The Walrus and the Warwolf

by Hugh Cook

  'Is there a theologian on boafd!'

  Eventually, if he had persisted thus in the face of the predictable reaction from the ship's crew, Morton Seligman ('Foreskin' to all his friends) would have taken pity on him, and would have explained. Seligman was old, yes, and by afternoon had trouble remembering events of the morning, but his mind was as sharp as ever when it came to recalling his past.

  For decades - until aged 52 (or 53 if one counts age from conception, as many peoples do, and with more logic than their enemies will admit) - Seligman, essentially a gentle individual (the scalps dangling from his belt had been acquired by way of trade) had studied earnestly under a wizard of the Order of Seth.

  Seligman had failed his Trials, as do many. However, unlike most such failures, he had lived to tell the tale. If asked, he could have told Drake (and would have done so willingly) that:

  t many a place has its genius loci, an entity low in the hierarchy of spiritual beings yet capable of exerting temporal power;

  t such a genius loci has no true form of its own, far less any true understanding of the nature of the world of events, and therefore can only manifest itself (and act) in terms of the perceived expectations of human intellects;

  f that such expectations are usually too blurred, fuzzy and diffuse for a genius loci to make anything of them;

  t that religious ceremony, with its combination of intense mental concentration, precise expectations (often emphasized by prayers, chants, songs etc.), designed to harass a 'god' into doing something useful, e.g. striking down enemies of the state, making rain, bringing wind, annihilating unbelievers and withering the bodies of their children, etc. was the most effective way to get positive action from a genius loci.

  Drake would have complained that his mind had not been concentrated and his own expectations had been non-existent. To which Morton Seligman would have replied (once he had elicited a full account of the facts, which, as a trained Investigator, he naturally would have) that the mind of Sully Datelier Yot would have been concentrated most wonderfully by Drake's sacrilege, and Yot would have expected some reaction from the Flame.

  Drake, too shy (and too conscious of his own safety) to have ever run about the deck calling for a theologian (since he was not in the habit of seeking advice the notion never even occurred to him) was doomed to stay ignorant.

  Thus he never learned how the nature of the genius loci explains so many weird and wonderful things, such as the temporary appearance of the dead to the recently bereaved (which is common), the skill of the rain dancer, ghosts (a few of them, anyway, there being in all 127 distinctly different categories of ghost), coins of gold which later turnjo leaves, the treasure found at the end of rainbows (assay-masters know the worthless stuff well), and, indeed, the powers of several minor classes of sorcerers and necromancers (and a few minor effects achieved in certain places by some members of the eight Orders of the Confederation of Wizards, even though all draw their Powers Major from older, more dangerous, more demanding entities).

  Drake, then, lacking the guidance of true theology, had to cope with the possibility that maybe the Flame existed, that perhaps the Flame was angry with him, that it might actually be a smart move to bow down and worship the said Flame.

  But if the Flame existed as described by Gouda Muck (that is to say, if Muck of Stokos was truly the High God of All Gods) then that cast serious doubts on the pretensions of the Demon, of the bloodlord Hagon.

  'I would rather worship You,' said Drake softly, to Hagon.

  He was not in the habit of addressing his god. If one drew Hagon's attention to oneself, there was always the danger that the Demon would eat one's soul prematurely. Yet, under the circumstances, Drake thought it wise to resolve his doubts by testing the powers of Hagon.

  T know it's bad form to ask You for things,' said Drake. 'I know You have given us the Gift. That should be enough for us. Yet, just this once . . .'

  Drake prayed to the Demon for an alleviation of the curse which gripped him - for, in other words, a renewal of drunkenness.

  'Drink is a part of your Holy Gift,' said Drake. 'I ask only to be holy myself. Religion is the deepest part of my nature. May I not with your Grace practise it?'

  He backed up his prayers with a sacrifice. The best thing to slay would, have been an unblemished virgin or a spotless calf. None such was available, but Drake did manage to obtain three rats (one with a crippled left hind leg, for which he apologized to the bloodlord Hagon as politely as he knew how) and twenty-three cockroaches.

  T know these aren't sacrifices of the standard You are used to,' said Drake. 'But I hope they might at least have some novelty value.'

  And he killed them, with all due ceremony.

  Just one thing troubled him. These were supposed to be burnt offerings, but the ship had no facilities for burning such. Or did it? Wrapping his offerings in an old shirt stolen from Tiki Slooze, Drake ventured below decks and found his way to the kitchen. He tipped his heap of oddments into a massive cast-iron frying pan, intending to pour raw spirit on top then ignite it.

  He was interrupted by the sudden arrival of the cook - not the muttering old man they used to have, who had since died of a stroke, but an ox-built giant who was master chef for Lord Regan of the Rice Empire until caught in flagrante delicto with Lord Regan's teenage son.

  'What are you doing here?' said the cook, in a voice which could have commanded cavalry (and had, once - though that is another story).

  'I've come to help out,' said Drake, hastily pouring some sauce over the gruesome mess in the frying pan. 'I used to work here before, you know.'

  'I see,' said the cook, peering closely; fortunately he had gross myopia and a pronounced astigmatism besides (otherwise he would have been an archer, like his father, and his grandfather's grandfather before him) and didn't see at all. Ornotwell, atanyrate. 'But what exactly are you making?'

  'A species of, well, goulash, I suppose you could say,' said Drake, improvising frantically as he stirred in some rough red cooking wine (rough by pirate standards - i.e; a mouthful would leave one's mouth raw for a week).

  'The ingredients?'

  'It's got, uh, rabbits, yes,' said Drake, putting the frying pan onto a heating iron. 'Yes,' he said, as the mixture began to warm, 'rabbits, small rabbits, I caught them myself on Carawell, and, um, let me think, shrimps, yes, the shellack-shelled Carawell variety, tougher than we're used to but very good.'

  As he talked, he added herbs and spices more or less at random, then stirred and mashed, while steam rose and the brew began to bubble. He added vinegar, threw in pickles then scattered breadcrumbs over the mixture.

  'You haven't skinned these rabbits!' said the cook, in an accusatorial voice, poking at them with one of his walnut-crunching fingers (cooks love to poke, stroke, caress and fondle foods of all kinds, particularly raw meats; this tactile bias may be because the profession traditionally soaks up part of the world's reservoir of short-sighted people, just as the metal-working trades take the lame).

  'This is a traditional dish,' protested Drake. 'A special kind of folk-cookery. The skins are left on to keep in the flavour.'

  'The guts are left in too, I suppose,' said the cook, with heavy sarcasm. 'Aye,' said Drake, eagerly. 'They're the best part!' 'Hmmm,' said the cook. He had his doubts.

  But as Drake stirred and added, spiced and salted, garnished and basted (and surreptitiously amputated rats' tails and discarded them to the floor, where the ship's cat claimed them) the smell from the frying pan grew better and better, until the cook was more than a little impressed.

  'Is it done?' he asked.

  'Almost,' said Drake.

  'No, man, it's finished now. I can smell the goodness of it. Here - give me that.'

  And, confiscating the frying pan, the cook tipped its contents into two large bowls.

  'Where are those going?' asked Drake.

  'The Walrus and the Warwolf are in conference,' said the cook. 'This'll be just the thing to keep t
hem going.'

  Drake suppressed a moan, and ran away and hid. But he could not hide forever. Finally, the cook caught him on deck: 'Hey! You!'

  Drake, cornered, prepared to meet his doom. 'What do you want?' asked Drake, pretending he didn't know.

  'The recipe, man, the recipe! Our captains loved it. You were right, the skins do-keep in the flavour. And they say the guts slipped down something marvellous. There was only one complaint.'

  'What's that?'

  'They say next time, shell the shrimps before you cook them. There were bits of shell scattered right through the meal.'

  'Well,' said Drake to the Demon, 'you can't say I didn't try.'

  He was on watch in the crow's-nest, one of the few places in the ship where one could scratch, pray or masturbate in private.

  'So give me that much,' continued Drake. 'I tried. And, in any case, they say that You would rather enjoy a good joke than a burnt virgin any day. So - how about it? Do I get to get drunk again? Or don't I? Please understand, if I don't, it may be a little hard for me to believe in You ever again.'

  Drake made that threat because it was known that the Demon liked his believers to show some spirit (unlike some other, less confident entities, which feel uneasy dealing with any supplicant who is not face-down grovelling).

  Prayer done, Drake longed to test the efficacy of that prayer. But the liquor ration had run out, and could not be renewed before they reached D'Waith. But there was still some cooking wine aboard, was there not?

  There was not. The cook had used the last of it in preparing a goulash to Drake's specifications. ('Not up to the standard df the original,' the captains had complained.)

  Drake would have to wait for dry land before he could put his faith to the test.

  But dry land was a long time coming. The scrimshaw weather saw them five days at sea between the Lessers and D'Waith, sometimes nosing along at seaslug pace, sometimes becalmed, and once or twice actually being carried backwards by playful little currents.

  Drake whiled away his off-duty by playing dice-chess and backgammon. He was so skilled by now that, unaided by other men's inebriety, he won a triple-ply solskin horse blanket which had once graced a stable in far-off Gendormargensis (a nice piece of equipment, but he had no horse), an ancient scroll in a dead language, ornamented with line drawings which he took to be maps of roads and rivers in some distant land (they were sketches of the palm-prints of the progeny of a forgotten king), a 'lucky rock' which he soon sent overboard (not recognizing this fist-sized hunk of dull stone as a diamond in the rough), and half a loaf of bread (black ironbread, baked on the Greaters before the Sky Dancer set sail).

  But all good journeys come to an end (and bad ones, too), and at last the anchor crashed into the waters of

  D'Waith's harbour. Drake, in high excitement, stared at the shore - not at the city of D'Waith itself, which was some distance inland, but at the small buildings built right up near the harbour. One of them must surely be a bar.

  He would soon be putting his religion to the test.

  24

  Name: Bluewater Draven.

  Birthplace: Dalar ken Halvar.

  Occupation: pirate captain, lately commander of the Tusk.

  Status: always low, has been further reduced by loss of the Tusk, his fifth command wrecked in the last four years.

  Description: cowardly untrustworthy bearded braggart of mature years who has (though he knows it not) a slow-growing bowel cancer, a small brain tumour, a steadily enlarging liver cyst, and an aneurysm in a major artery which may burst without warning at any moment, killing him almost instantly (though, knowing his luck, he'll as likely whore on for another ten years or more).

  Religion: once seriously espoused alcoholism, but faith faltered after discovering this adversely affected his potency; may be said to have, if anything, 'a determined faith in the validity of the moment' (as Denrak said of Axis Gogman, who began his career as the ugly man in the court at Dalar ken Halvar, and ended up as Lord Tyrant of Greater Parengarenga).

  'Is any of those buildings ashore a bar?' asked Drake, as the longboat cleaved its way through the harbour waters.

  'They all are, unless things have changed since I came visiting last,' said Jon Arabin.

  'Good,' said Slagger Mulps, 'for I'm thirsty.'

  Shortly they were ashore. Avoiding an establishment raucous with slaughter, a bar with a hole in its roof and an evil den nailed up tight with a plague-sign guarding its door, they slogged through shoreside mud to a low building where they hoped to quench their grog-thirst. Even ascetic Jon Arabin was keen for a change from vinegar and muddy ship-water.

  A drink or three would set them up nicely for the trek to D'Waith proper - a thousand paces, some of it uphill.

  'Beers, be ready!' commanded Drake, reaching the pub before his betters.

  Eagerly, he thrust open the door and jumped down into the interior, being in too much of a rush to use the steps. The damp gloom within smelt of stale beer and wet straw. It was strangely quiet (the locals having been lured away by the fight in a rival tavern). Behind the bar was a man with the head and the horns of a bull.

  'Culamageethee!' said Drake in extreme surprise.

  (The phrase, in his native Ligin, translates literally as 'the seaweed's slippery!')

  He tried to withdraw, but it was too late, for the green-bearded Walrus was already coming through the doorway, with other thirsty souls crowding close behind.

  'Strength in numbers,' muttered Drake.

  The bull-man was truly there, as large as life if not three sizes larger, moist reflections shining in his dung-dark eyes, a ring of gold snot-gleaming in his nose. A woman of deceptively normal appearance joined him. As she began setting up some thirst-quenchers, Drake saw her hands were the paws of a cat.

  'What'll it be, strangers?' asked the bull-man, as his woman arranged a dozen doses of the world's best medicine.

  'Who are you calling a stranger?' demanded Jon Arabin.

  'Why, Jon,' said the bull-man, 'it's you!'

  'Ken fenargh eoch'alagarn sham narelonagarch,"1 said

  Arabin, slipping into a language unknown to Drake.

  'Shalamanargh ech hufloch dinareen,' answered the bull-man.

  And the two of them laughed.

  'Belay that jabber!' growled Mulps, green eyes registering a sudden anger. 'Let's have straight talk so all can follow.'

  'Why, Mulps, man,' said Arabin. 'If you met a friend, would you not want a few words with him in the language sweetest on the tongue?'

  'I've no long-lost friends here,' said Mulps, 'so no way of knowing.'

  'No friends?' demanded a big brute who had been idling in corner shadows, at cards with a boy. 'No friends? Then how count I?'

  'Draven, me old cock!' cried Mulps.

  'None other.'

  It was indeed Bluewater Draven, captain of the good ship Tusk, one of the two vessels which had set out from the Greaters to accompany the Sky Dancer to Ork.

  'So you made the rendevous,' said Arabin. 'But where is your ship? And where your crew?'

  'I'll tell,' said Draven.

  And told how the Tusk had been shipwrecked. 'And your crew?' demanded Arabin. 'It was all I could do to save myself,' said Draven. 'Ah!' said Arabin.

  'Don't harshen your tongue at me like that, man. I gave clear warning. When Menator first talked empire, I said it would bring disaster.'

  'Menator never wrecked your ship on the Ravlish coast,' said Jon Arabin, with more sharpness than was strictly necessary.

  'Nay, man, but I was here on his orders,' said Draven. 'Aye, and lucky to survive, bereft of friends on a foreign shore.'

  'Well, your problems are over,' said Slagger Mulps. 'We'll soon muscle up a bed for you on my good ship.'

  'So she's your ship now, is she?' said Draven, by way of provocation. 'Is she calling herself the Walrus these days?'

  'Aye, that she is,' said Mulps, unwisely.

  'She's no such gore-wet thing!' said Jo
n Arabin, as honour compelled him to in the face of such a challenge. 'She's the Warwolf, always has been, always will.'

  While the pirate chiefs argued it out, young Drake Douay ballasted himself with a few good ales. But they did him little good, so he complained to the barman accordingly.

  'We'll soon fix that,' said his host, pouring him a good dollop of rice wine. 'This'll vim you up nicely.' Drake drank it down and shook his head. 'More!' he said.

  'First pack down some food,' said the barman. 'Booze is grim stuff for an empty stomach.'

  'Nay, man,' said Drake, shaking his head. 'I don't eat while I'm drinking.'

  The barman grabbed Drake's hair then hauled him close, jamming his nose against the bull-snout gold. Hot bull's breath fanned Drake's face.

  'You'll do what's good for you, boy,' roared the barman, 'or I'll break your ribs in fifty-seven places then jump up and down on your liver, just as your mother would want me to.'

  He released Drake, who, shaken, sat abruptly on a bar stool.

  'Molly!' said the barman. 'Dish the boy some food!'

  The woman with cat-paw hands obliged, slapping down an enormous bowl of polenta, with a mixed assortment of olives and gherkins on the side.

  'Eat, boy, eat!' said the barman. 'And don't tell your mother I didn't take care of you.'

  'Maybe I can't afford to pay for it,' said Drake rebelliously.

  'Food's free, like all good things in life. Molly, start spoon-feeding the boy - he's clearly in need of assistance.'

  Calmly, Molly picked up a spoon. Drake hastily began shovelling victuals into his mouth, ears burning as men behind him laughed.

  'Not so fast, boy,' said the barman, a note of warning in his voice. 'You'll give yourself indigestion.'

  Drake, determined to salvage self-respect through disobedience, gobbed his food faster - but soon had to stop greeding as his belly filled. There was, he realized, a truly awesome amount of polenta in the bowl.

  At last, gorged as a blood-swollen tick, he supped the last lick of polenta, and swallowed - with difficulty - the very last olive.

  'You've left a gherkin,' said Molly.