The Walrus and the Warwolf

by Hugh Cook

  'Arabin talks of such on occasion,' said Disaster. 'So the talk is proof they're far from certain killers. Relax. We'll have the voyage done and be home before winter.'

  So spoke Disaster. But Drake was certain something would go wrong. Likely they would be wrecked on the coast of Estar, where Atsimo Andranovory had been marooned, and meet that thug as head of a band of brigands or such.

  He shuddered.

  'Well,' said Disaster, 'if you're so set against the idea, doubtless you can stay home on the Teeth.'

  'No thanks,' said Drake hastily.

  For, as Tor was no longer a friend of his, and Lord Menator was in all probability a murderous enemy, he judged he would be safer risking the dangers of the voyage to Ork than staying home on Knock.

  Besides, if Jon Arabin got to be admiral, surely the heroes of the voyage to Ork would become captains in their own right. At the very least.

  'A ship,' said Drake. 'A ship of my own. That's what I need. Then I can sail south to Drangsturm, aye, and have a go at finding Zanya. Aye. And do deeds fit for heroes, raid ships, storm cities and such. That'll impress King Tor no end. If I could raid Cam and bring back the head of Gouda Muck, I'm sure Tor would think again of me for his daughter . . .'

  So thought Drake Douay.

  It was then late summer in Khmar 19, and Drake Douay was an honest 18 (plus a few months, which he counted, though there is no need for history to attend to them so closely).

  21

  Name: Lesser Teeth, a group of low-lying shallow-water islands notorious for shoals and wrecking-reefs.

  Language: a Galish dialect.

  Population: 15,421 (prior to Wars of Empire).

  Religions: self-interest, self-reliance, bloody-mindedness, curiosity and generalized superstition.

  Main island: Carawell (aka Mainland).

  Havens: Brennan, sole safe anchorage in the Lessers.

  Economy: fishing; amber export; scurvy grass.

  As autumn drew near, the Greater Teeth were gripped by a regular frenzy of preparation, speculation, rumour and gossip. And wagering. While most pirates were staying home, all had at least a small bet riding on the adventure.

  Menator ordered his ambassadors onto the Warwolf, renamed (by order of Himself) the Sky Dancer. Slagger Mulps was deeply relieved not to be risking the Walrus, having lately realized her bottom was badly worm-weakened. But, as a matter of form, he had to rant, rage, spit blood (easy enough to do, since he had been slowly dying of tuberculosis for the last half-dozen years), swear, curse, blaspheme against fifty different gods, and threaten Jon Arabin with instant death.

  Of course, even before this, Mulps had been planning to kill the Warwolf. And Jon Arabin had been dreaming up

  schemes to do in the Walrus. Honour required no less: both would have felt humiliated if they had gone to sea on the same ship without bringing their rivalry to its natural conclusion.

  Murder plans were only reluctantly abandoned when Menator, bowing to pressure from Abousir Belench and several other captains, laid down one further condition: an admiral's flag (and the greed-glutting battle-share that went with it) would not be awarded to either hero unless both returned alive.

  'My brother,' said Mulps to Arabin.

  'Heart of my heart,' replied the Warwolf.

  And they embraced.

  Two sistejr ships were chosen for the Sky Dancer: Bluewater Draven's Tusk, and the Jade, run by Abousir Belench.

  Departure was then delayed while Arabin laid down a new deck of mahogany, part of a captured cargo alleged to have come from Yestron. None could say how this unfamiliar timber would fare as decking, but Arabin did like to experiment.

  Totalling sirings and killings, the Warwolf found he had a reasonable margin of safety. But, as it was most important to keep his bad-tempered gods happy by breeding more than killing, he decided to take some women along so he could stand at stud while voyaging.

  Arabin hated doing this. To him, the sea had always been a refuge from the clamouring demands of his monstrously enlarged family. But, with the Teeth committed to imperial conquest, he had no alternative - except becoming a pacifist. Which he wouldn't, since the pay was so poor.

  Since Arabin was taking women, he had to arrange whores for the men, or risk mutiny. So they needed more accommodation, food, water - more of everything. Plus a ration of strong drink, as Walrus crewmen would not sail on a dry ship.

  Arabin thought taking hard liquor to sea was suicidal.

  He remembered his own indulgence in Dog's Breath rum on the voyage to Hexagon (the liquor had come into his possession when he confiscated it from Jez Glane) and shuddered to think what a similar lapse in behaviour might mean in the dangerous waters of the Penvash Channel. Still... he had very little choice about it.

  Soon, the Sky Dancer's treasure holds were packed. Stores included extra navigational equipment in the form of ninety-seven pigeons born and bred on the Teeth. Theory held that if one was released, even on a sunless day with cloud-shrouded horizons, it would indicate direction by flying away on a line leading straight back home.

  Jon Arabin planned to experiment.

  Before setting sail, both Walrus and Warwolf made solemn covenants with their men, promising shares in future admirals' spoils to all. This was an incentive to keep them from mutiny on a voyage which promised no plunder.

  'Battle-shares are fine,' said Drake. 'But what about ships? Will we get to be captains when you get to be admiral?'

  'You?' said Arabin. 'A captain? Dream on!'

  'I'm ready for the job,' said Drake stoutly.

  Whereupon Jon Arabin fell about laughing. Half the crew was still making jokes about Drake's pretensions two days later. Drake did a lot of dark muttering under his breath, and swore he'd show them.

  'King on Stokos,' said Drake to Drake. 'That's what I'll be. They'll be impressed then.'

  The men he hoped to impress were the best, hand-picked, the creme de la creme, the elite, winnowed from the original crew-lists of Walrus and Warwolf. In practice, this meant the sailors:

  all had two legs apiece;

  were not hopelessly alcoholic;

  were older than 13 and younger than 70; and

  were not obviously dying of syphilis or plague.

  Even Sully Yot got a place. He and Drake had been forced to work alongside each other on the voyage to and from Hexagon, but still only spoke to each other when forced to, and then only in monosyllables. Their relationship was, to say the least, strained.

  If still a fanatical Flame worshipper, Yot would have murdered Drake at the first opportunity, welcoming his own slow death at the hands of Jon Arabin. However, Yot's faith had weakened in long months spent far from the fanatical Gouda Muck.

  Drake, whose own religion was more robust - as he had first observed in Androlmarphos, even foreigners worshipped the Demon, if only in deed - was still as devout as ever. Indeed, his greatest sorrow was that he could not fully celebrate the Gift of the Demon, since he could no longer get drunk.

  Finally, all preparations were made, and the expedition got underway.

  Ah, to be at sea again! At sea on the Sky Dancer, bound for Ork, with Tusk and Jade in company! The tang of salt on lips! The wind brisking the white-capped foam against the gallant flanks of the wooden sea-charger! The nostalgic aroma of tar! The faint yet pervasive smell of vomit, from where some queasy gut has up-chucked over the decks - that in itself bringing back, ah, so many memories!

  Not all, of course, was beer and skittles. The joint captains were soon disputing control of navigation. Argument ended when a drift of cloud cleared, proving that the afternoon sun was indeed to larboard, and not to starboard as Mulps (who had somehow got the notion that a squall's confusion had set them sailing south) had claimed.

  (Mulps was an erratic navigator at times, and the present phase of the moon had quite upset his navigational faculties, and his sense of direction into the bargain.)

  Nevertheless, as the Star Dancer rode the heaving water
s into the mists of evening, with the cliffs of the

  Greaters now far behind them, it was a happy enough ship.

  It rapidly became less so.

  Slagger Mulps developed a raging toothache that night, and, in the morning, Whale Mike broke the offending molar in half when he tried to extract it with pliers. Towards noon one of Jon Arabin's wives, who had not known she was pregnant, had a miscarriage. Later, it was discovered that the ship's cat had got in amongst the experimental navigational aids, and had spent half the day amusing itself at the expense of those delicate pieces of equipment.

  And, toward evening, the weather worsened.

  Drake, no longer a kitchen boy but a true sailor who could hand, reef and steer, stood watch like any other. That night he was rostered on with sailors from the Walrus. He was nervous about it - like a lion tamer suddenly put to work with dragons.

  Nervous with good reason.

  For the cold, ruthless Ish Ulpin and the murderous Bucks Cat were amongst those who would be standing watch with him.

  However, the truce to which the captains had pledged their crews held good, at least for that night. Indeed, Drake, to his startlement, found himself quite enjoying the company of Ish Ulpin, for the pale-faced man had an amazing fund of stories about wild times in Chi'ash-lan and elsewhere.

  While the company was good, the night itself was dreadful, the weather worsening relentlessly. By dawn, the Tusk and Jade were nowhere to be seen. Menator had planned for this, ordering the ships to rendevous at D'Waith if separated. But Jon Arabin had no intentions of trying anything so stupid, knowing full well that Abousir Belench and Bluewater Draven would skive off to do some private raiding.

  The Sky Dancer then took a terrible hammering in five days of wild seas and variable winds. By the time the worst of the storm was over, they were lost. The surviving navigational aids, when released, huddled against the mourning wind, refusing to fly.

  Closing with the first land sighted, they found it to be Carawell, largest of the Lesser Teeth, those fishing islands lying north of the Greaters. They anchored shortly in Brennan, Carawell's harbour. Arabin planned to stay long enough to repair sails, refurbish their storm-battered longboat, and fix leaks which kept three men continually at the pumps.

  'They don't care much for pirates here,' said Slagger Mulps dourly, eyeing the low and solid stone houses of Brennan.

  'Aye,' said Jon Arabin, 'but they don't have much quarrel with us, either.'

  As the Lesser Teeth were poor, and most pirates such bad sailors, few risked raiding these dangerous northern waters.

  'Mayhap we should take hostages,' said Slagger Mulps.

  'No need,' said Arabin. T was wrecked here once. It's not a bad place. Not like Lorp.' (And, thinking of Lorp, he shuddered.) 'But we'll pay for what we take. There's thousands of islanders, all told - wouldn't do to stir them up.'

  'We'll likely stir them up just by being here,' said Mulps.

  'No, no,' said Arabin. 'Look - I'll take a party ashore. We'll claim ourselves a diplomatic mission from Baron Farouk of Hexagon, voyaging to Tameran to establish diplomatic relations and a trade in low-weight high-value items such as diamonds, spices and arachnid silk.'

  'You do talk lovely when the wind's from the east,' said Mulps sourly.

  'I was born with honey in my mouth,' said Jon Arabin.

  In truth - a truth he never trusted any pirate with - he had been educated in a convent school in Ashmolea, where he had delighted his tutors by his dedication to rhetoric, grammar, elocution and linguistic philosophy.

  (The rough-talking Walrus had his own dire secret. In his youth, he had been a gardener's boy in Chenameg. All through adolescence, he had longed to win a place in King Lyra's poetry league. Hence: many lines about damsel-blushing bloom in cheeks of cherry blossom, fish-surfaced aroma of blue winds of heavenly sunlight, and so forth. Then came the day when he ran amok in drunken rage, having found the rumours that his verses were used by the King for toilet paper were - alas! - entirely true.)

  'Go then,' said the Walrus, speaking roughly, as a pirate must. 'If your liver returns, I'll honour you by eating it.'

  'I'm flattered,' said Arabin.

  And went ashore, taking with him a handful of men who could play the role of courtier - i.e., could put two words together without inserting an obscenity between them. Young Drake went with him, and Sully Yot. Rolf Thelemite, who had always pretended to be more noble than the rest of them. Simp Fiche, who, for all that could be said against him, at least knew how to eat with his mouth shut. Ching Quail, who had spent his youth trying to win entry to the banker's guild.

  Arabin also took - as muscle - Bucks Cat and Whale Mike. But both were under strict instructions to play the role of deaf mutes.

  Ashore they went, and played their roles as best they could. But the good people of Brennan soon had their doubts. These could not possibly be ambassadors! No, just looking at the way Jon Arabin carried himself, it was obvious that he could be no less than the bold Baron Farouk himself.

  'If your trade hopes come true, Baron - my apologies, I meant Ambassador,' said old Gezeldux, who ran the best bar in Brennan, 'will your ships then port in Brennan?'

  'That depends how much you over-charge us by,' said Jon Arabin.

  A sally which raised - for they were all relaxed - a roar of laughter.

  Things went so well ashore that the venture did not end as the swift diplomatic mission Jon Arabin had planned, but became something of a party. The pirates paid good gold for better ale, heard local jokes and told their own, and were, naturally enough, asked about Hexagon.

  'Let my son play geographer,' said Jon Arabin, with a nod in Drake's direction.

  'Your son?' said a local, dubious about the possibility of a blood connection between the corn-haired Drake and pitch black Jon Arabin.

  'Well, he's my son in a manner of speaking,' said Jon Arabin. 'His mother, after all, was my wife. She was blonde - and so was the servant I thought was a eunuch.'

  This claim raised a roar of drunken laughter.

  'Anyway,' said Jon Arabin, 'let my son tell of Hexagon, for he knows the island true, and the seas around.'

  So Drake told of the silver-horned unicorns of Hexagon; of men who fly in kites and fire-balloons; of a seamless metal pillar rising half a league skywards from the Games Court of the Baron's palace; of a shark the size of a ship and a jellyfish the size of a longboat; of a place where the sea boiled continuously and floating rock bubbled to the surface, while overhead circled a strange disc which looked to be made of gold.

  These tales he told, and others equally incredible. All were disbelieved - and for a very simple reason. They were all true. And, as is well known, truth is far, far stranger than fiction.

  'Methinks in truth this Hexagon's a place so boring a traveller must fiction it up to win half a hearing at all,' said old Gezeldux.

  'No,' insisted Drake. 'We have strange things there, strange things. Look - this was given me by the Baron's eldest daughter. Is it not strange enough for you?'

  And he showed off a cameo brooch, the only one he had ever seen. The Baron's eldest daughter, when prisoner on the Warwolf, had used it to bribe her guard of the moment - Drake - to admit her manicurist to attend most urgently to two broken nails and a disgustingly dirty set of cuticles.

  'A trinket,' said Gezeldux, with something in his voice suggesting he might have sneered had that been in his nature. 'There's nothing strange about that.'

  'Ah,' said Drake, 'but I'm living proof of strangeness myself. I've matched you drink for drink, yet my hands don't shake.'

  And he held them out sober in front of him.

  'You see,' said Drake, 'on Hexagon we worship the Flame, and as a priest of the Flame I am guarded against all intoxication.'

  He saw Yot looking at him, scandalized; he winked.

  'What's this Flame?' asked a voice.

  Drake told. His audience fell about laughing.

  'Don't laugh,' he said. 'People have
been killed for less than that.'

  But he could not convince them that anyone could take such fabrications seriously.

  'And,' said old Gezeldux, 'my hands aren't shaking yet either. See?'

  This naturally precipitated a drinking contest, which Drake, equally naturally, won.

  His tale about being a priest of the Flame, consecrated to eternal sobriety, began to win some credence. The hard drinkers of Brennan set out to test it in earnest. They fed him with ale and with rum, plied him with vodka and strawberry liqueur, topped his mug with Essence of Anemone and spiked it with Heavenly Dreams, dosed him with cider and treated him to cognac - all with no effect.

  By that time, everyone in the bar (except Drake) was thoroughly drunk.

  'Boy,' said Gezeldux, slurring his words, 'you've been good enough for most things, but I bet you're not good enough for this.'

  And he pulled out a blue-glazed ceramic bottle and thumped it on his counter.

  'Firewater, boy, the Old Original from the very Ebrell

  Islands themselves. I bet you've not seen firewater before.'

  'No,' said Drake, just a touch of uncertainty in his voice.

  He had certainly never seen firewater, but he had heard whispers of its evil reputation in sundry drinking places everywhere from Stokos to the Teeth. Until now, he had thought its threat apocryphal. But here it was. The stuff itself.

  Gezeldux tipped the last of the salted sprats out of the free lunch bowl, and slowly poured the firewater. The liquid curled slowly through the air, hissing as it hit the bowl. The bowl filled. Green flames danced across the surface.

  'Come now,' said Gezeldux, as Drake hesitated. 'A priest of the Flame doesn't fear a fire as small as this - does he?'

  'No,' said Drake, still uncertain.

  'Courage, son,' said Jon Arabin, just sober enough to stay upright in his chair. 'You're a hero, aren't you?'

  'Right!'said Drake.