by Hugh Cook
'Not so rough, man,' said Douay, jumping down from his throne. 'I've my own pleasures to take with this bitch.'
Sarazin, kneeling naked on cold stone, found his breath, raised his head and said:
You call me a bitch?'
'Aye, and a thief,' said Douay, striding forward. Sarazin's few possessions had been piled in a heap. Douay scattered them with a kick, then fished out the bard from the wreckage. "What's this?' he said.
The bard,' said Sarazin. 'The Lost Bard of Untunchi- lamon.'
TVIy bard!' said Douay. Won by me in Ling, aye, from Guardian Machines who screamed for my death as they fought me. Right proper it served me, aye, saved a whole ship from mutiny once, for such is the power of the thing. Then this bitch Watashi stole it from me. A thief, aye, that's what he is. His dwarf's a thief into the bargain!'
With that, Douay scooped up one of Sarazin's boots and hurled it at Glambrax, who, thinking himself unobserved, had been detaching a dagger from a weapon rack on the northern wall. The boot missed, and Glambrax fled.
Taking the dagger with him. Douay did not bother order- ing a pursuit.
'I — I apologise for the bad behaviour of my dwarf,' said Sarazin.
'The bitch thinks to apologise,' said Douay. He grabbed a hank of Sarazin's hair and yanked. Hard. 'Apologise! That's what he thinks to do. But for what? For a worthless dagger, that's all. Not for the larger things. Blood, bashings, beatings, threats, kidnap, arrest without trial, torture, unlawful detention, aye, I could go on, but life's too short for the catalogue.'
Such was Douay's anger that Sarazin knew his only hope of survival was to kill his foe.
'May I stand?' said he.
'Our four-legged bitch wishes to perform for us,' said Douay. 'To show us the lesser breeds can dare themselves upright on two feet only. Very well then. Stand!'
So saying, Douay released Sarazin's hair.
And Sarazin rose, knowing he would only get one chance. It would have to be a killing blow. A straight blow to the throat.
Douay struck.
Down went Sarazin, struck while still thinking, still rising. Down he went, hands flailing at the ground to break his fall. And a boot smashed into his ribs. And:
—And I'm going to die!
But he did not die. He was still alive when he was bundled into a bloodstained torture chamber and strapped down to a torture bench.
The torture chamber was warm. The shutters were closed against the day, keeping out the winds. Heavy iron cooked slowly in braziers. Hot. Red hot. 'Comfortable?' said Douay.
'What do you want?' answered Sarazin, speaking with difficulty, half-convinced his swollen jaw was broken.
'The truth,' said Douay.
Sarazin, bound to cold wood, looked up at Drake Douay and saw a face as loveless as that of a rapist. Douay was no longer grinning. The beating he had given Sarazin in the throne room had been but a game. Now the real business of revenge was going to begin.
'Torture' continued Douay, as Sarazin held his silence, 'is an acknowledged road to the truth. They say as much in Selzirk, in any case. Do you dispute it?'
'Selzirk has fallen,' said Sarazin.
'Then regard this as enquiry historical,' said Douay. 'I will prove out Selzirk's methods by iron upon flesh.'
What do you want to know?' said Sarazin, with a sense of! rising desperation.
'Why, the truth!' said Douay. 'Nothing more, nothing less. You will number for me the fish in the sea. Then prove that number or perish.'
'Prove?' said Sarazin. 'How can I prove anything when I'm naked on a breadboard?'
This is no breadboard!' said Douay. This is a butcher's block. As for the how — why, that's your problem. Do well, Watashi. Do well — and you might live till morning.'
With that,. Douay turned and departed, leaving Sarazin in the hands of the torturers, who were two in number: black-masked men who looked as if they enjoyed their business. These rubbed their hands, grinned at each other, then picked up instruments variously rough and sharp.
'Come now!' said one. You're not going to cut off his toes, are you?'
'Why? What do you think we should do?'
'The teeth! That's the thing to start with.'
'Oh no no no! I can't abide the sound of crunching teeth.'
'Well, you know how I feel about toes.' 'All right then, let's start with the nose.' 'Agreed! The nose!'
One of the men opened the jaws of a pair of nose-cutters, loomed over Sarazin, and— And Sarazin fainted.
When Sarazin recovered, it was night. He was still strapped down, utterly helpless. In terror, he looked for his torturers. They were nowhere to be seen. But dull fire glowed red in a brazier where iron was heating still, ready for their return.
Sarazin's nose was still in place. But they would come back. They would hurt him, would cut him, would beat him. And he had no hope of escape, no hope what- soever.
Helplessly, he began to cry.
He sobbed, alone, lonely, utterly bereft. Hot tears blubbered from his eyes and coursed down his cheeks. It was not fair! How could they do this to him, to him, Sean Sarazin?
'I did nothing wrong,' he said.
But nobody answered, of course.
The fire glowed red. The darkness creaked. Wind was at work on the shutters of the torture chamber. And Sarazin's tears eased away at last, and he was left cold and shivering. Waiting for his torturers to return. Waiting for his death. More afraid than he had ever been in his life.
At last, the grey dawn came like a cutthroat. The ashes in the brazier were cold. A whisk of wind found its way beneath the shutters, feathered the ashes, shifted a few to the floor. Sarazin shivered. Then heard footsteps. Soft footsteps. Creeping, creeping. He sucked on his tongue, summoned up saliva, moistened his dry throat, then said:
'I hear you, Douay.'
'It's not him, moron,' said Glambrax. 'It's me.' The next moment, Glambrax was beside Sarazin, cutting him free with a dagger. When Sarazin's bonds had been severed, he got off the torture bench — and promptly collapsed to the floor.
'What ails you?' said Glambrax.
Wly back,' said Sarazin, in agony. 'It's given way. I can't get up.'
Glambrax promptly started pounding and pummelling and pounding Sarazin's back like a professional masseur. Under his ministrations, Sarazin gained freedom of move- ment, and soon had the satisfaction of standing and pissing into the brazier.
Take a shit while you're about it,' said Glambrax generously. 'We're in no hurry.'
'No thanks,' said Sarazin. Then, by way of explanation: 'Constipation.' Then, seeing Glambrax was making for the door: Where are you going?'
Won't be a moment,' said Glambrax.
He was in fact several moments, but returned in due course with an armful of clothes. Sarazin's clothes. Sarazin dressed, somewhat dismayed to find that his boots were missing.
'What about my boots?' said Sarazin.
"Don't worry,' said Glambrax. We'll get you some boots before we get out of here.'
'That raises another question,' said Sarazin. 'Just how are we going to get out of here?'
'Follow me,' said Glambrax.
And led the way through the dawn-quiet building, out through a side door, up one stairway, down another, and out through another door. Glambrax scuttled across an open courtyard, then paused, listening at yet another door. Sarazin joined him. He could hear a demented animal wailing within the building, and was frightened.
'What's that?' he hissed.
'Nothing to worry about,' said Glambrax.
Then Glambrax opened the door. Sarazin slipped through. Glambrax nipped in after him, slammed the door and sidled away. Laughing horribly. And Sarazin, to his horror, found himself back in the throne room where he had confronted Drake Douay the day before.
Douay was now striding up and down the room playing on a skavamareen, which was the source of the abominable noise which Sarazin had incorrectly identified as a demented animal.
The next moment Sara
zin was seized by two black- masked torturers. And realised that all the events so far were but moves in a game of destruction being played by the fiendish Drake Douay.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Skavamareen (aka the Ruptured Cat): an instrument frequently mentioned in discussions of fates worse than death. It is said to have been invented in Chi'ash-lan by the notorious anarchist Han Dran Ilk, who is alleged to have been sentenced to five years' penal servitude after he repented and confessed to the offence.
The veracity of this story is often disputed, on the grounds that the sentence detailed is manifestly grossly inadequate for the crime in question. Be that as it may, Chi'ash-lan was certainly the first place to ban this instrument, though it was later outlawed everywhere from Jatzu to Quartermain.
In all the Ravlish lands, the skavamareen (and the delinquents who played it) could find no refuge. Except in Sung. There it won welcome, for it fitted in well with the discord of the back-thumping sklunk, the honk of the kloo, the crash and scatter of the krymbol and the blare of the bray.
While Sung is many leagues from the Gates of Chena- meg, the chances of these troubled times have brought a skavamareen to the ruler of those Gates, and, having plenty of time on his hands, he has set himself to master it. A formidable task indeed, for the skava- mareen is a complicated instrument having the following parts:
The gut (some say: the demon hole) which is a capacious bag of greased leather. According to the scholarly account given in the 'Protocols of the Pipers of Prion', the gut contains the tormented soul of a murderer (or, in the low-budget version, that of a cat) which has been imprisoned there by sorcery.
The funnel (alternatively: the strangled python) which is a valved tube used by the player to inflate the gut.
And, finally, the Three Demons and the Demonmaster, which are, respectively, three reed drones and a special- ised pipe equipped with finger-holes which help the player degrade the environment with a peculiarly horrible form of gratuitous violence which only Sung could welcome as music.
'Do you like it?' said Douay, obviously referring to the music he had been making.
'Since I am human,' said Sarazin, with the bitter courage of a man who is certain of his death, 'I welcome the confirmation of my prejudices.'
'What mean you by that?' said Douay.
'I mean,' said Sarazin, 'I knew you at first sight for a barbarian. To find you embracing a skavamareen does but confirm my opinion.'
Douay grinned again, and patted his trusty skavamareen. Then said:
'Did you sleep well?'
You know very well how I slept,' said Sarazin, on the verge of losing his temper. You had me strapped down for torture throughout the night.'
"Man, why so fierce with the voice?' said Douay. 'I was but searching for truth. Is that not right, that I should seek to improve myself?'
Douay's merry face and effortless bonhomie were the very last straw. Sarazin, who had fear worse than nightmare, thought Douay's merriment the worst kind of mockery.
You tortured me for fun!' said Sarazin. 'As a joke! What kind of monster are you?'
'I am no monster,' said Douay, sounding hurt. 'I am but a diligent student of the arts and philosophies. 'Twas in Selzirk that I studied in torture. Was I wrong to remember my lessons?'
'Whatever was done to you in Selzirk,' said Sarazin, 'there were grave matters of state involved.'
'Oho!' said Douay. 'Matters of state, is it? The world's excuse for everything. Well, man, get this straight — here I rule. I am the state.'
He started to blow into the funnel of the skavamareen, inflating the instrument for another onslaught on the sensibilities. If Sarazin had restrained himself, speech would shortly have become impossible. But Sarazin lost his temper entirely and spoke:
You're like every bully,' said he. 'Brave when the numbers are with you.'
Almost immediately, Sarazin regretted having spoken. Such words might well lead to instant death. But the blond- haired Douay did not order his execution. Instead, he stopped inflating the skavamareen, and said:
'Speech is easy, man. But I'd doubt you brave even with the numbers on your side.'
You doubt my courage?' said Sarazin. 'I tell you this — if I had a sword I'd prove you coward soon enough.'
You say?' said Douay. 'Truly, you are rash, for I have yet to meet the man to match my blade. In truth, I lately killed a man named Plovey, who counted himself the best swordsman in Selzirk.'
Sarazin knew he must be bluffing, for Plovey had been known in Selzirk as a master swordsman. Surely a bar- barous uitlander like Douay could never have defeated a sophisticate like Plovey. The young man was over- confident. This might be the way out I If Douay could be provoked into combat, Sarazin could surely kill him.
'Talk, talk I' said Sarazin, urging scorn into his voice. 'I know well the talk of dwarves, for I have one of my own.'
Tou called me what?' said Douay, an edge of ice in his voice.
What do you expect me to call you?' said Sarazin. T)are I name you giant when the dog which raped your mother was taller than the brat he spawned?'
Douay laid aside the skavamareen and drew his sword. The thugs holding Sarazin gripped him tighter.
'Is this the way you prove your courage?' said Sarazin. Through butchery?'
'Nay, man,' said Douay, with contempt. He selected another blade from the wall, held one in each hand and said to Sarazin: 'Choose. My left or my right.'
'The left,' said Sarazin.
'It makes no difference either way,' said Douay, laying the weapon in his left hand down on the stone floor. 'For the blades are of equal quality.' Then he said to his strong- men: 'Leave. Close the door. Stand without. Let none enter until we are finished.'
Douay stepped back from the weapon on the floor. Sarazin, edgy, heart quick-pulsing, dared himself forward, snatched up the blade and screamed his defiance:
'Scaaa!'
Douay, standing some five sword-lengths' distance, said with indifference:
'No need to hurry. We've got all day. Take your time. Test your weapon to start with. I don't want this to be too easy.'
Sarazin did not know what to think. Was this a trap? He backed off. Then, with a decent distance between himself and Douay, checked the linkage of blade to hilt, and tried the sword for balance.
'I cannot fault the weapon,' said Sarazin, trying to keep a tremor of fear from his voice.
He was beginning to think that this was not exactly fair. He had been on short rations for many days. He had not slept through the night. He was still stiff, bruised and sore from the pounding Douay had given him the day before. He was cold, hungry, tired, thirsty. But there was no time to protest for Douay was advancing. Obviously for the kill.
'Scaaa!' screamed Sarazin desperately, throwing himself on the defence.
Douay, still well out of weapon-reach, eased himself to a halt, then, amused beyond measure by Sarazin's evident desperation, threw back his head and laughed.
This is — is a joke?' said Sarazin, starting to hope that Douay would call off the fight.
'You are the joke,' said Douay softly.
Then graced closer, sword at the ready. His face had become hard, cruel, predatory. He was finished with laughter. Sarazin realised that only one of them would leave this room alive.
—One chance then. One blow to kill him.
Thus thinking, Sarazin seized the initiative, putting all his strength into a blow designed to decapitate his opponent.
'Ha!' screamed Sarazin, striking.
Douay ducked. Sarazin's sword hissed through the air, missing Douay's scalp by no more than the black of a fingernail. And Sarazin was for a moment off-balance, wide open and helpless to save himself.
Douay struck.
Douay slammed into Sarazin with his shoulder, hitting so hard that Sarazin was sent staggering backwards. As he flailed for balance, Douay kicked him in the chest. Down went Sarazin, his sword discarding to the air.
Sklang!
&nb
sp; Thus sang steel against steel as Sarazin's blade tumbled into cold metal racked on the walls of the armoury. It was
well out of reach. And Drake Douay was already standing over him. Sword in hand.
'What sayest thou, Watashi?' said Douay.
And Sarazin found courage to answer:
'I was taught to match my blade against swordsmen, not streetfighters.'
Whereupon Douay said, in a perfect imitation of the voice of Plovey of the Regency:
'Ah, darling boy! But I am a swordsman! Swordsman and streetfighter both.'
Sarazin closed his eyes. Waited for his death. And heard Douay say:
Take him to the guest room.'
Almost immediately, Sarazin was seized and dragged away to the unknown horrors of the guest room, whatever that might be.
CHAPTER SIXTY
The Favoured Blood: the aristocracy which by tradition rules in Argan. The legends of Argan claim that only those of the Favoured Blood can rightfully rule, and that disaster will befall any state otherwise governed.
While in practice much power in Argan fell to other hands generations ago, concessions have always been made to popular belief. The kingmaker of the Harvest Plains, for instance, has always been consecrated in sacred cere- mony as a member of the Favoured Blood.
Even the elections which take place in Runcorn and Provincial Endergeneer are not (in theory) mere popularity contests, but are (again, in theory) an appeal to the populace to decide which of the candidates (if any) shows any trace of descent from the Blood.
* * *
The guest room proved to be a quiet bedroom painted pink. It held an enormous double bed. The linen was clean, the sheets smelling of lavender, and Sarazin was shortly sound asleep between these sheets.
