by Hugh Cook
'You've got nothing to look forward to,' said Muck. 'You're a filthy little scag-bag stuffed with iniquity. You pollute the forge by your very presence. All you're good for is slave labour.'
'Oh, come now!' said Drake. 'A joke's a joke, but—'
'I'm not joking!' roared Muck. 'You'll never make a sword in this forge, no.'
'But,' said Drake, 'I have to make swords. Lots of them. So I can finish my apprenticeship.'
'Time will finish your apprenticeship nicely,' said Muck. 'But you won't be a swordsmith at the end of it, oh no. When I'm finished with you, we'll kick you back to the filthy coal cliffs you came from.'
Drake was staggered by this sudden turnaround. He really thought he'd finally come to terms with Gouda Muck. Now - what was he supposed to think? He could only suppose that he had grievously offended Muck in the last few days, though he couldn't for the life of him think of any really outrageous stunts he'd pulled.
Well, the situation was grim, that was for real. And . . . desperate situations called for desperate remedies. So . . .
'Man,' said Drake, T know we've cut each other up in the past, but that's over and done with. I respect you, man, I'll say that fair and square. You're the master. I'm but a child at your elbow. If I've done you wrong, I'm too much of a child to see what I can do to set things right. So - tell me, man. What have I done that's so terrible? What can I do to make amends?'
This display of humility really hurt him. He was intensely proud: he hated to grovel.
What was worse, his humility did him no good.
'You can't make amends,' said Muck. 'You went too far years ago. So you'll sweat death and dream buckles till your bones splinter.'
'What?' said Drake, bewildered.
'The vizier of Galsh Ebrek calls,' said Muck.
Then left the forge without further explanation.
The syphilis which had begun to destroy Muck's brain was, of course, invisible, so Drake had precious few clues to the reason for Muck's bizarre behaviour. Was the man drunk? Worse: was he mad? Drake was reluctant to think so.
Was Muck serious?
That was a more important question. For if Muck was serious, then Drake's life was in ruins. Drake, turning things over in his mind, could only presume that his master was setting him a weird sort of test.
Yes.
A test to draw him out, to see how much initiative and determination he had. Maybe this was one of the secrets of the swordsmith's guild. Maybe every apprentice got set such a test, sooner or later, to see what he was really made of.
Accordingly, Drake set to work on a sword of his own. Yot, who had been shovelling coal into sacks outside, came in and asked what he was doing.
'Never you mind,' said Drake.
'It looks to me,' said Yot, 'as if you're starting work on a sword. You can't do that! Not till Muck gives you permission.'
'I'll be the judge of what I can and can't do,' said Drake.
And laboured grimly until Muck returned at nightfall.
'What are you doing?' said Muck.
'Man, I'm making a sword,' said Drake. 'For I've got to start learning the real stuff sooner or later.'
'I've told you already,' said Muck, 'your days of learning are finished. You're not human any longer, not as far as this forge is concerned. You're a piece of working meat, and nothing else.'
'Man,' said Drake, trying to keep himself from crying, 'you're not being fair. You've got to teach me! That's why I'm here! To learn!'
'You're here to repent,' said Muck. 'To purify yourself.'
'How do I do that?' said Drake.
'By working yourself to death.'
'Right!' said Drake. 'If you won't teach me, then I'll not stay here to sweat it out for starvation wages.'
And, thirty days after his sixteenth birthday, Drake ran away. He fled to his parents' home in south-west Stokos. He was frightened, bitter, amazed at the sudden turn of events. A few days ago, everything had been going his way - and now? Disaster!
There was one bright spot on the horizon, of course: Drake's marriage prospects. But he could hardly rely too much on those, since King Tor might die any day, his demise destroying Drake's chances.
'Four years of my life!' sobbed Drake. 'Four years of my life gone to this lousy apprenticeship! And what do I get out of it? I get kicked around like a cat.'
The cat was the lowest form of life on the island of Stokos, for it was well known that the demon Hagon hated cats. They had it rough.
Drake had it rough, too, when he finally got home. He had only just finished explaining himself to his parents and to his brother Heth when agents from the sword-smith's guild arrived with a warrant, and whipped him back to Cam.
'We've a system for breaking people like you,' said Muck, when Drake was brought back to the forge, whip-wounds bleeding. 'We'll prove it out, if you try your nonsense a second time.'
'Man,' said Drake, 'you've flipped! You're mad!'
'Don't answer back,' said Muck. 'You're just work-meat. A slave.'
Well, there was no way Drake could take that in silence. So he did answer back, thus starting an argument, which Gouda Muck won by beating his apprentice into insensibility.
The next day, Drake went to complain to his uncle, Oleg Douay. He explained his problem.
'Muck says he won't teach me. He's going to work me like a piece of slave-rubbish till my apprenticeship runs out, then throw me on the slag heap.'
'Come, boy,' said Oleg, sure that Drake was exaggerating, 'you had a little spat with your master, but that's no reason to act as if the world's coming to an end.'
'He's serious!' said Drake.
'Oh, maybe he said a few words harder than he should have,' said Oleg, 'but don't take them to heart. I've known Gouda Muck for years. He's an honourable man. He'll do all right by you.'
Unsatisfied by such reassurances, Drake promptly absconded a second time. And was hunted again, caught again, whipped again, and threatened with castration if he repeated his performance. The swordsmiths' guild was enormously powerful. There was no way Drake could fight it - not since his uncle refused to help.
'Maybe Muck will come to his senses,' said Drake. 'Maybe it's something he's eaten. I'll give him three months, yes, and see if he starts talking sense.'
Meantime, Drake sought to console himself with some of the pleasures of religion. He swiftly spent what savings he had. What now? He could hardly afford much on the half-wage Muck was doling out weekly.
T need more money,' said Drake.
He thought about robbing the Orsay Bank. Not a good idea! Many people had died that way, and nobody had yet succeeded. So he tried something more subtle - to borrow from the bank on the strength of the funds held in trust for him.
'We lend to nobody under twenty-five,' said the Bankers. 'And your funds are blocked till then, too.'
T hope you're paying me interest,' said Drake smartly.
'Are you trying to squeeze us, boy? Get out, while you still have legs to get with!'
Fleeing the gaunt donjon of the Orsay Bank, he arrived back at the forge late, and got a beating which opened his whip-wounds. This was too much to bear, but worse was promised.
'The Flame has revealed Powers and Commands,' said Muck grandly. 'Any who resist Revealed Truth are worthy only of death. Thou shalt kneel down and worship - or die!'
Being the person he was, Drake acted boldly, and reported Muck's latest delusions to King Tor. He hoped to get Muck executed. For then, under the laws governing apprenticeships, the swordsmiths' guild would be obliged to arrange for Drake to serve out the remainder of his apprenticeship under another master. With luck, that master would be Oleg Douay.
Unfortunately, Tor was busier than usual. Busy with what? With some weird and wonderful legislation his counsellors had lately proposed: a Bill to raise the minimum age for a mine worker to seven years, a Bill which would raise the age of consent to twelve, and a swag of Bills designed to limit the powers of a slavocrat over his human instrument
s.
'Let the Chamber of Commerce deal with it,' said Tor.
'But this is serious!' said Drake. 'There's not just heresy involved, either. Muck's refusing to teach—'
'Boy, I'm up to my ears in work,' said Tor. 'Go away! I don't want to see you until we consider you for marriage in two years' time.'
So Drake got out while the getting was good.
He had scant faith in the Chamber of Commerce, so went and told Muck's mother instead. If she could knock some sense into her son, Muck might still come right, and prove himself as a decent master and a diligent teacher.
On learning the truth, Muck's mother was - to say the least - outraged. She had spent a lifetime in the temple, and was still working there at age ninety. Admittedly, these days she was a casino croupier, rather than the luxurious harlot she had been in the days when Muck was conceived.
She came hobbling down to the forge, leaning heavily on her swordstick, and told Muck just what she thought of him.
'You godless blaspheming heretic!' she said. 'You're a waste of skin! I always thought so. Now I'm sure of it.'
'Mother, dearest,' said Muck. 'Listen to me . . .'
And he began to preach. With eloquence. With a passion close to lust. With absolute conviction. And, slowly, his mother's expression began to change . . .
When Drake realized Muck's mother had been converted to her son's cult, he almost despaired.
'But,' he said, 'we can still try . . .'
And he denounced Muck to the Chamber of Commerce. That august body investigated, found the truth was worse than the report - the prophet of the Flame was starting to proselytize his neighbours - and promptly had Gouda Muck thrown into jail.
This happened on Midsummer's Day, two months after Drake's sixteenth birthday. By local reckoning, it was the middle of the year Tor 5; by the Collosnon dating which more of the world is familiar with, it was the start of Khmar 17. In any event, the date eventually became known as the Day of the Martyrdom of Muck; its anniversary was ultimately enshrined as the most sacred event of the Holy Calendar of Goudanism.
Considering what some martyrs endure, Muck got off lightly. He was not beaten, flayed, singed, starved, or exhibited in the stocks for the populace to throw stones at. His prison pallet had bedbugs, true, and his cell had rats - but his home had more of both. And, in any case, the terrible old man was soon released. All that money he had saved by never debauching himself in the temple had come in handy for bribes.
'How did you get out?' asked Yot.
'The Flame saved me,' said Gouda Muck.
And, once said, it was impossible not to believe.
Muck spent long days brooding.
So did Drake.
Muck was showing no signs of coming to his senses. All attempts at getting rid of him had failed. So what now? Endure life as a virtual slave for the rest of his apprenticeship? Try again to run away? Or what? Drake decided that, as a point of honour, he would bring his apprenticeship to a successful conclusion despite anything and everything Muck might try.
'Living well is the best revenge,' said Drake.
He imagined himself presenting a mastersword for the examination of the swordsmith's guild. Oh, that would give Muck a shock!
Accordingly, Drake went to see his uncle. He found Oleg painting some of his favourite skulls in patterns of red and green.
'What do you want?' said Oleg.
'I want to work at your forge in the evenings, after I finish work for Muck,' said Drake. 'I want you to teach me how swords are really made. I want you to give me all the learning so I can make my own mastersword.'
'Oh, I can't do that!' said Oleg. 'It wouldn't be ethical.'
'But it's the only way!' said Drake, in tones of utter despair. 'Muck still refuses to teach me!'
'Doubtless because you've been naughty,' said Oleg, dabbing a brushload of red paint into the nose-hole of one of his skulls. 'Go back and apologize. You'll see. Things will soon come right.'
Drake did apologize. Again. He grovelled.
It did him no good whatsoever.
'At least things can't get any worse,' said Drake to himself.
He was wrong, of course. Things can always get worse.
Shortly after Midsummer's Day, Drake's sister found a lump in her mouth. A friend examined it for her, and told her it was blue. The next day another lump sprouted. It could not be doubted: she had blue leprosy.
She cut her throat.
Drake mourned her for fifty days. In his grief, he no longer cared about his prospects for becoming a sword-smith. He also mourned for himself. For Miphon had made it clear that blue leprosy was spread by sex. Since Drake's sister had had the disease, it was even odds that he had it too.
'So what am I to do?' he said to himself.
He went and asked a priest for help.
'The answer is simple,' said the priest. 'As the wizard Miphon explained, there's no telling if you've got blue leprosy, for it may not show up for years. If you do get it, there's no cure, so don't bother looking for one. In the meantime, wear a condom every time you copulate with woman or man or dog or pig or whatever it is you fancy. That way, you won't spread the disease to anyone else.'
Small comfort that was.
After another thirty days, however, Drake had got over his grief, fear and panic. Maybe he was infected. Maybe not. In any case, he was unlikely to find out for a year or two. Even if he had blue leprosy, a period of grace remained to him. He had better use that time wisely.
But how?
His sixteenth birthday was 150 days in the past. The end of his apprenticeship, which had once seemed to lie far away in the infinite future, would be upon him in little more than a year and a half. Oleg Douay still refused to believe Drake's account of his plight, or to give Drake the teaching he needed. Overtures to other swordsmiths brought blunt refusals.
It was clear he would never make a masters word, or have his own forge, or have apprentices to kick around. He was getting old; his youth and hope were gone; he was finished. Sadly, Drake concluded that all that remained to him were the compensations of religion.
'I will devote what time remains to me,' said Drake, 'to the practical worship of the Gift.'
The Gift? Sex! (And, technically, alcohol and drugs as well.)
Unfortunately, Muck had taken to banking his apprentices' wages with the Orsay Bank in toto. Drake was penniless. And, since his sister was dead, he no longer had special privileges at the temple.
'Right,' he said. 'I'll sell my body.'
He had done it before, so he could do it again.
He cruised the docks, but found no buyers. For everyone knew why his sister had committed suicide, and none dared couple with someone who might be contaminated with blue leprosy. Thanks to the efforts of the temple of Hagon, knowledge of its etiology had spread throughout Cam. Priests boarded every incoming ship, preached doctrines of safe sex, advertised the temple prostitutes and warned against liaisons with dockside riff-raff.
'Right,' said Drake. 'I've got no sister. I've got no money. I can't sell my body. So how do I get a woman?'
Simple: he would have to make someone fall in love with him. Or at least in lust with him.
Since he might already be doomed to die of blue leprosy, the colony on the outskirts of town held little fear for him. He ventured there, and found Zanya Kliedervaust on her hands and knees scrubbing out bedpans.
'Remember me?' said Drake.
She looked up from her work.
'Oh yes,' she said. 'I remember you. You're the crazy fisherman we hauled out of the sea a horizon away from Stokos.'
'That's right,' said Drake. 'Only I'm a swordsmith, not a fisherman. Your body language tells me that you're looking for a relationship.'
He had rehearsed that line - and many others besides -for a long time. It came out perfectly.
'What?' said Zanya, sounding both tired and puzzled.
'I'm seeking to make a treaty against the loneliness of flesh born into solit
ude,' said Drake. 'I aspire to harmonize our auras into one mutual faith.'
'My Galish,' said Zanya, 'is not the best, though it improves steadily. You'll have to speak plain if you wish to be understood.'
Oh! So there was a language problem! That was all right, then. For a moment, Drake had almost been afraid that his blond good looks were failing to make the right impression on the lady.
'Zanya,' said Drake, T like your looks, just as I'm sure you like mine. What say we get together tonight? We'd look right handsome together.'
'What have you got in mind?' said Zanya.
'Some mutual moonlight, a dash of star-hunting, then a little lick of sweet honey.'
Zanya entirely failed to recognize the import of these delicate euphemisms, which were part of the common language of courtship on Stokos.
'Speak plainly,' she said. 'What do you want?'
Drake, his eloquence thwarted by her linguistic ignorance, lost patience - and gave an answer which was, unfortunately, honest, clear, direct and straightforward.
'I'm in lust,' he said. T want to fornicate.'
'I'm not meat,' said Zanya coldly. 'I'm a woman. There's a difference.'
And she went back to her scrubbing.
'Sorry,' said Drake. 'I meant no offence. I didn't mean to be so blunt. But—'
'OronokoV bawled Zanya. 'Fana tufa n 'fa n'maufil' And out from a workshed came Prince Oronoko. The purple-skinned man was - as he had been when Drake last saw him - wearing only a loin-cloth. Perhaps he had been chopping wood: his body glistened with sweat, and he had an axe in his hands. Oronoko advanced, grinning. Drake fled.
Later, sullen and disconsolate, he brooded over his failure with Zanya. She hadn't even bothered to ask his name.
He thought - and thought hard - about the advice the wizard Miphon had given him. All that stuff about flowers, poetry, daily visits, sincerity, pretty speaking, persistence. Should he try it? No, it couldn't possibly work. It sounded too stupid for words. Anyway, there was Oronoko to think of. If Drake went back, the purple man would probably chop off his head.
Drake sulked.
Meanwhile, the Flame spoke long and hard to Gouda Muck. Until finally, on Midwinter's Day (the start of the year Tor 6, or the middle of Khmar 17, depending on one's calendar) Muck announced to the world that he was the incarnation of the Flame. And the Flame, by his account, was the High God of All Gods.
