The Walrus and the Warwolf coaaod-4

by Hugh Cook

  He had learnt a great many very long words and complicated ideas in his theory classes, but there were still enormous gaps in his education.

  'To embellish is to decorate,' said Miphon patiently. 'Veracity is another word for truth.''Great is the wisdom of the elven lords!' said Drake.

  T did not say that I was an elf,' said Miphon, 'only that I am of elven descent. Not all of the powers of the People are mine. Only some.'

  Actually, there is less magic in the world than most folk think, and certainly less magic than Miphon claimed. For – regardless of the truth or otherwise of his claim to elven descent – the wizard Miphon was most certainly not fay. He was not telepathic. (Well, he could read the minds of rocks, stones and the lesser animals – such as the mole, phoenix, basilisk, badger, rat, mouse, dragon, gryphon, rabbit, cow and codfish – but such skill is of very little practical use.)So how did he know about Drake?Simple.

  Drake's sister had already seen Miphon to brief him in depth regarding her brother's name, appearance and mission.

  'Have no fear,' said Miphon, 'for I will do you no harm, even though I am mighty in power. Instead, I will tell you how to resolve your problem.''You will cure me of love?' said Drake.

  'Yes,' said Miphon, handing Drake a little tablet. 'Dissolve this in water to make a philtre which is a certain cure for love. Drink the philtre by the light of a full moon. Turn round widershins. Kneel down. Kiss the ground three times, each time saying the name of the woman you love. Then work as hard as you can for the next thirty days, doing every task your master sets you – or twice as much, if possible. That will cure you of love, for certain.''Does the moon have to be full?' said Drake.

  'Oh yes,' said Miphon. 'For this magic is animated by the power of the moon herself. Only by the full moon can such power be conjured.'Drake was very impressed.This was great magic indeed!

  In truth, the tablet contained nothing but a little salt and sugar. But Miphon, who was a great believer in the power of the placebo, had found he could cure a truly staggeringrange of conditions with such little tablets. 'Happy?' said Miphon.

  'Well … if you can give me this kind of pill . . . why not a philtre to make the lady love me?'

  'If you must have the lady,' said Miphon, 'then woo her. Pledge your love with poetry and flowers. Visit her daily. Let her know the sincerity of your devotions. Speak to her prettily, and persist. To destroy is easier than to create. Magic can destroy your love easily – but cannot create love for you in her.'

  'It's all very well to talk of wooing,' said Drake. 'But how can I? She's in the leper colony. It's death to enter – particularly with that blue leprosy on the loose.'

  'Leprosy is hard to catch,' said Miphon. 'As for blue leprosy – that's a different disease entirely. A kind of pox, only to be caught when man lies with woman. It's slow to develop, sometimes taking years to appear. That's why the nature of the disease is seldom properly understood.''I see,' said Drake.

  'Trust me,' said Miphon. 'If you visit the leper colony, you'll likely come away unscathed. Yes, even if you visit a hundred times. Do you have any other questions?'

  'Only this,' said Drake. 'Do wizards pork women? Or do they go for men?'Miphon refused to be upset by this rudeness.

  'We limit every indulgence,' said Miphon gravely. 'We must, because of the demands of the Balance.''What is this Balance?' said Drake.

  'Many have asked,' said Miphon, 'but few have been answered. You know your future now. You have magic to cure you of love, if you wish. If not – then woo the lady.'

  And with that, Drake had to be content.

  That very evening, Miphon quit Stokos on a dirty, wallowing brig taking coal from Cam to Narba. The next morning, Drake was discussing the wizard with his sister, and saying what a marvellous mind-reading elf he was, when she broke into peals of laughter.

  'He's no elf!' she said. 'There's no such thing as elves.' ' Then how did he know who I was?' said Drake.' How did he know what I wanted?' 'How do you think?' said she. Drake put his mind to it.

  And, since his mind had been rigorously trained in logic (and rhetoric, debate, analysis, and half a dozen other useless things besides) he soon came up with an answer which was claw-sharp and correct.

  'Well,' saidDrake, 'sothatwizardwasatleastthree-parts sham. So what about his tablet? What about his advice?'

  ' The answer to the tablet is easy,' said his sister.' See what an alchemist makes of it.'

  So Drake went looking for an alchemist. He should have known better. After all, as part of his apprenticeship theory he had already learnt that there is no truth in alchemy, astrology, poetry, politics, paternity or weather forecasts. But Drake was young – and there is much the young can only learn the hard way.

  Drake found an alchemist soon enough: a muttering, gnomish old man named Villet Vate, who had a dark narrow shop which he shared with moths, woodlice and a multitude of spiders.' Come in, come in!' said Vate.

  And Drake entered the shop; breathed its mysterious atmosphere of menthol, cajuput oil, cloves and camphor; breathed dust as well, and sneezed; gazed, open-mouthed, at mysterious stills, alembics and antique devices of unknown function.

  'What's. . . what's this?'he said, touching a huge contraption of strangely-wrought metal.

  'Ah, that,' said Vate, rubbing his hands together. 'That's a telescope. Very ancient, very ancient. All the best things are old.''A telescope?'

  'A device for looking on the faces of the stars,' said Vate. 'I can't quite make it work yet. But I'll get there, I'll get there.'

  (He was over-optimistic, for what he thought was a telescope was in fact an electron microscope. And the device with which he hoped to transmute lead to gold was a zymometer. And his latest purchase – a curious metal sphere washed out of the sea by a storm – was not the magical treasure chest he imagined it was, but a bomb powerful enough to blow Stokos right off the map.)

  'And what's . . . what's this?' said Drake, pointing to a very intricate device of interlocking wheels, arcs, crescents, levers and slides.

  'That?' said Vate. 'Ah, that's an astrolabe. It tells sun, moon, tide and time. It's elven work. Very ancient. Very rare. But for sale, if you've gold sufficient.''No thanks,' said Drake. 'What I want is an assay.''Of what?'

  'This tablet. But – mind! – I want some left when you've finished with it.'

  'Break the tablet in half, then,' said Vate. 'Half is all I'll need.'

  Drake did as he was bid, then watched with intense interest as Vate dropped the sample into a mortar, ground it with a pestle, added seawater and sulphur and the urine of a rabbit, stirred the mixture with the feather of a white owl, decanted it, weighed it, adulterated it with snuff, stared at it through a magnifying glass, sniffed it, then pronounced:

  'This tablet contains horn of unicorn, ground-up ginseng and essence of oyster, plus talcum powder, soap and a trace of cocaine.''Will that cure me of love?' said Drake.'Nay, man,' said the alchemist. 'It's an aphrodisiac!''Then what cure is there for love?' said Drake.

  'This!' said Vate, holding up a sharp knife. 'Come into the back room. I'll cure you for life in a moment.''No thanks,' said Drake.

  And went away severely disillusioned with wizards and the world. But, since half the tablet remained, he took it. And, while that half a tablet contained no more than salt and sugar, Drake's faith in its qualities was such that he raged in lust for a week.

  At this point it should probably be pointed out – in defence of the poor unicorn, which is increasingly rare these days – that there is no true aphrodisiac known to either man or woman (with the sole exception of propinquity, which does not come in tablet form).

  In the end, Drake's lust diminished to normal levels (high, but not high enough to please him) and life itself returned to something close to normal.

  Once more his main concern was his first sword. When was he going to get to make it? He dared not pester Gouda Muck, for fear the old man's temper would turn sour. But, in a frenzy of impatience, he watched Muck's
slow but steady progress through his order list.

  Just by watching, Drake began to learn a surprising amount. He was amazed at how much had escaped his notice in the last four years. Well, as the saying goes: 'One can achieve either perfection of the religious life or perfection of the practical life.'

  Drake, till now, had always chosen religion over practicalities. But, if he had to go easy on religion in order to bring his apprenticeship to a successful conclusion, then he would make the necessary sacrifice.

  'Come on, Muck,' muttered Drake to Drake, morning and night. 'Finish those swords! I want to get started on mine!'

  5

  Name: Gouda Muck. Birthplace: Cam. Occupation: swordsmith.

  Status: taxpayer; senior citizen; second-best swordsmith on Stokos.

  Description: old and ugly (Drake's opinion); wise and dignified (his own opinion); a waste of skin (his mother's opinion). .

  Residence: Hardhammer Forge, Ironbird Street, Cam, Stokos.

  Gouda Muck was an atheist.

  He was, quite possibly, the only atheist in the city of Cam.' Most citizens enjoyed the practice of religion – indeed, for many devout souls, its consolations were all that made life worth living. But Gouda Muck was born to be a dissident. He refused to believe in the demon Hagon, far less to worship that formidable eater of souls.

  He also avoided those sacred religious duties usually accepted even by unbelievers, viz:T patronizing the temple casinos;t copulating with the temple prostitutes;t playing the temple numbers game;t going to the temple cockfights;f participating in the human sacrifices.

  His main objection to all the above activities was that they cost an exorbitant amount of money.'Religion,' said Muck, 'is a racket.'

  He could get away with talk like that, for he was the second-best swordsmith on Stokos, where metalworkers were valued highly.

  Gouda Muck lived with three boys, but slept with none of them. One was a deaf mute who shovelled coal, worked the bellows, and exorcised the minor demons of puberty by raping chickens. The other two, Drake and Yot, were older, virgins no longer though beardless still.

  The fair-haired Drake had, till now, been very religious: he loved to drink, gamble, fight and swear, and relished the privileges which came with having a sister in the temple. Unfortunately, there had been times when he had overdone things somewhat – and the people of Stokos, like people elsewhere, frowned on religious mania.

  'Balance,' said Drake to himself, 'that's the thing. I've got to find a balance between the pleasures of religion and the demands of the world of work.'

  Yot, on the other hand, had no such problems to grapple with, for he was a spiritless fellow, a lank pale stripling with a runny nose (an allergy to coal dust made his life miserable with rhinitis) and warts.

  And it was with Yot that the trouble began. It began only nine days after Drake saw the wizard Miphon – that is, just twenty days after Drake's ordeal at sea. It began when Yot, refusing to accept expense as excuse sufficient, demanded the real reason for Muck's dissent.

  T only believe in the Flame,' said Muck, peering into the furnace.'The Flame?' asked Yot.

  'Aye, boy,' said Muck, amused by Yot's wide-eyed attention. 'The living presence of the High God of All Gods, which purifies as it witnesses.'

  Drake, who was working in the forge at the time, heard that, but kept himself from sniggering. He wanted to hear more. So did Yot.'How does it purify?' asked Yot.

  'It burns, boy,' said Muck. 'Didn't your mother ever teach you that? Stick a hand in, if you doubt me – it'll do more than clean your fingernails. It burns, and I can see that it burns. Ocular proof, aye, that's the thing.'

  'But what's this business about gods?' asked Yot. 'How did you find out about that?'

  The Flame spoke to me,' said Gouda Muck. 'And it speaks to me still.'

  And, seeing Yot's jaw drop, he continued the joke. At length.

  Afterwards, Drake teased Yot for believing in fairy tales. But Yot, stubborn in belief, refused to concede that Muck's dogma was a load of tripe and codswallop, conjured up for the whim of the moment. They fought. Drake, as usual, won – but Yot still made no intellectual concessions. He went on asking for tales of the Flame, and Muck went on telling them.

  Well, all was fine at first. Then, after Muck had been telling these fairy tales for three days, the Flame did speak to him. It roared up out of the furnace, hung purple in the air, and shouted in a voice of drums and cymbals:'Muck! Thou art who thou art!'Then left, even as Muck fainted.

  On recovery, Muck decided he had experienced a true religious revelation. Actually, the syphilis scrambling his brain had made him hallucinate. The syphilis, by the way, was a souvenir of his riotous youth – Muck had been solemnly celibate these past thirty-five years or more.

  The Flame spoke often thereafter, bringing Faith to Gouda Muck; those gnawing spirochaetes had a lot to answer for. Muck listened to the Flame as he laboured in the forge; he heard it as he ate his meals or walked by the dockside; the Flame gave him fresh revelations in his dreams.

  How long does it take to create a religion? Inspired by syphilis, Gouda Muck took precisely two days to lay down the foundations of his own faith.

  The revelations of the Flame elevated Muck's personal quirks to the status of divine law: no drink, no gambling, no fighting and no loose women. What's more, thrift became an absolute virtue. Muck immediately began to help his apprentices be good by banking half their paltry wages into trust accounts managed by the Orsay Bank.

  Drake had till then been happy enough as a sword-smith's devil, since all his hardships had been sweetened by the compensations of religion. With these denied to him – the confiscation of half his wages made certain of that – life went sour.'Endure,' said Drake to Drake.

  He must live for the day when he was a master swordsmith, yes, with his own forge and apprentices.

  'Muck,' said Drake, one evening. 'How about setting a definite date for me to start making my first sword?''Why should I do that?' said Muck.

  'Because it will give me something to look forward to,' said Drake.

  'You've got nothing to look forward to,' said Muck. 'You're a filthy little scag-bag stuffed with iniquity. You pollute the forge by your very presence. All you're good for is slave labour.''Oh, come now!' said Drake. 'A joke's a joke, but-'

  'I'm not joking!' roared Muck. 'You'll never make a sword in this forge, no.'

  'But,' said Drake, 'I have to make swords. Lots of them. So I can finish my apprenticeship.'

  'Time will finish your apprenticeship nicely,' said Muck. 'But you won't be a swordsmith at the end of it, oh no. When I'm finished with you, we'll kick you back to the filthy coal cliffs you came from.'

  Drake was staggered by this sudden turnaround. He really thought he'd finally come to terms with Gouda Muck. Now – what was he supposed to think? He could only suppose that he had grievously offended Muck in the last few days, though he couldn't for the life of him think of any really outrageous stunts he'd pulled.

  Well, the situation was grim, that was for real. And . . . desperate situations called for desperate remedies. So . . .

  'Man,' said Drake, T know we've cut each other up in the past, but that's over and done with. I respect you, man, I'll say that fair and square. You're the master. I'm but a child at your elbow. If I've done you wrong, I'm too much of a child to see what I can do to set things right. So – tell me, man. What have I done that's so terrible? What can I do to make amends?'

  This display of humility really hurt him. He was intensely proud: he hated to grovel.What was worse, his humility did him no good.

  'You can't make amends,' said Muck. 'You went too far years ago. So you'll sweat death and dream buckles till your bones splinter.''What?' said Drake, bewildered.'The vizier of Galsh Ebrek calls,' said Muck.Then left the forge without further explanation.

  The syphilis which had begun to destroy Muck's brain was, of course, invisible, so Drake had precious few clues to the reason for Muck's bizarr
e behaviour. Was the man drunk? Worse: was he mad? Drake was reluctant to think so.Was Muck serious?

  That was a more important question. For if Muck was serious, then Drake's life was in ruins. Drake, turning things over in his mind, could only presume that his master was setting him a weird sort of test.Yes.

  A test to draw him out, to see how much initiative and determination he had. Maybe this was one of the secrets of the swordsmith's guild. Maybe every apprentice got set such a test, sooner or later, to see what he was really made of.

  Accordingly, Drake set to work on a sword of his own. Yot, who had been shovelling coal into sacks outside, came in and asked what he was doing.'Never you mind,' said Drake.

  'It looks to me,' said Yot, 'as if you're starting work on a sword. You can't do that! Not till Muck gives you permission.'

  'I'll be the judge of what I can and can't do,' said Drake.

  And laboured grimly until Muck returned at nightfall.'What are you doing?' said Muck.

  'Man, I'm making a sword,' said Drake. 'For I've got to start learning the real stuff sooner or later.'

  'I've told you already,' said Muck, 'your days of learning are finished. You're not human any longer, not as far as this forge is concerned. You're a piece of working meat, and nothing else.'

  'Man,' said Drake, trying to keep himself from crying, 'you're not being fair. You've got to teach me! That's why I'm here! To learn!'

  'You're here to repent,' said Muck. 'To purify yourself.''How do I do that?' said Drake.'By working yourself to death.'

  'Right!' said Drake. 'If you won't teach me, then I'll not stay here to sweat it out for starvation wages.'

  And, thirty days after his sixteenth birthday, Drake ran away. He fled to his parents' home in south-west Stokos. He was frightened, bitter, amazed at the sudden turn of events. A few days ago, everything had been going his way – and now? Disaster!

  There was one bright spot on the horizon, of course: Drake's marriage prospects. But he could hardly rely too much on those, since King Tor might die any day, his demise destroying Drake's chances.