The Wicked and the Witless

by Hugh Cook

  Since Farfalla's palace was a converted wizard-built castle, and since the original moat of flame which had ringed that castle still existed, it had the potential to be a formidable fortress. However, its defences had been compromised (in the interests of convenience) by a number of bridges which arched to the battlements from four- storey towers built without the flame moat.

  Farfalla's few guards could not defend so many ap- proaches against enemies in strength.

  Sean Sarazin — shocked, dazed, bewildered and appalled by the hatred of the mob — was bustled through the palace and up the many stairs to Farfalla's throne room. High was that throne room, so high that it overlooked the four-storey battlements of the palace and afforded a view of Selzirk and the lands of the Harvest Plains beyond the city.

  The throne room was packed already with hysterical serving girls, wounded guards and assorted riff-raff. Out of the press came Sarazin's mother who assaulted Sarazin before he could even think of defending himself.

  Farfalla embraced Sarazin, squeezing him, crushing him, holding him tight, tight, saying not a word. Indeed, any word she said could scarcely have been heard above the clamour within the throne room, the mob's uproar, the sounds of battle in the stairwell below, the hoarse voice of Thodric Jarl screaming orders.

  Was this the end, then? Were they doomed to die here? Jarl's men, whatever their heroism, could only hold the stairwell for so long. As Sarazin was thus thinking, someone kicked him in the shins. Glambrax! Who had a canvas bag in his hands. Sarazin broke free from Farfalla and grabbed the bag.

  Within were the magical gifts he had received from the druid Upical. His ring of invisibility on its silver chain. His magic mudstone. His dragon bottle. His green candle. Which should he use? The candle? No, because he had no fire with which to light it — and not the slightest idea what it would do when lit. The dragon bottle? No — unleashing dragons in the throne room might kill them all. His ring? No, for invisibility could scarcely save him now. The mudstone, then! When he used it, the legions of the Dreaded Ones would come to his aid.

  Hastily, Sarazin slung the ring-bearing chain round his neck, then pocketed the dragon bottle and the candle.

  Water!' said Sarazin. 'I need water!'

  We none of us need water,' said Farfalla grimly. We need a miracle.'

  That's what I need the water for. This is a magic mudstone, see, if I dissolve it in water . . .'

  Sarazin explained.

  Farfalla was dubious; the mudstone looked very much like a lump of mud to her. In any case, they had no water. No water, no wine, no vinegar, no nothing.

  'Glambrax!' shouted Sarazin. 'Get me water! Now!'

  Your wish is my command, master,' said Glambrax.

  The dwarf bowed low, then waddled to the nearest wounded guard and confiscated the man's helmet. Within was a velvet lining which he tore out. Below was a single ilavale, which he pocketed. Then he spat on the bare metal. Then started to pass the helmet round.

  When Sarazin added his urging to Glambrax's begging Farfalla's people started sucking their fingers, chewing their cheeks, dreaming of blood-squirting steak, tongue-shuffling worry beads or whatever else they had to do to conjure up saliva.

  'Quick! Quick!' shouted Sarazin.

  For the brazen battle-brawl uproar from the stairwell suggested Thodric Jarl's men were losing. Belatedly, it occurred to Sarazin that perhaps urine would have served. Or blood. Both could have been got far quicker. But it was too late for that because:

  'Almost done,' said Glambrax.

  Then passed the helmet to Farfalla who looked with distaste on its much-bubbled frothy burden, swilled spittle round her mouth then spat.

  'This had better be good, son of mine,' she said, and passed the helmet to Sarazin.

  Who, with shaking hands, crumbled the magic mud- stone to the spittle-broth. The mud sank out of sight. And did nothing.

  'Come on, come on!' said Sarazin.

  But nothing happened.

  Till a serving maid screamed. Others took up the scream as fast-bleeding guards staggered into the throne room, retreating from the stairwell. They were losing.

  The influx of guards, the screams, the panic — it was too much for Farfalla's people to take. They became, on the instant, a desperate jostling mob, brawling for air, for space, for an impossible liberty. The helmet was dashed from Sarazin's hands. He stumbled, almost fell, clutched, grabbed a handful of somebody's hair, then was squeezed.

  As if in a vice.

  It was the same nightmare all over again. He was going to be squashed! Crushed to death by a mindless mob. Killed by the brute weight of bodies. He could not breathe. Then, suddenly, he sighted space to his right. Space, daylight, fresh air, sun. In a thoughtless panic he brawled towards it, striving, shouldering, hauling, punching and kicking.

  And, with shock, realised he had fought his way to an open arched window so huge it took up half of one wall. The crowd in the throne room convulsed. Sean Sarazin was forced right out of the window.

  'Gaaa!' he screamed.

  Clutching. Grasping!

  Screaming, he clung to someone's collar and someone else's ponytail, a death-drop beneath his feet.

  'Sarazin!' yelled Glambrax in his wart-ugly voice. To me! To your left! Look left, look left!'

  Sarazin risked a quick glance to his left. Glambrax was clinging to the stonework on the outside of the throne room. Easy enough to do, for the throne room's exterior walls were lavishly sculptured with dragons and such.

  'Come on!' said Glambrax. 'What are you waiting for?'

  But he had no need to shout, for Sarazin was already moving. Hand over hand he went, clutching to people who were in turn clutching others to save themselves from the death-drop. He gained the stonework, seized the head of a platypus, found a boot-hold on a sculptured skull, then bawled:

  'Out on the roof, you morons!'

  Screams answered him. Screams of a terror entirely different from anything he had heard yet. Anguished sounds of lacerated horror — as if knives were at throats already. A moment later, people were fighting to escape to the roof. Some made it. Others slipped, fell. Wailing, they plummeted down, down, down—

  To smash, to break, to fracture, to wreck their lives on the awaiting stoneslab doom far below. Broken teeth, splintered jawbones, smashed eggshell skulls . . .

  Some of those who made it to the exterior began to climb down immediately, descending hand over hand by way of stone-carved unicorns, gryphons, taniwhas, eels, onions, mermaids, seashells and the occasional basilisk and hippogriff and so forth.

  But Sean Sarazin climbed instead to the very summit of the exterior of the kingmaker's throne room, determined to make his last stand there. Glambrax followed.

  'Glambrax,' said Sarazin, 'get me a sword.'

  But Glambrax grinned, giggled, then shook his head.

  "Very well,' said Sarazin, 'when my enemies come I must perforce defend myself with a dwarf. A dead dwarf, if a live one proves too unwieldy.'

  Oh, that's a famous weapon, master, a famous weapon!' said Glambrax.

  Then he chortled, making a hideous sound half like laughter and half like somebody swallowing blood.

  Sarazin, nested in surprising comfort between the uprearing stone dragons which crowned the throne room, closed his eyes and tried to relax. He would need his strength for the battle to come. However . . . that battle proved a long time coming.

  Finally, Sarazin realised that he was almost alone on the roof. Most of those who had joined the exodus from the throne room had climbed down, or else had gone back inside. He could still hear sounds of panic but they were faint, distant. Looking down — a long way downl — he saw concerned figures clustered around the corpses of the stone-smashed fallen.

  'We'd best be going inside,' said Glambrax, starting the descent.

  Sarazin watched him go then, puzzled, followed. On regaining the throne room he found it almost empty. A small boy child was sitting on Farfalla's throne, suck- ing his thumb. A
couple of wounded soldiers sat slumped against a wall. And there were half a dozen servants and such.

  And-

  Snakes, some dead, some wounded and writhing. Scor- pions, some mashed, others holding their ground in fury. Centipedes. Toads. Huge, filthy cockroaches. And what was that in the centre of the room? Dung? No! A heap of bubbling mud!

  As Sarazin watched, out from the mud there plopped first a toad, then an adder, then an asp. They were the last of the legions of the Dreaded Ones which had indeed come to his aid, albeit tardily.

  A little later, Sarazin discovered that tens of thousands of verminous creatures, most poisonous, still commanded the stairwell. And, in the end, he too had to descend to ground level by climbing down the exterior walls, with Glambrax giving him unwanted advice for every choice of handhold.

  Sean Sarazin had two questions which needed urgent answers.

  First: why had Selzirk's mob tried for his blood? Second: did his mother still live? 'Glambrax!' said Sarazin, 'find me Farfalla!' But the dwarf, who had been trotting at his heels but a moment before, had vanished himself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Drangsturm: flame trench guarded by Confederation of Wizards. Lies 500 leagues south of Selzirk. Runs length of narrow isthmus between Inner Waters (to the east) and Central Ocean (to the west). Divides Argan North from terror-lands of the Deep South where lurk the monsters of the Swarms.

  Sean Sarazin had failed.

  He had pursued his ambition relentlessly, had won his princess and his kingdom, and then had lost both. He had only been saved from deadly peril by a legal technicality. How humiliating!

  Could he still succeed?

  Could he still be a hero triumphant, a conqueror, a leader of men, a ruler, a king? Could he — to come right down to specifics — regain the throne of Chenameg which Tarkal had stolen from him?

  Perhaps.

  If he quested to the terror-lands, found the tectonic lever and threw it then he would be a hero true. With such heroic status, a few mercenaries and a good public relations expert surely he could seize and retain the throne of Chenameg.

  The beauty of the plan was that the Harvest Plains would be unable to interfere with such an ambition, for if he threw the tectonic lever then Selzirk's lands would be drowned by the Central Ocean. But how would he find the lever? He had never formally researched the

  subject but, nevertheless, was aware that precious little was known of the geography of the terror-lands south of Drangsturm.

  Besides, the more he thought about it, the more the notion of throwing the tectonic lever seemed absurd. A criminal madness, even. To sink Argan? To drown the Harvest Plains? To kill people by the million? Impossible to justify! He had been taught by Lord Regan that ambition was good: good for the individual, good for the world. But there were exceptions to every rule.

  Yet he had sworn himself already to the quest. At his wedding with Amantha he had taken an oath to go questing for the tectonic lever. He had no choice!

  'Stop talking nonsense,' said Thodric Jarl, when Sarazin spoke to him about it. "You did not swear to find the tectonic lever, or to throw it. Your vow was to go on the traditional quest undertaken by all heirs of Chenameg.'

  'But that is—'

  'Is to quest until wounded, and no further. Surely you got a couple of scratches or such between arrest in Shin and safety here.'

  Sarazin thought Jarl would have made a good lawyer, but dared not venture an insult so unpardonable. Instead, he said:

  You call this safety? The mob has stormed the palace once. Why not twice?'

  'Mobs cannot be roused to anger on a daily basis,' said Jarl.

  Yet the mob attacked once,' said Sarazin, 'so surely hates me fiercely.'

  'The mob hates Farfalla more than you,' said Jarl.

  'Farfalla?' said Sarazin, puzzled. 'But why?'

  'Because she perverted justice for her family's benefit,' said Jarl.

  'I don't understand,' said Sarazin.

  'Did you think your judge botched his sentencing by chance?' said Jarl. 'No. Qolidian wasn't made governor of Androlmarphos by accident. That was a bribe.'

  'Did — did Farfalla tell you this?' said Sarazin.

  'I've not asked her about it,' said Jarl. 'But share my opinion with all Selzirk. How else did Qolidian become governor?'

  Sarazin, seeing the inescapable logic of this, was profoundly shaken by this proof of his own ignorance. Shortly, pursuing the truth to the death, he challenged his mother over the matter.

  'Of course I bribed Qolidian,' said Farfalla. 'Everyone knows it. Everyone! The people, the courts, the Regency, Lord Regan of the Rice Empire, yes, and the pirates of the Greater Teeth for all I know. My credibility is zero.'

  'Will the Regency . . . will they . . .?'

  What?' said Farfalla. 'Impeach me? Over this? No. They can prove nothing. They'd lose in the courts. But, Sarazin my son — watch yourself! Before, they merely suspected you of ambition. Now they have proof of it. Sean Sarazin, king of Chenameg —, what on earth were you thinking of?'

  "Myself,' sard Sarazin simply. "My duty to myself. To be what I can be.'

  'At what expense to others?' said Farfalla. 'Do you realise what you've cost me? Leaving aside that—'

  What followed was another long, exquisitely painful lecture. From which Sean Sarazin learnt at least a tem- porary caution. Thus when certain members of the Watch approached him directly — having given up hope of getting to him through Thodric Jarl — he rebuffed them.

  In his new mood of caution he did not trust anyone from the Watch, even though it was members of that organi- sation who had defended him when the mob rioted. He did report the approach to Jarl who commended him for his caution.

  "Your one task at the moment is to get fit,' said Jarl. 'So you're ready for whatever position Imbleprig wins for you.'

  'What are you talking about?' said Sarazin. 'Imbleprig is but a lawyer. How can he win me position?'

  'So you've not been told,' said Jarl. 'Well then, listen, and a tale I will unfold . . .'

  Thus Sarazin learnt that his entanglement with the law was not yet over. Childermass Imbleprig was seeking damages to compensate Sarazin for having been wrong- fully sentenced. Imbleprig sought not just money for his client but status and position as well.

  'For,' argued Imbleprig, 'my client has been victim of such a cruel injustice that unless the court intervenes it will be impossible for him to fulfil his talent and follow the career which should by rights have been his.'

  Imbleprig laid it on so thick that Sarazin was positively embarrassed. Sarazin, in his innocence, fully expected the court to throw out his case on the grounds of its patent absurdity. But, as it happened, the intricacies of the Constitution, the details of law and regulation made since and the court rulings on the seventy-seven relevant precedents were all on Sarazin's side.

  Midsummer's Day arrived, initiating the year Alliance 4326. Sarazin, reminded by his mother, did his duty to the sungod. And his court case continued.

  After much palaver, the court ruled that Sarazin had indeed been grievously wronged, and was therefore due for compensation. The court declared that the state must pay Sarazin's legal costs and, furthermore, give him a position of high responsibility. It directed the Regency to see that this was done.

  There followed a secret conference of the Regency after which Plovey, spokesman for the Regency and one of the most powerful players in the politics of Selzirk, approached Sarazin to offer him command of an army tasked with destroying marauders presently active near the source of the Shouda Flow.

  'These invaders,' said Plovey, 'are pretending to be barbarians from the Marabin Erg, but our spies tell us they are in fact from the Rice Empire.'

  'No matter,' said Sarazin. 'I'll harry them hard then drive them south with their heads between their legs.'

  "With their what?' said Plovey, not quite understanding this foreign idiom.

  'Never mind,' said Sarazin. 'What I'm saying is that I'll
do the job. How many troops do I have?'

  'Five hundred horse,' said Plovey. 'But we're thinking of increasing the number by adding some infantry.'

  Indeed, the Regency was thinking very hard. It shortly made a public announcement to the effect that there would be a pardon for anyone in prison who would march with Sean Kelebes Sarazin as a foot soldier. This met with an enthusiastic response from the prisoners, and every convicted pickpocket, rapist, perjurer and cock-cutter in Selzirk flocked to Sarazin's banner.

  Sarazin, meanwhile, had discovered to his dismay that the five hundred cavalrymen who formed the core of his army were the remnants of the notorious Kelebes mutiny. Judging by their reputation, they would be more dangerous to him than the enemy.

  Then, to multiply the confusion, the Regency proclaimed that any and all citizens who wished to march with Sean Sarazin's army were at liberty to do so.

  A mistake!

  For, along with the assorted psychopaths, lunatics and apprentice boys who took advantage of this offer, the Master of Combat for the Watch volunteered to follow Sean Sarazin on his campaign. A hundred members of the Watch promptly decided to follow Thodric Jarl to war. Sarazin, acting on Jarl's advice, promptly swore them in as his military police.

  Sarazin's need for such was dire indeed, as he saw when he reviewed his troops with Thodric Jarl. Disgruntled veterans, convict scum, human refuse from the streets, mumbling lunatics and dolt-eyed idiots.

  Still, he faced them bravely and made a speech.

  'Death or victory!' said Sarazin Sky.

  And his men cheered, for the sun was shining, the enemy were very far away, and they were happy — at least for a moment — to fancy themselves as heroes.