The Wicked and the Witless

by Hugh Cook

  He had endless time to think. And to sorrow. For what did he lament? For himself? No. For the loss of his world. He experienced . . . not exactly weltschmerz, no, not an abstract sorrow for the fate of the world as a whole, but grief for the loss of particular people.

  Not dear friends, no, he had been singularly short of bosom companions throughout his life, but perfectly ordinary people — servants, soldiers, tavern keepers, scribes, librarians, members of the Watch, even minor functionaries of the Regency. People he had known in passing, whose faces he remembered, and whose voices.

  —All gone, all fallen, all dead.

  What was amazing was how intensely they had all been involved in their own lives, passionately concerned with the power politics of the various milieus in which they moved, all with their own loves, hates, lusts, fears, joys, ambitions.

  —All now as dust.

  And what was most amazing of all was to realise that the outcome would ultimately have been the same even if Drangsturm had never fallen, even if the Swarms had never come. In time, all would have died, and all their works would have become as nothing. For such is the nature of a world of mortality.

  Mortality.

  —Mosf improbable of all improbabilities.

  So improbable that, even now, Sean Sarazin had diffi- culty in grasping the inevitability of his own death. He knew it was technically certain, sooner or later. But, while some things had changed, others had not: he was still the centre of his own universe, and found it near to impossible to imagine the universe carrying on without him.

  —Yet it will happen.

  —Or so theory says.

  Sarazin was much occupied with such thoughts, for Glambrax offered him nothing in the way of conversation. The dwarf had taken an almighty blow on the head, and was fit for very little except sleeping and sunbathing. Fortunately, the skins of both travellers were already suntempered — otherwise they would have been badly burnt on that downriver journey.

  For there was no shade, no shelter.

  But, of course, limitless water.

  Sarazin drank freely. Drinking of the Velvet River had almost killed him when he first arrived in Selzirk, but he had no choice. Besides, the river was much, much cleaner than it had been when people in their tens of thousands lived on the Harvest Plains.

  At length, the raft drifted past the walls and towers of Selzirk the Fair. Sarazin was tempted to land — then saw a single uncouth monster standing where there was a hundred-pace gap in the outer battle-wall of Selzirk.

  The river gate — that was what Lod had called that gap. Then Sarazin had called it a military obscenity. Or had Lod said that too? Sarazin could not remember. That conversation had taken place on the day of his return from exile, and he could not sort out the details in memory.

  But what he could remember was his high excitement, his enthusiasm, his confidence. He had been so certain that life was truly beginning, that power and glory awaited him.

  —Fool!

  That was the judgment Sean Sarazin passed on his youthful self as the raft floated on downstream, leaving Selzirk behind in the distance.

  He had been such a fool! So young, so feckless! He had not been destroyed by gambling, boozing, fighting or whores. But a callow pride had nearly seen to his destruc- tion regardless. If it had not been for the advent of the Swarms, he would still have been in the forests of Chenameg, fighting a futile guerrilla war against Tarkal of Lod.

  —But what could I have had if I had been wise? He could have had a career in the army. Going out every night to get pissed as a newt (to use Jarnel's death- less phrase). But what kind of life would that have been?

  —No life for me, that's for sure.

  —So I was doomed whatever I did.

  So thought Sean Sarazin, then forced himself to admit that it was not true. Nobody had compelled him to stay in Selzirk. He could have taken to the Salt Road and could have fled north or south. To Drangsturm. To Chi'ash-lan. Anywhere. He could read and write, he could speak Galish — he could have made some sort of life for himself wherever he went.

  —But that's in the past. Let's think of the future.

  So Sarazin did think of the future. But could see nothing for himself or his dwarf but bare survival. Downstream lay the delta of the Velvet River, a marshy place of tidal beaches, of islands and estuaries. The Neversh might overfly the delta, but it would be difficult for heavyweight monsters to operate in such terrain. There, no doubt, he could grub a living, surviving by eating raw fish, raw shrimp, raw marshbird.

  —Crow old and die, doubtless webfooted before I die.

  So thought Sean Sarazin, then fell asleep to dream of rain, grey and endless, rain spindling down through fog, of his hands old and withered, his spine curving. Old man Sean Sarazin, a living ghost in the marshlands, a dying dwarf croaking at his feet . . .

  He woke with the certainty that the dream was pro- phetic, that his future was known and could not be escaped. And he became so depressed that thereafter he roused himself only to drink and to void wastes. His depression persisted until the day he woke to find the raft adrift in Lake Ouija, a tidal bulge in the river just south of Androlmarphos — and realised there were people on the shore.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  When Sarazin and Glambrax were taken from the raft, they were so weak that they were consigned to an infir- mary in Androlmarphos, and there they were fed for days upon broiled fish and the flesh of seabirds. As Sarazin's strength recovered, what he craved was not food but information. However, his keepers gently declined all requests for a briefing, saying it would tire him too greatly.

  After three days, however, Sarazin was judged strong enough to see visitors, and was asked if he wished to receive any.

  'An academic question,' Sarazin said. 'Surely nobody knows I'm here. And who in 'Marphos would know me?'

  'On the contrary,' he was told. 'Everyone in the city knows of your arrival. As for those who wish to see you . . .'

  He was given a list.

  A long list.

  There were people who had known him in Voice, Selzirk and Chenameg. Soldiers who had served under him in Tyte and Hok. Friends of friends and friends of the friends of friends. Servants and tavern keepers, poetasters and minor functionaries of the Regency. The very people whose demise he had so sincerely lamented as he drifted down the Velvet River on his raft.

  Now that he knew so many to be alive and kicking, his desire to see them was zero. Though he did want a long talk with someone — anyone! — so he could bring his knowledge of current affairs up to date, he had no wish

  to be a tourist attraction, which was what he obviously was.

  However, two names on the list of would-be visitors demanded his attention: Lord Regan and Jaluba. 'Those two,' he said. 'I'll see those two.' 'When?' 'Now!'

  As it happened, Lord Regan and Jaluba did not attend Sarazin until the next day. They came together, hand in hand — and, to Sarazin's startlement, Lord Regan introduced Jaluba as his wife.

  'My dearest and nearest,' said Lord Regan, and kissed her.

  Lord Regan was wearing a skyblue military uniform, whereas Jaluba was — despite the heat of summer — wearing a coat made of fitch fur.

  Sarazin had to admit that Lord Regan had made an excellent choice. Jaluba was but twenty years of age — and she was delicious. Any man would have wanted her. Sarazin did not begrudge Lord Regan possession of the woman, who sat quietly, the very picture of a damsel demure.

  Nevertheless, Sarazin begrudged the marriage inasmuch as it made it impossible for him to demand the answers to some of the questions he had had in mind. Such as: where the hell had Jaluba gone to after she disappeared from Selzirk? Why had she disappeared on the day Plovey of the Regency had raided Sarazin's quarters? Had she perchance had anything to do with the theft of a bard, a prophetic book and certain documents from Sarazin's quarters?

  However, plenty of other questions remained. And heartfelt greetings were scarcely over before he was asking t
hem:

  'How did you come to 'Marphos? And — where is my mother? I heard she'd fled to the Rice Empire. What about Fox? My father was going to seek your help. That was back in the autumn. There was a Door in Chenameg and — oh, it's a long story, but he was coming to see you. Jarl, too. What happened to them?'

  'They reached me, one and all,' said Lord Regan. Tour mother and your father both. And Jarl. When the Swarms came, I went south to Narba to seek a passage to the Scattered Islands. But Fox and Farfalla went with Jarl to Hok. Jarl persuaded them they could find refuge there.'

  'It's true!' said Sarazin. 'Didn't Jarl tell you about Elkin, about X-n'dix?'

  'Oh, I've heard all about that,' said Lord Regan. 'Jarl told me — and, besides, I've heard all about your war stories thrice over from Jaluba's lips.'

  And Lord Regan and Jaluba squeezed hands, then kissed.

  'Well,' said Sarazin, 'can I get to Hok?'

  You could walk,' said Lord Regan.

  'What about ships?' said Sarazin.

  'No ships run from here to Hok,' said Lord Regan. 'We trade With Stokos, to be, sure. But not with Hok, for Stokos and Hok are at war, and the wizards favour Stokos.'

  'Wizards?' said Sarazin. 'Pray tell, what's this about wizards?'

  'Ah. So you don't know the story of today's 'Marphos. Is that how it is? Very well then. Listen, and I will tell

  According to Lord Regan's account, as the Swarms approached, many refugees had been evacuated from 'Marphos. They had fled into the Central Ocean in ships, bound for the Scattered Islands or the Ravlish Lands. When the last ships had departed, there had been lawless rioting in the city, until an uncouth gangster had set himself up as warlord.

  Then the city had suffered under the most foul and obscene oppression imaginable. Pack rape and cannibalism had been the least of it.

  Finally, two ships had arrived, bearing wizards and soldiers of the Landguard who were loyal to those wizards. Lord Regan was on one of these ships, having joined it at Narba. War had ensued. After a bitter struggle, the wizards and their soldiers had taken over the city — but their victory had been marred by an outbreak of typhus.

  After the depredations of tyranny, war and plague, scarcely three thousand people remained in Androl- marphos. With nets and lines, the people wrested fish from the Velvet River and the sea itself. They hunted seabirds and riverfowl. Or they worked under the supervision of the wizards, who had, among other things, set up a manufactory for siege dust.

  Androlmarphos traded with Stokos, exchanging siege dust for firelight steel and other products.

  What for the future?' said Sarazin. Will the wizards stay here in 'Marphos? Or take over Stokos, perhaps?'

  'I cannot speak for that,' said Lord Regan, 'for these days I am but a soldier of the Landguard. They have given me a commander's rank, but, for all that, my position is lowly. I play no part in the high counsels where matters of state are decided.'

  Then come with me to Hok!' cried Sarazin, fired with enthusiasm. There I must go, I can do nothing else. My mother and father are there, the tutors of my youth as well —and others, doubtless. That is my future, if anywhere.'

  The depression he had suffered on his downriver journey had vanished. He had a goal, a mission, a purpose. To strive to Hok and join his family, or what was left of it.

  Lord Regan laughed.

  'I am sworn to the service of the wizards,' said Lord Regan. "My future is with them. But perhaps . . . perhaps I can arrange your passage to Stokos.'

  To Hok,' said Sarazin, correcting him.

  Yes, yes,' said Lord Regan, rising to go. To Hok. I come again tomorrow. Is there anything you'd like?'

  'Grapes,' said Sarazin. 'Is that possible?'

  'I regret not. But. . . wine? Yes? Sean Sarazin, I'm sure I can scavenge the most excellent wine. Now I must be off, for I've business to attend to — but Jaluba will stay a little longer and keep you company.'

  Stay Jaluba did, but, though her presence was enchant- ing, her conduct was nothing if not chaste. Still, she did vouchsafe Sean Sarazin a single kiss before they parted.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  At first, a passage to Hok seemed impossible to arrange. And Sarazin certainly did not wish to dare the long trek along the coast — not with monsters of the Swarms on the loose. However, in due course Lord Regan brought him the good news. A ship would be made available and Sean Sarazin would be landed on the southern coast of Hok.

  'Where precisely?' said Sarazin.

  'On the shores of the Willow Vale,' said Lord Regan. That, I understand, is the only sensible place for a visitor to Hok to land.'

  And Sarazin could but agree.

  Nine days after their arrival in Androlmarphos, Sean Sarazin and his dwarf Glambrax set to sea on a barque known as the Green Swan (a name which Sarazin frankly thought better suited to a tavern than to a ship).

  Lord Regan was nominally the commander of the ship. Though it was the sea captain who was his subordinate who actually supervised the running of the barque, Lord Regan got the only decent cabin aboard. There he slept at night with his darling Jaluba. And there, during the day, he entertained Sean Sarazin.

  Sarazin had been told that the journey from 'Marphos to Hok would probably take them four or five days, or a little longer if they had unfavourable winds. Certainly there was plenty of time for him to talk with Lord Regan and Jaluba.

  And talk he did, positively bubbling. He was alert and alive, enthusiastic about life, delighted with the thought of reunion with his father, his mother and the tutors of his youth. So Hok was at war with Stokos. So what? As he looked back over his life, it seemed he had never been much more than a swordstroke away from danger. War in Hok would be no worse than what he had endured already.

  And the present was sweet, for he had an admiring audience more than ready to hear all his tales. Once he had exhausted his accounts of hair-raising encounters with tyrants and monsters, he told and retold stories of his past.

  Lord Regan, of course, knew that Sarazin had well and truly enjoyed Jaluba in the past. But Lord Regan showed not the slightest sign of jealousy as Jaluba praised Sean Sarazin's skill, bravery and daring.

  In time, Sarazin found himself once more telling in detail of his campaign in Hok. In truth, the whole thing had been a shambling disaster. But, as Sarazin told it, the events in Hok had been a true test of heroes.

  He told yet again of the storming of the Eagle Pass, the pursuit of the enemy into the Willow Vale, the near-mutiny of his troops when the enemy cut off their retreat, his escape up an arm of the Willow Vale, the long journey underground from the Eastern Passage Gate to the Western Passage Gate.

  Then the encounter in X-zox with the madwoman Miss Inch, and the retreat to the Lesser Tower of X-n'dix, where eventually Epelthin Elkin had stayed.

  'Tell me again about X-zox,' said Lord Regan. 'Is this underground tunnel the only way into the place?'

  The enclave is surrounded by mountains,' said Sarazin,

  'and the locals allege that the cliffs of the coast permit no landing. I suspect an unknown path leads into the valley, but the only way to X-zox which I know is through the Passage Gates.'

  'Then what will you do,' said Lord Regan, 'if you find those Passage Gates closed against you?'

  'I'll open them, of course,' said Sarazin. 'It takes but a Word to open such a Gate, and but a Word to close it.'

  'What Word is that?' said Lord Regan.

  But Sarazin, to his horror, found he had forgotten how to control the Passage Gates. Fortunately, Glambrax remembered the Words to command both the Passage Gates and the door into the Lesser Tower of X-n'dix. Lord Regan and Jaluba paid special attention to the memorising of both.

  Suggesting to Sarazin that perhaps they meant to accom- pany him to Hok after all.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  The next day, at dawn, the Green Swan slipped past the rugged cliffs of the western end of Hok. Sarazin, promenading on the deck, surveyed the shore, which was barely half a leag
ue away. Those cliffs must be those of the enclave of X-zox, and he himself could most certainly see no place which promised a landing.

  He looked inland, up a valley rugged but green, to the heights at the head of the valley, some ten leagues or so from the shore. Something gleamed on those heights. Was it the Greater Tower of Castle X-n'dix? What else could it be? The dragon-encumbered tower was bone white and stood half a league tall.

  —So that must be it.

  But no details could be told from this distance. Still, Sarazin would be there soon enough. A few leagues to the south, the coastline bent away to the east. The ship would turn to follow the coast, and, shortly, would land him on the shores of the Willow Vale. From there he could march overland to X-n'dix.

  —Ogres and such permitting, of course.

  So thought Sean Sarazin.

  But, as the morning wore on, the ship did not turn east. Instead, it continued south. What lay due south? Why, only Stokos. That was all.

  Then . . .

  Sarazin went and confronted Lord Regan.

  'As I told you before,' said Lord Regan, sadly, 'in the war between Hok and Stokos, the wizards who are my masters favour Stokos. And I have sworn an oath of fealty to my masters. Now — must I put you in irons below decks? Or will you swear to behave yourself?'

  'Tell me first,' said Sarazin, 'are we truly bound for Stokos? And what fate awaits me there?'

  We are indeed bound for Stokos,' said Lord Regan, 'and are more than half way there. Your parents are in Hok, so Stokos can make good use of you as a hostage. Also — Stokos needs the secret of the Passage Gates if it is to conquer Hok entire.'