion.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  love lovingly enchants (delicious)

  your eloquence of perfumes as i

  (more moth than butterfly, more dream than silk)

  strip (elegance by elegance) these petals

  till quite (my sweet) your weather can embrace

  and all infoldings clasp us to their task.

  —n. n. nooth, 'love loving lovingly'

  Amantha and Sarazin, wet from the rain, dripped their way to their, nuptial chamber deep within the Great House. Servants went before them, bearing candles. When they reached the Great Bedroom which used to be King Lyra's, Amantha supervised the disposition of the candles, then dismissed the servants.

  Sean Sarazin was alone at last with his true love.

  'This,' said Amantha, unnecessarily, 'was my father's room. Do you like it?'

  'I love it,' said Sarazin, with enthusiasm. For it was a part of a royal palace, and therefore much to be admired. Still, it was not exactly what he had expected.

  For a start, it stank of dogs. Scarcely surprising, since there were a great many dogs in attendance. Large dogs. The way they looked at Sarazin made him uncomfortable. It suggested they had large appetites, and were not fussy about how they satisfied those appetites.

  The room was huge. Overhead were bare rafters. Some- where beyond, lost in the shadows above, there must be a ceiling, but Sarazin, who could not see it, felt as if he

  was standing in an enormous cave. He waited for Amantha to embrace him in rapture. But she was busying herself with the job of trimming the candles.

  'Amantha, darling,' said Sarazin, stealing up on her.

  He slid an encircling arm round her waist. But she shook him off.

  'Can't you see I'm busy?' she said.

  Somewhat taken aback by her brusque reaction, he backed off and sat down on the bed, which was massive. The yellowed skulls of ancestral enemies were perched on the finials at each of its corners.

  On the walls of the room were the glowering heads of wild animals slaughtered by King Lyra, by King Lyra's father, and by his father's father before him. Triumphs of taxidermy they were: the heads of stag, wolf and bear. Sarazin was acutely conscious of the fact that in all his hunting he had never personally killed any animal so noble.

  Why are there so many dogs in here?' said Sarazin.

  These are the king's dogs,' said Amantha.

  'Couldn't they sleep outside? At least for tonight, I mean.'

  Who are you to change a royal custom?' said Amantha.

  Sarazin, who did not want to begin their night of bliss with an argument, declined to answer. Instead, he stripped off his clothes, threw them on to a chair — which was made entirely from interwoven antlers — then began to dry himself vigorously with a towel which had been laid out on the bed.

  Then Amantha, having finished trimming the candles, began to take off her clothes. A huge moth with wings the colour of copper and bronze danced dizzy around the candles. A muscular mastiff watched the two humans. Waiting for what? An order? As Sarazin was wondering, a monstrous hound of uncertain breed jumped on to the bed.

  'Hey! You!' said Sarazin. 'Get off the bed!'

  He grabbed the dog's collar and hauled on it. The brute did not budge by so much as a fingerlength. Instead, it bared its teeth and growled. Sarazin hastily let go and stepped back.

  'Sheebal' said Amantha, sharply.

  And clapped her hands twice, in anger.

  The hound hastily decamped from the bed and slunk into a comer, where it lay sulking as Amantha towelled herself.

  'Don't watch!' she said, catching Sarazin in the act. You embarrass me.'

  So Sarazin turned away, humming to himself, trying to pretend he felt gay and jaunty. Rain drummed against the shutters. It was cold. He wanted. Warmth, yes. Amantha was warm, surely. What did Lod say? Slippery when wet . . .

  Sarazin turned to Amantha, who had swaddled herself in her towel. He tried, gently, to remove it. She resisted. He suddenly became less gentle, and wrenched the towel away from her. She stood there naked, one hand guarding her vulva, the other clasped across her breasts.

  Why look at me as if I were a rapist?' asked Sarazin, hurt.

  'All men are rapists,' she said.

  Sarazin had not come prepared for political argument, so did not know how to reply. Instead, after a moment's hesitation, he invaded her defences, his hands eagering over her breasts.

  Don't maul me!' said Amantha, pulling away from him.

  'But I'm your husband!' protested Sarazin.

  'That's got nothing to do with it. My breasts are sore. They're tender. Understand?'

  'Like little birds,' said Sarazin, attempting to lighten the mood with a little romance, a touch of poetry.

  'Quite possibly,' said Amantha, sourly. Well, come on! Let's get it over with!'

  So saying, she slid herself under the bed's vast duvet. Sarazin tried to draw it back.

  'Stop that!' she said. 'Are you perverted?'

  'To see pleasure is part of the pleasure of pleasuring,' said Sarazin.

  'Only peasants want to see the flesh in action,' retorted Amantha. You want to watch? You're disgusting! That's a filthy low-bred perversion. You must have learnt it from whores.'

  Sarazin, abashed, face burning, made no reply. Instead, he crawled under the duvet and coupled with Amantha, going about his business as he was accustomed to, striving like a conqueror.

  Amantha cried out in alarm:

  'Gently! Gently! You're hurting me!'

  Sarazin felt himself deflating. He grasped, wildly, for erotic visions to help him with his thrust. In the end, to his shame, it was Bizzie he conjured into his mind to help him drive and strive until lust was appeased.

  'Are you finished?' said Amantha.

  'Darling,' said Sarazin, kissing her, tenderly.

  You're finished,' she said, emphatically. Take it out!'

  'My cherished sweet,' he said, kissing her again.

  In terms of pleasure, their coupling had been a disaster. So he wanted to at least indulge his pride. To lie there in possession of his princess, a woman of the Favoured Blood, the woman who guaranteed to him his glorious future.

  'Take it out,' she insisted. You're finished.'

  So Sarazin withdrew, whereupon she rolled away from him. Soon she was asleep. Snoring with a high whine. But Sarazin lay sleepless, restless. Unable to settle. This was not at all what he had expected. He had expected gasping rap- tures, silken pleasures, panting excitement, eager hands. Instead, he had met with the most grudging welcome imaginable.

  'But I'm Lord of Chenameg now,' said he, trying to
console himself about his disappointment.

  Then he started to wonder where the Lord of Chenameg should go to take a piss. Was there a chamber pot in the room? There must be. But, when he got out of bed, he could not see it.

  So he went to the window and opened a shutter. A gust of cold wind buffeted inside, blowing out most of the candles. The shutter tore free from his hand and banged heavily. Hastily, he grabbed for it. Cold rain splattered against his nakedness. He got control of the shutter and hauled it in, leaving just enough space to piss through.

  As he relieved himself, Sarazin heard a heavy thump behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the hound Sheeba had taken possession of his side of the bed.

  'SssI' hissed Sarazin.

  He closed the shutters firmly against the night then went to deal with the hound. Who growled, baring teeth at him. He backed off, warily, looking for a weapon. At which point a draught blew out the last candle, leaving him in utter darkness.

  'BuggerI' said Sarazin.

  Yes!' said Amantha, speaking from her dreams. 'Bugger me, bugger me, take me, force me, rape me, shaft me, hold me, clasp me, oh, Tarkal, Tarkal, do it, dig, do it, dig, oh Tarkal, dig, dig, dig, dig . . .'

  Her voice trailed away. From outshouting frenzy to a mothdust whisper. Then she shuddered, as if in pleasure. Then, after a moment's silence, gasped as if stabbed. Then groaned. Long and low. Then whimpered. Then no sound came from her but that of regular breathing.

  Sarazin stood in the dark, shocked and trembling. What lustful monster lived within the snowpetal skin of his princess? From where had come that foul, dark, demanding desire? And why had she cried her brother's name? Could she . . .? Did she . . .? Surely not!

  'He's dead, anyway,' muttered Sarazin, 'so it makes no difference.'

  Then made for the bed. He tripped over a mastiff, which lurched to its feet, barking. Amantha screamed: 'Tarkal!'

  'It's me,' said Sarazin, 'me, me, Sean Sarazin, your husband, your lover, your friend.'

  'Oh,' said Amantha. Then, puzzled but not unduly upset: Who turned you into a dog?'

  'Nobody,' said Sarazin. 'That's Sheeba beside you. I'm over here.'

  'Oh,' said Amantha. Then, still puzzled: 'Pray tell, why? Why are you standing over there?' 'I'm meditating,' said Sarazin.

  'Meditating!' said Amantha, with impatience and fury mixed. 'What did I marry? A clown? Come back to bed. Sheeba! Get off!'

  Sarazin navigated towards Amantha's voice, got under the duvet and curled up next to his true love. By now his ardour had recovered, and was fleshing out his pizzle with hot young blood. He put a hand on Amantha's shoulder and tried to turn her privacy towards him.

  "Not again!' she said, irritated. 'Not now!'

  'But . . . darling . . .'

  'I have a headache.'

  Rebuffed, Sarazin lay staring into the darkness, while Amantha slipped off to sleep. After a while, he realised there was something moving among the rafters overhead. A spider. Glowing phosphorescent in the dark. A monstrous spider.

  —Can't be. Must be dreaming.

  So thought Sarazin. To check, he put a finger into his mouth and bit it. Yes, he was awake all right. So the spider must really be up there. But it was huge! As big as a dog! Should he scream for help? No: the sound might draw the spider. It might leap down and fang them.

  He would have to wake up Amantha. Then they would have to creep to the door, very quietly. Then open it, and make a dash for safety. Trembling with fear, he shook Amantha awake.

  'All right, you sex maniac,' she said, in something approaching a shout. 'Rape me, then.'

  'Keep your voice down,' he said.

  'Are you ashamed then? Are you—'

  'Amantha! Amantha! Look! Up there! Look! There's a—'

  'A spider,' said Amantha, with a complete lack of interest. What of it?'

  'But it's - it's huge!'

  "They only eat bats, stupid. Go back to sleep.'

  Sarazin sank back in bed. But he did not dare shut his eyes, not with that hideous monstrosity on the loose above him. Maybe it did hunt bats. Usually. But what if it slipped? And fell? Slap bang into their faces!

  In the end, weary beyond belief but still fearful of the spider, he crawled deep under the duvet, down to the darkness somewhere near Amantha's feet. Which were unwashed, and smelt accordingly.

  As the wise have elsewhere remarked, there are two disasters which can befall one: getting what one wants, or not getting what one wants. Sarazin felt that, somehow, he had managed to get the worst of both worlds.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Celadon: Farfalla's second-born child, the brother of Sarazin, Peguero and Jarnel (who is the youngest). An unsubtle soldier dedicated to his military career and to very little else.

  Celadon was a military attache in Shin when Sarazin arrived in the autumn, but was ordered by King Lyra to return to Selzirk with news that Sarazin was forbidden to depart Shin until Lod's trial was concluded.

  Sarazin lay dreaming of Amantha. In his dream, she promenaded naked in a marble-colonnaded xystus. Her body shaved. All hair lower than her eyebrows gone entirely. He—

  He woke, as a servant slammed the door open.

  'Blood's grief!' said Sarazin, staring at the shocked and panting man. What is it?'

  "My lord,' said the servant, 'soldiers are coming. From the west.'

  'From the west?' said Sarazin.

  'Yes, my lord,' said the servant. 'From the west.'

  'Great,' said Amantha. 'Is breakfast coming from the west, too? It should be here by now. Where is it?'

  'It will be here soon, my lady, soon,' said the servant. 'But, my lord — the soldiers. The soldiers!'

  'How many soldiers?' said Sarazin, already out of bed and shovelling himself into his clothes. 'How many and how far distant? Who saw them? Do they come by road or by forest?'

  They march down the North Road, my lord. Some charcoal burners sighted them yesterday at dusk. They went not near enough to count them but hastened to Shin by night. Ere the sun rose they persuaded the ferrymen to bring them across the river that they might give us the news. They ask now for reward.'

  'Hold them!' said Sarazin. 'Death will reward them if they've told us untruths. Where is Jarl?'

  Yes, and breakfast!' said Amantha.

  'Breakfast is coming, my lady, coming soon,' said the servant, obviously more fearful of Amantha than he was of Sarazin — something scarcely calculated to improve Sarazin's temper.

  'Jarl!' said Sarazin. Where is Jarl?'

  'He is nowhere to be found, my lord.'

  "Then get Glambrax,' said Sarazin.

  'Glambrax?'

  "My dwarf, you fool!'

  In preparation for the wedding, at which he had thought he might possibly get drunk, Sarazin had given his ring of invisibility, his magic mudstone, his dragon bottle and his green candle into the care of the dwarf. In the event, Sarazin had stayed sober, so this precaution against drunken accidents had been unnecessary.

  However, Glambrax still had charge of Sarazin's magic.

  And Glambrax, it seemed, had made himself very scarce indeed.

  Shortly, however, Thodric Jarl was found, lying dead drunk in one of the stables. Ear-pulling, rib-kicking and a dousing with cold water failed to rouse him. Further- more, Jarl's condition was far from unique. Few men were fit for battle as all had celebrated Sarazin's wedding feast in uproarious style.

  Sarazin swore in his most soldierly fashion then assembled the few capable men at his command.

  We ride on patrol,' said Sarazin. 'If those from the west are friendly then all is well. If not, then we will return to the Great House and flee forthwith.'

  The ferrymen took Sarazin and his patrol across the Velvet River to the start of the North Road, a wide trail of mud with forest uprising on either side. Soon Sarazin was leading his men westward. It might be that they rode to their deaths, yet none of their demeanour admitted dismay.

  They had not gone far when they sighted a
single avant- courier. The man drew rein when he saw them. Whereupon Sarazin cried, in a loud voice:

  Who is it who marches on the realm of Chenameg?'

  "Me!' answered a voice which was not entirely unfamiliar.

  It was his brother Celadon.

  Sarazin rode forward. Then the two brothers sat on their horses eyeing each other with disfavour. They did not know each other very well for their past acquaintance had been but short. However, what they knew they disliked.

  To Sarazin, Celadon was an uncouth militarist whose concern for the future was strictly limited to the provenance of his next beer and his next whore. To Celadon, Sarazin was a severe embarrassment, a wildly reckless adventurer whose self-serving ambition threatened the careers (if not the very lives) of everyone who had the misfortune to be related to him.

  'What,' said Sarazin, opening the hostilities, 'are you doing here? Moreover, how many men do you have at your back?'

  'I have four hundred men,' said Celadon, 'and I ride to ensure the lawful succession of the throne of Chenameg.' 'That has been decided already,' said Sarazin, 'for I

  have married the fair princess Amantha and am myself king in Chenameg.'

  You!' said Celadon, gaping.