by Hugh Cook
'What's that which glitters?' he said, shading his eyes against the sun.
'Quartz in the rock,' said Jon Disaster.
'Quartz?' said Drake, who knew nothing of any geology saving certain iron-yielding ores and the coal-strata near his parents' home.
'Quartz is cheap crystal,' said Disaster. 'Aye, you'll see soon enough.'
Looking down into the cool, clear water, Drake saw great globular crabs picking their way across the sands like so many crawling skulls. Skylarking pirates dived to the sea, ducked each other under and wagered as to how far down the anchor cable they could swim. Drake was not tempted to join them. He was far too tense to play idle water-games.
'Shouldn't we be keeping a watch?' he said.
'A watch?' said Disaster. 'Whatever for?'
'The Swarms, of course.'
'Boy, like as not they'll never come. Inland, water's scarce, and little water means few of them. It's only the flying ones to fear. If those come - well, it'll be a hundred as like as one.'
Drake shuddered. What on earth was he doing here? He should be back on Stokos, yes. Stokos where he would one day be king. Or would he? Would Drake's theft of a mastersword and his subsequent disappearance prejudice King Tor against him? Well, just possibly . . .
But he had a legitimate excuse! If Muck had taught him properly, he would have endured everything, anything. Surely Tor would understand that. Wouldn't he?
Drake thought; Well, even if I don't get to marry Tor's daughter, I could always become a priest.
Yes. That would suit him right down to the ground. If he couldn't be king, he'd be a priest instead, devoting his life entirely to religion. Yes. He'd teach his temple's women himself, personally, one by one, to ensure quality control. He was surprised he'd never thought of the idea before.
'What you thinking about?' said Disaster, seeing Drake's abstracted expression.
'Screwing,' said Drake.
He stared again at the cliffs. There was still no sign of the natives of the place. Were they dead? Killed out by the Swarms, perhaps?
'Why doesn't Arabin send a longboat ashore?' said Drake.
'It's best to let the Ling take their own good time,' explained Disaster. 'They're not much used to strangers, for few come south by sea.'
'And by land?' said Drake.
Disaster laughed.
'It's fearful rough country inland,' he said. 'As far as I know, even Southsearchers venture here near to never. You know Southsearchers, boy?'
'Aye,' said'Drake knowledgeably, though most of what he knew was vague.
At last, late in the afternoon, the Ling did venture out. They came in small outrigger canoes cobbled together from scraps of driftwood. They were a strange breed of tall, lean people with golden skins: not the glossy golden brown of an oiled suntan, but the high-pitched glittering sheen of the noble metal itself.
'Have they painted themselves?' said Drake.
'Nay,' said Disaster. 'That's their natural colour. They're a strange folk, as I've said. Their eyes are milk-white entirely, but for the black of the pupil.'
'You've seen?' said Drake.
'I've seen many things. Including the Ling stained red with blood, aye, blood from some poor fool they'd ripped asunder. They did it with fish-hooks.'
Drake, fascinated, listened to the gory details of the outre tortures Disaster proceeded to describe.
The Ling hailed the Warwolf, but not in Galish. Jon Arabin shouted back to them, and a regular palaver began in some lingo utterly alien to Drake - and, indeed, to most of the crew.
'The females would fetch a good woman-price,' said
Drake sagely, eyeing the distant bodies and wondering if their eyes really were all white.
'Aye, and it'd be worth our lives to take them,' said Disaster.
'They don't look very dangerous to me,' said Drake, with the sense of superiority which comes naturally to a big ship's sailor looking down on some little canoes.
'Oh, they're regular fierce!' exclaimed Disaster. 'Haven't you been listening to what I've been saying?'
'Oh, it made a nice story,' said Drake, 'but no people could really be as cruel as you've said. Surely.'
'Believe me!' said Disaster. 'They're straight out of a nightmare, this lot. Aye, and when it comes to women, that's when they're worst. Why, if you so much as look at one of their females, they'll cut your eyes out.'
'In truth?'
'Aye, I've seen it myself. Fearfully bad it was. Our last trip, our bosun raped a lass in that sea-cave there, the big one where that canoe's just coming out. Well, he thought himself safe enough once back aboard, but they took him by night, believe me. We found him come morning, floating face-down in the water just off the stern. He'd been skinned alive, to start with. His prick had been - eh, look, they're coming in.'
An agreement must have been reached, for the Ling canoes were closing with the ship. Drake saw Jon Arabin striding down the deck, smiling as he came.
'Drake!' shouted Arabin. 'Good news! The Ling will trade with us, taking only one hostage.'
'And who's that?' called Drake.
'My own dear son,' said Arabin, 'the light of my life, the sun of my sky, the moon of my heavens, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, as sweet to me as my mother's milk.'
He was very close to them now, teeth shining as grinned.
'I didn't know you had a son,' said Drake, puzzled. 'Ah,' said Arabin, 'but you know now.' And tousled his hair, and kissed him. And Drake, belatedly, understood.
8
Ling: an open bay on the coast of Argan some seventy-five leagues west of Castle of Controlling Power; lies west of Peninsular Quanat and south of Island Va and Island Ko.
Ling: the inhabitants of Ling, a golden-skinned people with milk-white eyes; notable as pearl divers.
Population of Ling: 4,261 (year Khmar 17).
'You can't do this to me!' shouted Drake. He was shocked. Outraged. 'I trusted you!'
'Then you can trust me still,' said Jon Arabin. 'Thisis but a little thing you're being asked to do. A few days ashore - why, that's nothing.'
'Days!' said Drake.
'Oh yes. Now we've arrived, the Ling will want to make a special expedition to Ko for extra pearls. We'll wait here till they've finished.'
'But this - this - the whole idea is impossible,' said Drake. 'To start with, I'm the wrong race.'
'Don't worry,' said Jon Arabin. 'They're not racist. They've got no prejudice against blond-haired boys. Just keep away from their women and you'll come to no harm.'
'That's not what I meant, and you know it!' said Drake angrily.
'My dear, dear son,' said Jon Arabin, tousling Drake's hair again in a truly infuriating manner. 'You'll have to
keep that temper under control once you're ashore. You don't want to disgrace your father, do you now?'
Drake hardened his hands to fists. But Jon Arabin just laughed. An easy, healthy laugh. Easy for him to be happy!
'Man,' said Drake, 'I'll never pass muster as your son. Man, you're like coal, whereas me - I'm more the colour of a cockroach.'
'The Ling only breed their own gold with their own gold,' said Arabin. 'They know nothing of the mixing of skins.'
'But they breed dogs,' said Drake, desperately. 'And cats, surely.'
'Nay,' said Jon Arabin, 'for they have none such.'
'Then they have mice! And rats. Don't they?'
'Man,' said Jon Arabin. 'Rest easy. I've told you -there's no harm here if you keep your cock in order.'
'Aye,' said Jon Disaster with a grin, 'but if you send your cock adventuring then they'll cut you in half and tear your head off. If you're lucky! If you're not. . .'
Disaster elaborated, until Arabin, seeing Drake was getting increasingly nervous, ordered him to silence.
'Your canoe's come alongside,' said Arabin. 'Down you go!'
And, as the entire crew of the Warwolf applauded, Drake scrambled down a rope ladder to the canoe waiting to take him into captivity. The fiv
e Ling in the canoe stared up at him. Their eyes really were white. Could they then be truly human? One reached out and steadied him as he stepped from the ladder to the canoe, which wobbled alarmingly underfoot; he crouched hastily, grabbing at the sides. Men mocked him from the decks:
'Remember to smile as they skin you!'
'When they offer up bowls of sand, it's polite to eat it.'
'Blow me a kiss, darling, while you've still got lips to kiss with.'
Drake, ignoring them, sought arse-space on a paddle bench. It was hot. In the Warwolf's shadow, small fish hung motionless, weightless, amidst masses of dark-green weed trailing away into limpid depths. Strange, to think of that garden hauling from the hull through the deep-sea waves.
'O-lo-o-la-tra-lee-o-zo,' said one of the five men in the canoe.
'O-lo-see-lee-ay-lit-ay-lo,' he was answered, by the eldest man afloat.
'O-lo-al-o-so-lo,' said all in unison.
Dipping their paddles in the water, they began to stroke toward the shore.
Sun and sea split from flashing paddles. Drake squinted against the glare, closing his eyes as the paddlers began an ominous high-singing chant. Hot blood-light filtered through his eyelids. He heard distant laughter on the Warwolf, and wished he was back on board.
Shadows cooled out the sun. His eyes startled open. Their canoe was sliding into a deep dim sea cave. Cold blocks of white light gleamed in the rock roof. How old was this place? Who had made it? Slaves, maybe. Aye, slaves sweating under whips till they fell from exhaustion and were beaten to death by the brutal Ling.
'O-so-lo-lee-o-lo,' chanted the paddlers, 'O-so-say-lo, o-lo-ay-tree-o-lo.'
The words were music. Senseless music. Perhaps the paddlers were gearing themselves up for a killing. Perhaps it was a death-chant they were singing.
Deep within the cave was a shelving beach. As the canoe scraped against sand, Drake jumped overboard and helped run it ashore, seeking - ah, desperate hope! - to win favour by showing himself work-willing. A little water leaked into his boots; he stamped his damp feet, partly from nervousness.
The much-trampled sand, grooved by canoe-keels, suggested that a dozen of the craft afloat by the Warwolf belonged here. Drake had a sudden, sickening vision of ambush, rape and slaughter, of laughing pirates falling on the Ling to murder them for pearl-wealth.
Might that happen? Might Arabin succumb to greed, and decide to kill rather than trade? He was known to be deeply in debt, needing every scraping he could get. Was Arabin that kind of man? Need could make anyone that kind of man.
The Ling were talking amongst themselves in their fluid, fluent voices. Drake cleared his throat. 'Does anyone here speak Galish?' he said. They fell silent.
Had his voice annoyed them? How much excuse did they need before they fell on him with flaying knives and torture hooks? He smiled nervously: then wondered if these strangers might deem even a smile a deadly insult.
'O-o-o' said one of the Ling, taking Drake by the hand to lead him into the secret places beyond the canoe cave.
Drake was intensely embarrassed, for on Stokos only slaves walked hand in hand. Still, he dared not protest. He sniffed the air. Imagined he smelt blood. Hot, reeking blood in great quantity.
'Grief,' he muttered.
After many turnings, bends, stairs, squeeze-holes, ramps, inclines, corridors and passageways, Drake was at last shown into a large white room where great big globular crabs with claws the size of nutcrackers were crawling over the walls.
'What's with the crabs?' said Drake. 'Eh?'
'O-lip-o,' said one of the Ling, smiling.
And gave him a little push.
Drake, fists clenched, stepped into the room.
Okay, crabs! Watch out! This is Drake Douay you've got to deal with.
Drake's guides departed. The crabs made no move against him. They looked . . . well, actually, they looked remarkably dead. Yes. On Investigation, they proved to be empty shells which had been glued to the walls, doubtless by way of decoration.
Drake took stock.
He was in a square-hewn chamber dominated by a raised deck of small grey stones topped off with clean white sand. Drake entirely failed to recognize this contraption for what it was - a bed. And not just any old bed, either, but a bed for one of the High-Born. For the second degree, tradition prescribed stones minus sand. And a commoner would have slept on rocks.
Drake fingered one of the stones. It was too small to make much of a weapon. He still had his dirk, but what good was that? He should have asked to bring a sword ashore. He would have felt safer, yes. And besides - if he was playing at being Jon Arabin's son, surely he should have been kitted out with the weapons appropriate to his status. Well, too late to worry about that now . . .
Was there a toilet nearby? He needed one urgently.
The sand-topped stone-heap . . . yes, it was obviously a glorified sand-box, to be used like the one his boyhood friend, Levil Norkin, had for his kittens. Drake promptly began to scrabble a little hole in the top of the bed. But, before he could commit a faux pas of enormous dimensions, a young woman entered. In her hands she carried the tail of a stingray - which, amongst the Ling, was the ultimate erotic symbol. She was naked.
'O-ma-no-so?' she said, a faint smile on her lips.
Drake's horror-shock immediately abolished all worries about bowels and bladder. Jon Disaster's warnings flooded back to him. Chaotic images of skinned flesh, pulled fingernails, amputated organs and gouged-out eyes tumbled in that flood.
'Go away!' he said frantically. 'Go away, before someone finds us!'
'O-lee!' she said, in tones of protest.
Drake picked up a handful of sand and threw it at her.
'Lee-o-me-nee!' she said.
Drake's dread doubled as another woman entered. Also naked. The two had a rapid conference in their strange, sing-song voices, then cornered Drake and did their best to strip him naked. He only managed to preserve his honour by the most vigorous resistance.
'Jon Arabin!' said Drake. 'I'll kill you when I get hold of you!'
His outburst of anger scattered the women.
'Saved,' said Drake. 'At least for the moment.'
And he sat down in a corner, sweating, trembling, breathing heavily. This business of being a hostage was obviously going to be - to say the least - demanding.
'It's my blond good looks,' said Drake. 'That's what does the damage. The women get one look at me, and they just can't keep their hands off. I suppose they don't often see a fellow as handsome as me, not this far south. Well - can I help my beauty?'
Drake knew there was nothing he could do about his natural sex appeal.
'It's not my fault!' he said. 'I'm innocent!'
But his innocence would do him no good if he was caught embracing a nubile young female. Oh no. Likely as not, he would be discovered by some dour, ugly representative of the older generation, who would have him killed out of sheer jealousy, if for no other reason.
'I've got to pretend I'm a professional virgin,' said Drake. 'Or something.'
During the course of the next three days (in which he did, finally, after several blunders, manage to find the toilet), Drake was tempted by three dozen naked women. Young they were, and beautiful, faces so smooth they seemed to be wearing masks, their milk-white eyes adoring, their breasts high-sprung, their innards oiled and ready for his exertions.
Ready they were indeed, knowing their guest was Drake Arabin, oldest and much-loved son of Jon Arabin, and heir to all the Arabin dominions: the Greater Teeth, the Lesser Teeth, the larger part of three continents, and several kingdoms in the Land of the Dead besides. Yes, to Ling, Jon Arabin was a mighty king, a great warrior, a powerful wizard, a minor demigod, and the richest man in the world.
To Drake, Jon Arabin was something else altogether.
He stood at a high window staring down at Ling Bay, where the distant Warwolf'lay, and said:
'Jon, you're a sly scheming son of an octopus. And if I don't get out
of here in one piece - then you're going to be in big trouble, man.'
When the daughters of Ling reported the failure of their enticements, the elders consulted, then sent in their sons. By hook or by crook, they would see Drake Arabin committed in love to some flesh of their. flesh before his captivity ended.
But the sons reported as little success as the daughters. The elders conferred again, then decided to bring Drake into the presence of the Great One.
When the elders came for him, Drake Douay was practising a one-man kata with a wooden sword which he had whittled out of a broken paddle.
'O-oo-o-ooo,' sang one of the elders, then grabbed Drake by the elbow.
'You've come to take me back to the ship?' said Drake. 'Great! I thought it was just about time to be leaving.'
And he threw down his waster and allowed the elders to lead him through many cool tunnels until they came to the audience chamber where sat the Great One. She was the oldest and wisest woman of Ling, a bright-eyed matriarch whose skin, in her old age, was mottled with dusky patterns which reminded Drake of the wings of a great moth.
Drake looked around the audience chamber uneasily. It was a square-cut white room with upwards of fifty elders squatting on the rough brown matting which carpeted the floor. The Great One lay in state in a hammock of sharkskin. Drake, deducing her authority from her elevation, said:
'Good morning, ma'am, pleased to meet you.' 'O-layma-nooloo,' said the Great One, making a formal response.
'Really?' said Drake. 'Listen, if we're going to have a conversation, we'll need to get Jon Arabin in on this.' 'Jon Arabin,' said the Great One.
'Aaaah!' wailed the elders. 'Jon Arabin!'
And they lent forward in unison and kissed their right hand kneecaps (or, if that was forbidden by arthritis, their right hand wrists). Drake was not at all sure what to make of this. In any case, he had little time to think about it, for the Ling had begun to speak between themselves in their high-pitched sing-song voices.
'Why does he refuse the flesh of our flesh?' asked the elders.
