The Wicked and the Witless

by Hugh Cook

  He slept right through that day and through the night which followed, only waking when he was roused for breakfast the following morning. Breakfast was good, very good. Fish fresh from the Velvet River. Roast pigeon. Fried potatoes. And a draught of dandelion wine to wash it all down.

  Once breakfast was over, Sarazin was led into the presence of the formidable Drake Douay.

  'Do you acknowledge me as your equal?' said Douay.

  'You are the greater swordsman,' conceded Sarazin.

  'Greater by nature and greater by birth,' said Douay. Then he took something from his pocket, held it up and said: 'What's this?'

  Douay was holding a jet-black necklace chain from which hung a cool, glossy lozenge of an identical black. The lozenge turned slowly, so Sarazin saw first a golden sun disk, then seven stars and a crescent moon on the obverse.

  'What's this?' insisted Douay.

  'That,' said Sarazin, wearily, 'is the Lost Bard of Untunchilamon. My bard. Bought with my own money.'

  'How do you know it as yours? Maybe it's somebody else's bard.'

  'There was but one in all the world,' said Sarazin.

  'Are you sure?' said Douay.

  'Positive,' said Sarazin.

  'Look at it!' said Douay.

  Sarazin took the bard and examined it.

  'There,' said Sarazin. 'See? There's the damage done when you got my precious cut up in a street fight.'

  'So,' said Douay, 'that is the Lost Bard of Untunchi- lamon. Then what is this?'

  And Douay dangled before Sarazin's eyes another bard. He let Sarazin take it into his hands. Sarazin tried to make this new bard speak. It did so — in the voice of Saba Yavendar.

  'Where — where did these come from?' said Sarazin, bewildered.

  'I told you,' said Douay. 'I won many of such from Guardian Machines in desperate battle. All but one were stolen from me in Narba. As lord of the Gates I've been on the lookout for my stolen property. Man, don't look so shocked!'

  'But — but Epelthin Elkin — he told me — he said — just one, that's all, that's what he said, only one of these was ever made.'

  As Sarazin was blathering, Douay took back both bards, pocketed them, then said:

  'You believe everything you're told?'

  'Elkin's a wizard!' said Sarazin.

  'A pox doctor, then,' sneered Douay. 'Aye, I've had dealings with wizards myself. Man, this magic stuff is fraud, if you ask me.'

  'But the Confederation built Drangsturm and—'

  'Oh, Drangsturm was pretty enough — I saw it myself before the South all turned to shit and custard. Aye, that and other things, Doors and flying islands and such, not that you believed me when I told. But I doubt that wizards ever made such, for the ones I've met can't do something as simple as a love philtre.'

  'So Elkin was wrong,' said Sarazin. 'Or else he lied to me.'

  'Whichever way, Watashi, I tell you straight. The bard you owned in Selzirk was but one of many. That I told you true. Yet you believed me not. Aye, tortured me on account of disbelief. I told you of Doors, too. You wouldn't believe those, either. Yet I've people here who've been through such.'

  'I believe now,' said Sarazin. 'I've seen monsters come through a Door in Chenameg.'

  'Oho!' said Douay. 'What you see you believe, and the rest of the world is a lie. If you weren't ready to believe speech, why torture me for speech?'

  'I . . . I'm sorry. But . . . you . . . there were ... I mean, you told not one story but five. You were . . . I mean, think of the names for a start. First you were Drake Douay, then the son of a Demon, then something else, then . . .'

  'Aye,' said Douay, softly.

  'Anyway,' said Sarazin, 'it was Jarl who did the torture. Jarl and Plovey and others.'

  'But you who condemned me! I was innocent, yet you let me be taken for torture!'

  'But. . . but it was so difficult,' said Sarazin. 'So difficult to believe your innocence when you told us so many different names and all.'

  'Many names I went by, yes,' said Douay, 'for not all could be revealed. But now the worst has happened, so all may be revealed. It will do no harm.'

  'I ... I should like to know the truth,' said Sarazin.

  Then Drake Douay revealed himself to Sarazin as Lord Dreldragon, heir to the Scattered Empire, a seapower realm of the Central Ocean.

  'I am of the Favoured Blood,' said Douay, 'for it is the Favoured Blood which rules in the Scattered Empire. Mighty are our weaponmasters and beautiful our women. But, more than either, our kingdom values its honour.'

  Then Douay explained that, years before, he had learnt of the doom which threatened Argan.

  T learnt of it through prophecy,' said Douay, 'for we have true prophets in the Scattered Empire. My kith and kin thought Argan doomed, but then I was vouchsafed a prophetic dream. If I came to Argan on my lonesome, I might have a chance to save the place.

  'But there was something I had to do, aye, this dream of mine showed me what was needed. There's a price for everything, man, and this is the price I had to pay. I had to come humble like, concealing my true identity.

  This was the burden that was placed upon me. To leave all that was dear to me. To go humble, aye, like a sick cat slinking past a thousand hounds in kennel. Then, when doom came upon Argan, I was to rally the strongest and fight against the Swarms.

  That I have done. Hence you find me here as lord of the Gates of Chenameg. But I've been weakened, aye, weakened by vile tortures, by filthy dungeons, by punish- ments unnatural and undeserved, and most of all by torture. It was you who did it, Watashi. You punished me in my innocence. You broke my strength. Hence, when Argan's peril came, I lacked the power to save the continent.'

  Now Sarazin saw the depths of his own guilt, and he knelt at the feet of the noble Douay and he wept, helplessly. Until Douay raised him to his feet.

  You know me now for what I am,' said Douay gently. 'I am of the Favoured Blood. You thought me a pirate, but I am no pirate, though hardship may have forced me to keep company with such. I am the scion of a noble house. Truly. I am of the Favoured Blood.

  'When I came to these Gates, the evil Groth held them against the people, ruling with rape and torture. I over- threw his tyranny which oppressed the people, and now I hold the Gates in justice for all the people. My fee upon the traffic is moderate, for I take but ten per cent of all that moves.

  'I rule, as I have said, in justice. Are you ready to receive my justice?'

  Sarazin dried his eyes and said in a voice without life: 'I am.'

  'This, then, is my justice,' said Douay. 'I will not kill you, though death you richly deserve. Instead, I will let you depart from here with your life. Aye, with your life, and with food for the journey, and new boots for the trail.'

  Then Douay led Sarazin to the eastern exit of his fortress palace, where Glambrax was waiting with two leather packs, one sized for a dwarf, one for a man. They were old, weather-scarred packs, smelling of the sweat of many soldiers.

  'They're not pretty,' said Douay, seeing Sarazin looking at the packs dubiously. 'But they'll do the job. Strong, see?'

  He picked up the larger pack by one of its shoulder straps and threw it to Sarazin. Who was almost bowled over by the weight.

  'Grief!' said Sarazin. 'What's in it?'

  'Oh, food and such,' said Douay. 'You couldn't travel with less.'

  Sarazin thanked the magnanimous Douay for his mercy. And Glambrax, grinning, danced around the noble Douay, capering, bowing incessantly.

  'Stop that!' said Sarazin sharply, horrified. This was no way to behave in the presence of one of the Favoured Blood!

  Glambrax stopped capering, knelt, licked Douay's boots, then embraced him. At last, Douay slapped at the dwarf. Glambrax slipped away, grinning still.

  'Must I leave?' said Sarazin to Douay. 'I would fain put my sword at your service.'

  'Aye, mayhap,' said Douay softly. 'But black humours come upon me when I rage at dark and light alike then kill, aye, my blade terrib
le to behold for it glows with a light like blood. Then no steel can prevail against mine. Aye, stone itself gives way before my blade.'

  'How so?' said Sarazin, amazed.

  'It is a dark matter of witchcraft,' said Douay. 'This curse has lain upon the ruling house of the Scattered Empire for generations, that their sons will be beset at times with evil. Best you leave, Watashi, before the fit comes on me yet again.'

  'You . . . you kill many?' said Sarazin.

  'When the fit is upon me my servants feed my blade with victims,' said Douay. 'Aye, throw me cats and such. But, Watashi, despite my mercy there is a part of me which hates you still. I'll not deny it. When next the madness comes, I fear that cats will not suffice. My blade will hunt you, aye. And cut closer than shaving, I promise you that.'

  'Perhaps a wizard . . .?'

  'Man,' said Douay, you think I've not sought help from every quarter? Wizards are frauds, I've told you before. This is witchcraft, the real source of evil. This I must endure. Such is my burden.'

  So spoke the noble Douay, his voice unwavering, a tragic courage written in his face. And Sarazin, humbled by such courage, such suffering, such grandeur in defeat, went down on his knees before this scion of the House of Hexagon, who permitted Sarazin to kiss his hand.

  Then Sarazin was given back his own sword, sheath and swordbelt,xand was given new boots as well. With his equipment complete, he shouldered his pack and set off, with Glambrax as ever just a footstep behind him.

  Thus, in early summer in the year Alliance 4328, Sean Sarazin and his untrusty dwarf Glambrax departed from the Gates of Chenameg and trekked east. They hoped to travel beside the Velvet River to the Araconch Waters, the enormous freshwater lake in the desolate heartland of Argan North. From there, they hoped to trek north through the dragonlands to a tributary of the Amodeo River, then follow that river downstream to the far, far distant seaport of Brine.

  That seaport was in the north-east of Argan, and from there they could get passage across the seas to foreign shores free from the threat of the Swarms. And to a new life as ... as what?

  That question would, doubtless, resolve itself in due course. For the moment, what mattered was to make the journey. Burdened by their packs, Sarazin and Glambrax laboured up the ever-climbing path clinging to the southern side of the Manaray Gorge. Finally they reached the rough- cut uplands.

  On they trekked, forever keeping the Gorge on their left. This was a land of bones, of shadows, of rock and wind, with shambling mountains dominating the horizon. A lonely land, despite the many marks which showed that other refugees had been this way.

  Finally, late in the afternoon, when they came upon a rill of water threading its way between jumbling boulders, Sarazin decided it was time to make camp. They had not eaten all day, nor had they drunk. So first they slaked their thirst, then they broke open their packs and rummaged within. Most of the weight proved to be pemmican — rich stuff made not just with meat but with nuts and dried cherries also.

  As well as food, they had a change of clothes apiece and several changes of socks and four empty leather water- bottles. They also each had a single oblong strip of canvas with lightweight ropes sewn to each corner. These would provide a little marginal shelter against the worst of the weather.

  'No gold,' said Sarazin gloomily.

  When they finally got to Brine, they would be stony broke. He would probably have to sell his sword to buy them a passage out of the place.

  'Ah,' said Glambrax, with an evil little laugh, 'but we're not entirely without treasure.'

  'What do you mean?' said Sarazin.

  Then Glambrax showed his master the trophies he had carried away with him from the Gates of Chenameg. During the formalities of the farewell, Glambrax had succeeded in picking the pockets of the noble Douay — and had stolen not just one bard but both of them.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  'How could you?' said Sarazin furiously.

  As the dwarf scrabbled to escape from his master's anger, Sarazin grabbed him by the hair.

  You're not going anywhere!' said Sarazin.

  'So kill me then,' said Glambrax truculently. 'Where's your gratitude?'

  'Gratitude?' said Sarazin. 'For what should I be grateful?'

  'The bards! I thought you wanted them.'

  Sarazin was ready to weep. Or to pound Glambrax to a pulp. How could he live with the shame? The noble Douay had forgiven him, after all the terrible things that had been done to him after his arrest by Sarazin's minions — and had been repaid by this outrageous act of theft.

  Sean Sarazin could not even keep his dwarf in order. Yet he had once had such pretensions of grandeur that he had imagined himself as ruler of the Harvest Plains!

  Sarazin shook his dwarf.

  Then pushed him away, sending him sprawling to the stones.

  'I should kill you,' said Sarazin. 'But it wouldn't do any good.'

  Glambrax made no answer, and in fact stayed stolidly silent for the rest of the afternoon.

  Evening came, then night. Sarazin, depressed and exhausted, laid himself down to sleep. Though he was sleeping on stones, he was so fatigued that he slept solidly until he was woken at dawn by jubilant birdsong.

  He rose and stripped himself. Took a piss. Looking at his cock as he did so. A peasant's cock. Ugly piece of

  animal anatomy. He had once flattered himself by thinking it intrinsically imperial. Had so deluded himself that he had thought himself worthy of a princess. Well ...

  He had no delusions left now. He was what he was: a homeless beggar bereft of all prospects.

  Carefully, he washed himself with water from the rill. It was cold, and, shivering, he was glad to warm himself by the fire Glambrax had started. The two said nothing to each other as the sun rose, stretching early morning shadows across the landscape.

  Sarazin was stiff and sore from yesterday's long hard march — and from the damage done to him by Drake Douay. But, after he had treated some of his aches and pains with a little liniment which some thoughtful person had included in his pack, he felt somewhat better, though his eyes were sore and he had a dull headache.

  As he breakfasted on pemmican, he considered his options. They could always turn back, march all the way to the Gates and return the stolen bards to Douay. But what if Douay yielded to one of the black angers he had spoken of, and killed both Sarazin and Glambrax on the spot?

  'We'd better go on,' said Sarazin.

  Glambrax made no answer. Sulking? Or meditating? No, he was just otherwise engaged: busy grubbing dank clumps of noxious matter from the depths of his nose.

  'Up!' said Sarazin. 'Up on your feet and get moving.'

  By noon, both man and dwarf were footsore and thirsty. They had filled their waterbottles at their campsite before setting out but durst not drink unless they really had to — for there was no telling when they would next find water. Flies were pestering about Sarazin's face. Irritated, he slapped at them. Hard. Then, after hurting one of his ears, slapped with more care.

  He started looking for somewhere cool, somewhere they could shelter to rest. After resting they could push on when it was cooler.

  So thought Sarazin. But it was not until late in the afternoon that he spied a suitable place — a deep and dark- shadowed cave. Invigorated by such a welcome sight, he strode towards it gratefully.

  'Have a care,' said Glambrax, who by now had decided that he once more knew how to speak. 'There might be dragon or basilisk within. Or ogre — or worse!'

  'Worse?' said Sarazin. 'What's worse?'

  'A lawyer, perchance,' said Glambrax, and cackled.

  But Sarazin went on regardless, imagining cool depths of batstone darkness and chilled water falling drip by drop. He found the cave noisy with flies — and from it breathed a stench which made him retch. But before he could flee, he saw all. The wounds, the heads, the limbs, the corpses deliquescing. He stumbled away from the cavemouth and collapsed insensible in the sun.

  He was roused by a boo
t in the ribs.

  Opened his eyes. Saw shadows, boots. Heard voices. Muttering. A harsh laugh.

  '. . . meat for the Slavemaster . . .'

  He stumbled from the ground, reaching for his weapon. And was hit from behind, bashed, knocked senseless.

  He measured his length on the ground and lay still.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Sean Sarazin had been ambushed by one of the many gangs of brigands which worked the territory between the Gates of Chenameg and the Araconch Waters. If Sarazin and

  Glambrax had not been taken there and then, they would inevitably have fallen victim to one gang or another before they completed their journey, for only large and well- armed parties could hope to travel unmolested.

  And nobody could hope to travel unobserved.

  Once captured, Sarazin's fate was to be sold to the Slavemaster. The Slavemaster was the greatest gangster of them all, a warlord who traded with the lesser gangs and, from time to time, put together convoys which went to the Araconch Waters to trade with the greater warlords who had set themselves up in business there.

  Sarazin, sick and sore, asked no questions about the Slavemaster as he was driven east along a track which never strayed far from the Manaray Gorge. At last, he was brought to a walled stockade built without a formidable cave complex.

  There he was given leave to rest while they awaited the arrival of the Slavemaster. Rest he did, sprawled full length on raw rock, too weary by then for curiosity, regrets or despair. Glambrax stretched out beside him, for once too wearied for mischief.