by Hugh Cook
Plovey manifested himself.
'What do you wish to discuss with me, dear boy?' asked Plovey.
'Proof!' said Drake. 'The proof of poison. Read my story, man, it's all written down there, scribes and all have been hacking away at it for days. The story tells you I suffer no harm from poison. I'll take poison as the proof of it.'
'What poison would you have us give you?' asked Plovey gently.
'Why, anything that's lethal! Arsenic, strychnine, ratsbane, hemlock, cyanide or worse. Or you could set snakes to bite me, aye, or scorpions, or wild dogs foaming at the mouth, whatever you want. It's proof, proof, man, proof by Investigation, that's what you'd be doing, Investigating me, yes.'
'Darling one,' said Plovey, stroking Drake's hand. 'Do you think to escape us so easily? I don't want you dead. Not till I've had the truth from you.'
'But,' said Drake, desperately, 'you can risk my death, surely. You said you had magic people and such who could get the truth from me even if I were dead.'
'Oh yes, oh yes,' said Plovey. 'So I do, indeed. But the work of thaumaturgists is slow, and the expense is appalling. No, my dear young friend - no poison.'
'But I don't want it to kill myself!' wailed Drake. 'I want it to prove my story!'
Plovey soothed Drake's sweating brow.
'Darling boy,' said Plovey, 'you'll never come within a thousand years of poison. Not while I've got anything to do with it.'
'But you must let me prove my story!'
'You cannot,' said Plovey, running a gentle hand over the nape of Drake's neck. Smiling. Sweetly. 'You cannot prove your story, for that's all it is. A story. Nonsense about flying ships and sea serpents. What we want, my dear, is the truth. That's all.'
'Would you like my body?' asked Drake, hoping desperately. 'We could come to a very nice arrangement.'
'Ah, darling boy!' said Plovey. T regret to say I have never been able to conjure up a lust for male flesh. So many opportunities lost! Yet the sad truth is, I like women only. I'm married to one. She satisfies my needs entirely.'
'Then tell me tell me tell me,' said Drake. 'Please, please, for the love of mercy, tell me what the others are saying, so I can say it too. I only want to please. For the love of mercy, tell!'
'I love not mercy,' said Plovey, making ready to leave. 'Only justice. Be assured, dear boy, that everything done to you here is entirely legal. Torture is an acknowledged road to truth, and we will follow that road until we get the truth.'
He left, humming to himself, ease in his stride and confidence in his carriage.
The next day, Drake was strapped down for torture as per usual, but there was a change in the normal routine. For, instead of his usual interrogators, in came Thodric Jarl.
'They've brought me in on the case because they said you were proving hard to break,' said Jarl. 'I'm sure we can soon change that. Cut off his feet!'
And a minion set saw to ankles.
'Stop! Stop!' screamed Drake. 'I'll tell, I'll tell, anything, everything.'
'Oh, we've heard that before,' said Jarl. 'This time we're going to cut your feet off to show you we mean business. Then we can start thinking about serious torture.'
Jarl nodded to the man with the saw.
The blade ripped into Drake's flesh.
Drake screamed. Then:
'Stop!'cried a voice.
It was Plovey, from the Regency. Rescue! Yes, Drake was sure of it. Just from the look in Plovey's eyes he knew. The man had come with news which would save him.
'Why are you interfering?' asked Jarl. 'We were near to breaking him.'
'I'm interfering,' said Plovey, in excitement, 'because his story may well be true. Let him loose! Bandage his wounds!'
So Drake was released, and bandages put on his ankles, where the saw had cut through his thin shin-flesh right down to the bone. Then he was led from the torture chamber to another place entirely, a long hall lined with tapestries. Many men stood on either side.
' Walk down the hall, dear boy,' said Plovey.' Walk down the hall, looking to left and to right. Stop when you see someone you know.'
'Very well,' said Drake.
He walked. Looking to left and to right. So many men. How normal they looked! Neat beards, clean clothes, well-fed faces. As if the whole world was not a rolling nightmare but a place where decent folk could live decent lives untroubled. Aye. Well. Perhaps, from their point of view. . .
Inthathall, amongst so many people, Drake felt the desolation of utter loneliness. None of these people cared for him. He meant nothing to them. He experienced a surge of nostalgia for his time in the Collosnon prison pit on the island of Chag-jalak, when he had shared food with Whale Mike, Salaman Meerkat and all those others .Aye. Ish Ulpin with his walnuts. Jon Disaster and the orange. Harly Burpskin, dragging out that great wodge of salami.
Aye. With friends it's not so bad. Whatever happens. I wish I was with those jokers now. Those that still live.
Drake stopped.
'This man,' he said, 'this man's Andranovory.'
'Yes,' said Plovey, mildly. 'Yes, we know that.'
'I'll kill you!' said Andranovory, who did not try to do any such thing since he was standing between two soldiers. 'A traitor twice!'
'Betrayed you?' said Drake. 'Man, you and your stories got me into so much trouble—' 'There was Burntos—' 'At Burntos—'
'Now now,' said Plovey, in soothing tones. 'Come along, we've business to attend to.'
And on down the hall they went, until Drake stopped again.
'This,' said Drake, 'is Melf Keif, the burlesque actor from the Harlequin Theatre.'
'Why, so it is,' said Plovey. 'It's months since I've been: I must go again. Come along now, he's not the man we're interested in.'
'Who are we interested in, then?' said Drake. 'And where do all these people come from?'
'Most of these people are tax defaulters,' said Plovey. 'We use them for . . . for what we do in this hall. It's part of their punishment for them to thus part with their time. Andranovory - why, he was just there for my own amusement. But the people we're really interested in - why, march on, and keep your eyes about you. You'll see.'
And on down the hall they went. Drake wondered what the hell was going on in this hall. He still didn't understand. Maybe he should think it through. But he was so worn, so tired. Shattered. Aye. Like a cracked-up statue just ready to fall into pieces. A friend. If only a friend—
But—
Who was that? Was it. . .? Yes, it was!
'Jon!' cried Drake. 'Jon Arabin! Oh Jon, man, it's sweet to see you! You've saved me, Jon!'
And, crying out thus, he ran in delight to the man he had recognized. It was indeed Jon Arabin, the Warwolf himself. Who would make everything all right. Who would tell Plovey it was all true, everything Drake said, he meant to tell the truth, he wanted to tell truths, had told them.
'Jon!' said Drake, joyfully. 'How did you get here? You've saved my life!'
'If I've saved yours then you've cost me mine,' said Arabin heavily. 'I had them half-way convinced I was a Galish merchant until you came in.'
Drake, shocked, stepped back. His face seemed to wreck itself. His mouth crumpled into misery. He moaned. Next moment, he was weeping.
'You weren't to know,' said Arabin. 'You weren't to know.'
And he stepped forward, meaning to embrace Drake. But guards grabbed Arabin, and other guards grabbed Drake. Both struggled as Jon Arabin was marched away.
Plovey put a hand on Drake's shoulder.
'That's good,' said Plovey. 'That's good. You've proved our prisoner to be the man we thought he was. You've also proved your story.'
'You bastard!' sobbed Drake. 'You filthy bastard! You made me betray my best friend!'
'I,' said Plovey, smoothly, sadly, 'am but a servant of the law. You've proved your story - is that not something? Come, walk on. The game's not finished.'
'I'll not hunt out anyone else for you,' said Drake. 'I'd rather die!'
'Nevertheless,' said Plovey, 'walk on down the hall. Walking can do no harm, can it? Come now, darling boy - proceed. Or would you rather be dragged?'
Drake proceeded.
And, while he had thought he would betray no others to Plovey, suddenly he saw a familiar face, a green-haired green-bearded green-eyed face belonging to a gangling man with extra-long arms, each arm ending in a double-thumbed fist.
'You!' said Drake, jabbing a finger at the Walrus as if to kill him. T know who you are, standing there so sweet and innocent!'
'Who is it, darling boy?' said Plovey, in a voice sweet with the melody of triumph.
'It's Slagger Mulps, the Walrus himself,' said Drake. 'You know him from the truths I've told you. Aye. It's all down on paper. A cruel man, aye. Gave me to Andranovory when I first became his prisoner. Aye. Then An'vory hung me from my ankles by way of torture when I wouldn't give him a suck.'
'Drake!' said the Walrus, with grief in his voice. 'Don't speak against me as an enemy! What's past is past! I took you south with me to Burntos, didn't I? You stowed away, yet I let you live.'
'Aye, and challenged me to death when I got back to the Teeth,' said Drake. 'Then made that mad challenge with Jon Arabin in the forest of Penvash. A lot of trouble that caused, too! But, man, I'd pardon you for that, except for one thing. You're the enemy. Jon Arabin's enemy. And any enemy of his is a mortal foe of mine. If he's to die, then so should you.'
'Man,' said the Walrus. 'You've got things wrong, for things have changed. I'm now his blood-brother true.'
Thus Drake was a second time dismayed. And his discomfort increased when the Walrus, overcome with sorrow and the fear of death, went down on his knees, sobbing.
'Come,' said Plovey. 'No need to listen to that. We're finished.'
He led Drake from the hall to a bare stone room where half a dozen guards stood waiting. Drake wiped the tears from his eyes. Took some deep, slow breaths.
What's done is done. Can I set it to rights? Maybe. But I'll need a lawyer. So no more grief. Business first.
'Right,' said Drake, in a voice which was as much business as he could manage. 'Time for me to be going.'
'Where to?' asked Plovey, who seemed amused.
'Why, to get a lawyer to start with,' said Drake. 'Aye. We'll get petitions drawn up, yes. Asking clemency for Walrus and Warwolf. Pardons and such.'
'You're not going anywhere,' said Plovey. 'Seize him!'
The guards grabbed Drake. He was astonished.
'What's this?' said Drake.
'This,' said Plovey, 'is your arrest. It's the consequence of the stories you've been telling, both to me and to others.'
'But those stories were true!' said Drake. 'I was telling the truth all along! You know that now! You've had proof of it!'
'Indeed we have,' said Plovey. 'So you stand condemned by your own mouth. For your story holds you to be a pirate.'
'And that amuses you?'
'Indeed it does. For you see, dear boy, the penalty for piracy is to be tortured to death.'
Kicking and screaming, Drake was carried away by the guards. And Plovey, smiling sweetly, went' home to the charms of his lawful wife, with the feeling of a day's work well done.
48
Elkor Alish: Rovac warrior who accompanied Morgan Hearst on a quest for the death stone, a weapon of surpassing power; later attempted to use death stone against Hearst and others; Hearst lost his right hand while helping thwart the attempt.
Before Drake was incarcerated in the cell where he would wait until the death-torturers were ready, his gaolers stripped him of his clothes.
'You can't leave me naked!' protested Drake.
'Of course we can,' said a cheerful turnkey. 'Don't worry, me little rantipole. You won't be wanting clothes much longer. You'll be dead in a couple of days.'
So Drake was consigned to his cell, and there he lay on a mat of filth which had once (a very long time ago) been straw. And wept. For his life, for his liberty, for the horrors of the world.
He could see now the error of his ways.
He had done so many things that were wrong, yes, badly wrong, criminally wrong.
'For a start,' muttered Drake, 'I should never have run off with Muck's mastersword. No, that was a low, cowardly thing to do. I should have caught the old bugger in a back alley one dark night, yes, and cut his heart out. That would have saved a lot of trouble.'
And later, in Runcorn:
'I should never have tried to rule so sweetly. That's not my style. No. I should have got together a pack of
knifemen, yes, to do for the opposition subtly. Why, when Garimanthea turned against me, I should have had him jugulated proper fast. No playing around!' And more recently, in Selzirk:
T should never have gone into Muck's temple to try to sweet-talk Zanya. That was ego speaking, aye. Too much pride. Hubris, in fact.'
Actually (to be pedantically precise) what he said was not 'hubris' but 'me thinking I could walk across fifty leagues of fresh-laid eggs in lead-shod boots without breaking a one of them'. But by that he meant 'hubris', for he had the concept right enough, even though he knew no precise word in any language to express it.
I should never have gone into that temple, no,' said Drake. 'I should have got together fifty men with knives and hatchets, aye, all bribed with promises of treasure. Aye, that's the way. Send others in to kill, burn, plunder, kidnap. I was trying to do things lawful-like, and that's how I fell afoul of the law. A big mistake, man.'
Yes. He should have organized a big raid to kill out the temple. Then, when he had Zanya in chains in some private place, he could have started talking some sense into her head.
'But I really thought she'd come with me,' moaned Drake. 'Man, I really did. I thought we had something going there.'
There is no telling how long these recriminations might have lasted, or where they might have led, for the very next day another prisoner was flung into Drake's cell: a garrulous old man named Shix, who had been imprisoned for brewing bad beer and worse wine.
After that, Drake never got a moment's peace, for Shix suffered verbal diarrhoea while awake, and kept rambling on (though less coherently) even when asleep. If he had said something interesting, that might have been excusable, but he was a dreary old pedant who thought himself the world's best brewer and its best winemaker as well.
In the days which followed, Drake learnt far more than he wanted to about yeast and hops, casks and grapes and zymome and malt, gluten and wheat, the rape which remains after wine-making, the derelictions of the average vintner, and hundreds of other technicalities in which he had no conceivable interest.
All this talk of wine and beer set him to thinking about the magical brew he had tasted in Brennan, which had left him drunk and free-floating. At the time, he had made a resolution to seek out more of the stuff from wizards.
Aye.
And if he had resolutely pursued intoxication, he would never have become ensnared in this terrible city. He would have gone somewhere comparatively safe, such as the terror-lands south of Drangsturm, where there were only the monsters of the Swarms to contend with, and not lawyers and judges and such. But no, he had not taken the hint that magical liquor had offered him; instead, he had tamely accepted a life of sobriety, and was now to pay a fearful price for his foolishness.
But when?
When were they going to seize him, and strap him to a torture table, and subject him to a slow, lingering death of utmost agony?
Drake got so curious about this vital question that finally he asked a gaoler.
'When are we going to torture you to death?' said the gaoler, scratching his head. 'Why, I don't rightly know. What's your name?'
'Drake Douay.'
'Ah! Drake Douay! So this is where you finished up! We all thought you'd escaped. Wait around, me younker, and I'll find out.'
And the gaoler waddled away, leaving Drake to think:
Me and my big mouth!
The gaoler returned later in the
day.
'Well,' he said. 'There's some good news and some bad news.'
'I'll have the good news first.'
'The good news is that you've already been tortured to death. Legally, I mean. When it was your turn and we couldn't find you, the executioners put a dog on the table and made do with that. A legal fiction, you understand?'
'Yes,' said Drake, who thought he did even though he didn't. 'So can I go? Do I get out of here?'
'Well no. For that's the bad news. Legally, you're dead. I've sighted your death certificate meself. We can't have dead men walking round the city, can we?'
'So what happens now?'
'Why, me pretty little younker, you grows yourself older. Then in time you dies, thus matching reality with the paperwork. Till then, you sit there nice and happy, another breathing corpse for the auditors to count come Assessment Day.'
'What's Assessment Day?'
'Oh, that's technical, that's technical,' said the turnkey, who didn't rightly understand accounting practices but was unwilling to confess his ignorance.
So Drake was left to linger in his desolation of filth, squalor, dungeon darkness and perpetual hunger. Sometimes, he heard rumours of the outside world: that the sun had died, that a forest had marched west out of Chenameg, that a thousand dragons had ravaged Selzirk. All kinds of wildness circulated in the muttering gloom.
Old man Shix died, and his corpse was taken away. Shix had irritated Drake intensely, but now he longed to have his companion back. In fact, Drake got some of the old man back as part of his next dole of soup, but he did not know that, and thus gained no comfort from it.
Sometimes, he dreamed of Zanya, of her frank lust, of the tender joys of her warm body ... of her smile, her laugh, her joy in kittens and ducklings and silks and roast chicken ... of the brightness of her fingernails, which were the cleanest he had seen in his life ... of her randy jokes and her wild tales about the temple of the Orgy God in the Ebrells ... of her hair and her skin flaming red in a
room lit by a blood-warm sun, her thighs enveloping. . . Had he imagined her?
