by Hugh Cook
'Close,' said Drake. 'Very close, lies wealth. The wealth of land. The wealth of horses. The wealth of many slaves. Generations have ignored it. But we are stronger. We are bolder. We shall take it.'
'Wealth where?' bawled a fellow in the crowd. 'In Selzirk?'
'Man,' yelled Drake. 'There's wealth for a pretty arse like yours in Selzirk, to be sure.'
The crowd laughed - and Drake knew he had them.
'Real wealth, we're talking,' said Drake. 'Ours for the taking. The horselands, we're talking about. Rich land there, and horses, and slaves. Aye.'
And now everyone realized what he was talking about. The Lezconcarnau Plains. Bounded by mountains, they lay inland from Runcorn. True, there were many people there - primitive disorganized villages which cropped the land, or raised cattle, or bred horses, or hunted - and feuded with each other constantly.
True, there was wealth there to be had for the taking, if ever a warlord commanded Runcorn.
'Selzirk buys slaves,' said Drake. 'And all the world buys horses. Let us be rich together! Let us be rich! Wealthy! Glorious! We can march tomorrow! We can march today!'
And he waved his sword, conjuring up a tumultuous cheering.
'Who will be war-leaders?' shouted Drake. 'Who wants a war-leader's share of the booty? Prove yourselves forward!'
There was, immediately, a struggling excitement below, as the boldest, most dangerous members of the mob forced themselves forward. Drake had, in effect, just bribed them to throw in their lot with him.
'Steady there!' shouted Drake. 'Make way for the heroes! Don't hold a good man back! Let's see our new leaders!'
And already he was thinking, very very fast, of his next steps. The war leaders would take the city's bravest on a march of conquest into the Lezconcarnau Plains. While they were gone, Drake would consolidate—
He broke off thinking, for he saw Zanya forcing herself forward with the would-be warlords. She was shouting something incoherent. Some strangers were with her, men whom he took to be wizards, for they were dressed in long grey robes and carried with them iron-shod wooden staves.
With shock, he realized what she was shouting: 'Demon-son! Demon-son!'
The men in grey robes, all thirty of them, took up the cry, making it into a chant: ' Demon-son! Demon-son!'
Drake vainly waved his sword, trying to quell the noise. 'I am Arabin lol Arabin,' he shouted.
The stave-men in grey robes were clearing a space on the steps of City Hall. Then a man dressed in robes of purple advanced to the stairs.
'Drake!' he shouted.
And the noise of his voice was awesome.
'Dogs' grief and beetle-dung!' muttered Drake. 'Gouda Muck!'
Then, loudly:
'Old man, we are planning war! For wealth! For conquest! For glory! Let my war-leaders through! The moment demands!'
'Demands?' shouted Muck. 'Who demands? What demands? I tell you who demands! I tell you what demands! A monster demands! The true son of the demon Hagon! A creature spawned from evil! A hell-fiend! He murdered your City Fathers! He drinks poison, yet lives! He butchers babies and eats their livers raw! Rapes your daughters b'y night as they sleep behind bolted iron! Spreads madness, kills cattle, drinks blood, fouls water, flies by night on the winds of the bat and ravages the clouds to thunder!'
At which there was a considerable outbreak of noise.
Then one of the would-be war leaders got up on the shoulders of his comrades and cried:
'It's our city, boys! Runcorn! Let Runcorn lead Runcorn! The boy's bad luck whatever he is! Run him out of town, that's what I say! Let Runcorn lead Runcorn!'
The slogan proved popular.
Thus it was that Drake was chased out of Runcorn before evening, hair shaved off, body smeared with ashes and molasses, and he ran panting and weeping with his hands tied behind his back until the rabble grew tired of chasing him with sticks and stones and foul language into the bargain.
And as for Gouda Muck?
Why, he would have chased Drake himself, and beaten him to death on the spot, if he could have - for to rid the world of the Demon-son was part of his sacred mission.
But the slogan 'Let Runcorn lead Runcorn!' generated such a wave of riotous prejudice that Muck, even with his thirty stave-men to help him, was lucky to be able to fight his way to the docks and escape from Runcorn on a small fishing boat.
And Zanya?
She went with Muck.
And in the days that followed, there was much fighting in Runcorn as the would-be warlords sorted out their order of precedence. And after that there were a few halfhearted expeditions into the Lezconcarnau Plains. But the tribesmen proved tougher than expected, and the Empire Which Could Have Been never was.
42
Harvest Plains: nation north of Rice Empire, west of Chenameg, south of Runcorn and east of Central Ocean; main cities are Selzirk (the capital) and Androlmarphos; rule is by 'kings', regional and city governors appointed by the 'Kingmaker' (currently Farfalla) who is in turn chosen from the common people by the Regency.
No time but sun time. A buzzard wheeling over barefoot fields. Drake at labour, the weather opening cracks deep in his leather-tough heels. Shiny black crickets at scramble in the heat-cracked land.
Nights in a bunkhouse, staring at nothing, scarcely listening to the peons yattering away in their incomprehensible Field Churl. Waking deep in the night. Listening to creaking snores, a snort, a murmur of night-talk. Tasting his own arm with his own lips. Salt of the day still heavy on his flesh.
Solitary comfort.
Pay day: wages scarcely better than slavery.
Thus Drake Douay lived after exile from Runcorn, doing farm work on an estate near Kelebes, in the Harvest Plains. It was better than starving - though not by much.
He was nineteen years old, and very far from home. And unable to return there, for Stokos was ruled by converts to Goudanism, who would murder Drake if they caught him, on the grounds that he was the son of the demon Hagon.
In the fields, he attacked weeds with a hoe, thinking
how much better that implement would be if its blade was made of steel instead of sharpened wood. He scared birds. He dug and deepened irrigation ditches so a precious trickle of water could dampen the dusty fields. He helped care for the oxen which turned the field-pumps. He spread dung. And he thought.
Often it was Zanya he thought of.
Sometimes, gripped by mutilating rage, he dreamed of knifing her, battering her, smashing and gutting, wrecking her beauty to a corpse. For had she not denied him, abandoned him, betrayed him? Surely she deserved to die.
Other times, he imagined scenes of tender reconciliation. He would exlain why he had neglected her so in those last few months in Runcorn. He had been working for them, yes, securing the foundations of their future. That was important. To be strong together, united against the world. . .
Then he would think of Gouda Muck, who had poisoned the world with his madness. He would brood about murder, torture, maiming, hacking, smashing. And would attack weeds with hoe, working the anger out of his system.
Retiring to the bunkhouse at evening to drink water and eat the slave-mash served to labourers like himself. Evening . . . Untranslated voices . . . Sleep. . . Dreams . . .
Late in the season, he dreamed of Zanya. Not for the first time. But on this occasion, her face softened with pleasure, and they toasted each other, then spoke most intimately with hands and with lips. Waking, he knew he had forgiven her - if there was anything to forgive. And knew, too, that he was ready for his next move.
Yet what should that next move be?
Drake had no idea, but took to walking in to Kelebes every evening from the estate where he was working. In the town, he sought out the few travellers who were still
moving north and south along the Salt Road, and asked them of the world. One evening, he heard a rumour of events in Hok. The next day, he did not go barefoot to the fields, but put on his boots and set off south, tak
ing the road to Selzirk.
On his long march south to the capital of the Harvest Plains, he begged (or stole) what food and water he needed. And sought news at every opportunity. Everything he heard confirmed the original rumour.
When King Tor had invaded Stokos, rallying many loyal supporters to his banner, his forces had suffered a terrible defeat. King Tor had disappeared from the sight of the world.
Now it transpired that Tor had survived, retreating north across the few leagues of sea which separated the northern coast of Stokos from the rugged mountains of Hok, an almost uninhabited province of the Harvest Plains. There he had gathered his strength, and, after many moons of preparation, was beginning to make war on Stokos. Parties of highly trained assassins were infiltrating Stokos, sent to kill or kidnap selected enemies of the Rightful King.
Drake grew increasingly excited.
Lord Menator's attempt to murder King Tor by sending him unsupported to war had failed. The Rightful King lived! Therefore Drake's hopes of a throne on Stokos lived!
Once he reached Selzirk, he would seek further news of Tor. Then he would go down the Velvet River to Androlmarphos. And, from there, south along the coast to Hok. He would place his skills at the service of King Tor. Oh, the ogre king had spoken roughly enough the last time they met, in the Inner Sleeve on Knock. But that was back on the Greaters, when the king was riding high. In exile, fighting a desperate war against dangerous odds, he would surely see the virtues of a young hero like Drake Douay in a better light.
Would there be danger in serving King Tor in a fight against Stokos? Danger is everywhere. Whatever lies ahead, it can't be worse than what I've been through. Anyway. It's the chance. Aye. To fight. To win power. So I can one day settle scores with Gouda Muck. And Menator! And shit-faced Sully Yot!
Could he work some of his friends into his plans for the future? Could King Tor use some good warlord captains? Of course he could!
Maybe he could make Jon Arabin an admiral or such. If it came from the king, not from me, the offer might suit friend Warwolf right enough. Better than being first mate for Abousir Belench, or whatever he is at the moment!
And the Walrus? For him, nothing! If he'd not started that trouble back in Penvash, life would be that much simpler. I'd have stayed with the pirates. I might still have Zanya, aye.
Thinking of Zanya made him want to cry.
None of that nonsense, man! We're over that! It's the future to be thinking of now!
In Hok, perhaps, he might meet his brother Heth. If Heth still lived.
And that would be worth the walk. Man, that would be worth waiting for.
43
Selzirk: capital of the Harvest Plains, stands on north bank of Velvet River at confluence with Shouda Flow.
Outer wall: Ol Ilkeen ('The Oval')
Inner wall: Ol Unamon ('The Buckle'); runs in an '8', dividing the Four Worlds (Santrim, Unkrana, Jone and Wake).
Santrim: eastern (upstream) loop of the '8'; houses rule, law, teaching, and religion; at its centre stands citadel-palace of the Kingmaker Farfalla.
Unkrana: western (downstream) loop of the '8', devoted to commercial offices: banking, insurance, guild administration.
Kesh: fortified military gate-tower at waist of the '8', controlling flow of traffic between the Four Worlds.
Jone: dockland area on southern (riverside) flank, housing warehouses, shipyards, prisons, military barracks, servant quarters, bars and brothels.
Wake: northern flank, devoted to shops, slave markets, horse markets, auction floors, craft work and light industry.
It was late summer when Drake arrived at Selzirk. He had been there once before: arriving by night, chained to the oar of a river-galley. But the ship had gone back downstream again before dawn.
Drake was not molested by the guards on the outer side of the gate, though in theory they were supposed to search and interrogate him; he walked through to the inner side, to the pleasure, wealth and opportunity of Selzirk.
Maybe when I catch up with King Tor, I'll have him make me ambassador to Selzirk. Now that's a thought! Wine and women, aye, that's the way to fight a war. I'd be more use to him here, surely, than doing something daft with a spear. Likely I could talk up an army - or bribe up an army. Wonder how much gold old Tor has got to spare?
Lord Dreldragon, King Tor's future ambassador to Selzirk, decided he had a duty to explore the city a bit before heading for Hok to collect his ambassadorial credentials (and the gold which must surely go with such credentials) from the king.
Pity I can't send someone else to Hok to pick up the credentials for me. Aye, that's a thought. Maybe I could front up to the palace, explain how things stand. Tor made me Lord Dreldragon, didn't he? Made me his heir? And if he's said hasty things since, well. . . we needn 't make too much of that, it was probably just the phase of the moon or something. If I'm heir to Stokos, that makes me a prince at least. Surely.
If I talk things through proper with someone in high places, likely lean have an ambassador's house on credit. A couple of ambassadorial concubines, too. And someone to run messages down to Tor, just to square things up with him. Credit, that's the stuff! With all of Stokos to my claim . . . why, likely I can borrow my own weight of gold from the banks! My own weight? Weight of a bullock, more like.
Thinking such happy thoughts, Drake idled through bustling streets full of noise, music, crushing faces, sweating armpits, slap-trap sandals, iron-shod boots, kif, opium, dogshit, bananas brought in theScattered Islands, oranges from Hexagon, and whores from all nations.
And what else?
Why, hawkers for a dozen contending faiths. Slaves, merchants, scribes, law clerks and letter-writers. Beggars, pimps, peddlars, and people wanting to sell him tin, copper, grain, silks, ceramics, or shares in the South Sea Company. All yelling, screaming, pushing, hustling, jostling, swearing, grinning, smirking, grabbing and grasping.
Drake was staggered by the impact of so many strangers. The jabbering crowds of foreigners irritated him so much that he finally raised his voice and bawled, in his native tongue:
'Does anyone here speak Ligin?'
But he was ignored, for one shouting madman more or less meant nothing to Selzirk.
To his surprise, Drake saw many women with red skins on the streets, and red hair to match. He wondered why there were so many Ebrell islanders in Selzirk - not realizing that' these females were simply followers of a fashion in dye. Each, of course, reminded him bitterly of Zanya.
Enough seen. Time to start making inquiries. Accordingly, Drake grabbed a scholarly-looking fellow.
'Hey, man,' said Drake. 'What news of Hok and all?'
'Blon glayV said the scholar, Startled. 'Alat onlenjin?'
'Don't you speak Galish?' said Drake. 'Aagh, I thought you an educated man and all!'
Drake released his Scholar and sought information elsewhere. After he drew a blank with another half-dozen people, he started scratching his head a bit. Surely Selzirk had to be teeming with people who spoke Galish. Where could they all be hiding?
Were plenty of people on the river spoke it, when I were slaving on that galley-thing. Aye, then. That's the answer. The river. Boats mean trade and trade means Galish. I'll find some ship-people to talk to me.
Drake soon found his way through Kesh to Jone, the dockland area. It was busy today, crowded with soldiers who were being ferried across the river to the further bank. Drake wandered around watching the soldiers, and watching fools lose money to a quick-talking rogue who hid a lima bean under one of three little cups, shuffled these then asked assembled suckers to guess its hiding place.
Strange! They still play that game? Well, I suppose they do. Fools never learn, do theyl
Drake heard one fool bemoaning his gambling losses in Galish to a comrade, who, having little time for sympathy, excused himself and left the loser friendless.
'Hey, man,' said Drake to the sucker, 'you speak Galish, isn't it?'
'I do, young sir,' said his c
hosen fool. 'Could you lend a poor man some money?'
'Nay,' said Drake, 'for I'm so poor myself that my head is mortgaged in half a dozen places.'
But Drake lent an ear to the man's sorrows, and that in itself was almost as welcome as cash. Then Drake asked why all of Selzirk was built on the northern bank of the river, and none on the southern.
'Why, young sir, for the southern bank is lower, hence floods in winter when the river runs high. So the soldiers have luck to be leaving now, otherwise they'd be wading to their waists in the mud.'
'Where go the soldiers?' said Drake.
'Why, to Hok, of course.'
'To Hok!' said Drake, astonished and delighted. 'To aid King Tor, is it? To fight for the Rightful King against Sudder Vemlouf, priest of the Flame and Usurper of Stokos?'
'No no no!' said the sucker, near killing himself with laughter.
'What's so funny?' said Drake, fierce and angry.
'Why, haven't you heard?' said the sucker. 'Our rulers have lost patience with the ogre-bandit at last.'
'The ogre-bandit!' said Drake, in outrage. 'That's a royal-born king you're talking of!'
'No;' said the fool, 'it's a foreign outlaw, that's what it is. A dirty, stinking, cow-raping ogre. A bandit. A stinking foreign bandit who was run off Stokos for crimes against humanity.'
'Obviously you don't understand, and neither do your rulers,' said Drake, trying to keep his temper. 'If only King Tor had had an ambassador in Selzirk, you'd understand much better.'
'Oh, three men came from Hok a month ago, claiming to be his ambassadors,' said the sucker-fool. 'Which was adding insult to injury.'
'What injury?' said Drake. 'How does Tor injure Selzirk by fighting for the crown which is rightfully his?'
'He injures us, young fool,' said the fool, 'by running his rag-tag rabble through the mountains of Hok, which is a province of the Harvest Plains, in case you didn't know. That's invasion, isn't it? That's why the soldiers march forth - to push Tor out of our territory. To push him into the sea.'
