The Walrus and the Warwolf coaaod-4

by Hugh Cook

  'But this – this – the whole idea is impossible,' said Drake. 'To start with, I'm the wrong race.'

  'Don't worry,' said Jon Arabin. 'They're not racist. They've got no prejudice against blond-haired boys. Just keep away from their women and you'll come to no harm.'

  'That's not what I meant, and you know it!' said Drake angrily.

  'My dear, dear son,' said Jon Arabin, tousling Drake's hair again in a truly infuriating manner. 'You'll have to

  keep that temper under control once you're ashore. You don't want to disgrace your father, do you now?'

  Drake hardened his hands to fists. But Jon Arabin just laughed. An easy, healthy laugh. Easy for him to be happy!

  'Man,' said Drake, 'I'll never pass muster as your son. Man, you're like coal, whereas me – I'm more the colour of a cockroach.'

  'The Ling only breed their own gold with their own gold,' said Arabin. 'They know nothing of the mixing of skins.'

  'But they breed dogs,' said Drake, desperately. 'And cats, surely.''Nay,' said Jon Arabin, 'for they have none such.''Then they have mice! And rats. Don't they?'

  'Man,' said Jon Arabin. 'Rest easy. I've told you -there's no harm here if you keep your cock in order.'

  'Aye,' said Jon Disaster with a grin, 'but if you send your cock adventuring then they'll cut you in half and tear your head off. If you're lucky! If you're not. . .'

  Disaster elaborated, until Arabin, seeing Drake was getting increasingly nervous, ordered him to silence.

  'Your canoe's come alongside,' said Arabin. 'Down you go!'

  And, as the entire crew of the Warwolf applauded, Drake scrambled down a rope ladder to the canoe waiting to take him into captivity. The five Ling in the canoe stared up at him. Their eyes really were white. Could they then be truly human? One reached out and steadied him as he stepped from the ladder to the canoe, which wobbled alarmingly underfoot; he crouched hastily, grabbing at the sides. Men mocked him from the decks:'Remember to smile as they skin you!''When they offer up bowls of sand, it's polite to eat it.'

  'Blow me a kiss, darling, while you've still got lips to kiss with.'

  Drake, ignoring them, sought arse-space on a paddle bench. It was hot. In the Warwolf's shadow, small fish hung motionless, weightless, amidst masses of dark-green weed trailing away into limpid depths. Strange, to think of that garden hauling from the hull through the deep-sea waves.

  'O-lo-o-la-tra-lee-o-zo,' said one of the five men in the canoe.

  'O-lo-see-lee-ay-lit-ay-lo,' he was answered, by the eldest man afloat.'O-lo-al-o-so-lo,' said all in unison.

  Dipping their paddles in the water, they began to stroke toward the shore.

  Sun and sea split from flashing paddles. Drake squinted against the glare, closing his eyes as the paddlers began an ominous high-singing chant. Hot blood-light filtered through his eyelids. He heard distant laughter on the Warwolf, and wished he was back on board.

  Shadows cooled out the sun. His eyes startled open. Their canoe was sliding into a deep dim sea cave. Cold blocks of white light gleamed in the rock roof. How old was this place? Who had made it? Slaves, maybe. Aye, slaves sweating under whips till they fell from exhaustion and were beaten to death by the brutal Ling.

  'O-so-lo-lee-o-lo,' chanted the paddlers, 'O-so-say-lo, o-lo-ay-tree-o-lo.'

  The words were music. Senseless music. Perhaps the paddlers were gearing themselves up for a killing. Perhaps it was a death-chant they were singing.

  Deep within the cave was a shelving beach. As the canoe scraped against sand, Drake jumped overboard and helped run it ashore, seeking – ah, desperate hope! – to win favour by showing himself work-willing. A little water leaked into his boots; he stamped his damp feet, partly from nervousness.

  The much-trampled sand, grooved by canoe-keels, suggested that a dozen of the craft afloat by the Warwolf belonged here. Drake had a sudden, sickening vision of ambush, rape and slaughter, of laughing pirates falling on the Ling to murder them for pearl-wealth.

  Might that happen? Might Arabin succumb to greed, and decide to kill rather than trade? He was known to be deeply in debt, needing every scraping he could get. Was Arabin that kind of man? Need could make anyone that kind of man.

  The Ling were talking amongst themselves in their fluid, fluent voices. Drake cleared his throat. 'Does anyone here speak Galish?' he said. They fell silent.

  Had his voice annoyed them? How much excuse did they need before they fell on him with flaying knives and torture hooks? He smiled nervously: then wondered if these strangers might deem even a smile a deadly insult.

  'O-o-o' said one of the Ling, taking Drake by the hand to lead him into the secret places beyond the canoe cave.

  Drake was intensely embarrassed, for on Stokos only slaves walked hand in hand. Still, he dared not protest. He sniffed the air. Imagined he smelt blood. Hot, reeking blood in great quantity.'Grief,' he muttered.

  After many turnings, bends, stairs, squeeze-holes, ramps, inclines, corridors and passageways, Drake was at last shown into a large white room where great big globular crabs with claws the size of nutcrackers were crawling over the walls.'What's with the crabs?' said Drake. 'Eh?''O-lip-o,' said one of the Ling, smiling.And gave him a little push.Drake, fists clenched, stepped into the room.

  Okay, crabs! Watch out! This is Drake Douay you've got to deal with.

  Drake's guides departed. The crabs made no move against him. They looked . . . well, actually, they looked remarkably dead. Yes. On Investigation, they proved to be empty shells which had been glued to the walls, doubtless by way of decoration.Drake took stock.He was in a square-hewn chamber dominated by a raised deck of small grey stones topped off with clean white sand. Drake entirely failed to recognize this contraption for what it was – a bed. And not just any old bed, either, but a bed for one of the High-Born. For the second degree, tradition prescribed stones minus sand. And a commoner would have slept on rocks.

  Drake fingered one of the stones. It was too small to make much of a weapon. He still had his dirk, but what good was that? He should have asked to bring a sword ashore. He would have felt safer, yes. And besides – if he was playing at being Jon Arabin's son, surely he should have been kitted out with the weapons appropriate to his status. Well, too late to worry about that now . . .Was there a toilet nearby? He needed one urgently.

  The sand-topped stone-heap . . . yes, it was obviously a glorified sand-box, to be used like the one his boyhood friend, Levil Norkin, had for his kittens. Drake promptly began to scrabble a little hole in the top of the bed. But, before he could commit a faux pas of enormous dimensions, a young woman entered. In her hands she carried the tail of a stingray – which, amongst the Ling, was the ultimate erotic symbol. She was naked.'O-ma-no-so?' she said, a faint smile on her lips.

  Drake's horror-shock immediately abolished all worries about bowels and bladder. Jon Disaster's warnings flooded back to him. Chaotic images of skinned flesh, pulled fingernails, amputated organs and gouged-out eyes tumbled in that flood.

  'Go away!' he said frantically. 'Go away, before someone finds us!''O-lee!' she said, in tones of protest.Drake picked up a handful of sand and threw it at her.'Lee-o-me-nee!' she said.

  Drake's dread doubled as another woman entered. Also naked. The two had a rapid conference in their strange, sing-song voices, then cornered Drake and did their best to strip him naked. He only managed to preserve his honour by the most vigorous resistance.

  'Jon Arabin!' said Drake. 'I'll kill you when I get hold of you!'His outburst of anger scattered the women.'Saved,' said Drake. 'At least for the moment.'

  And he sat down in a corner, sweating, trembling, breathing heavily. This business of being a hostage was obviously going to be – to say the least – demanding.

  'It's my blond good looks,' said Drake. 'That's what does the damage. The women get one look at me, and they just can't keep their hands off. I suppose they don't often see a fellow as handsome as me, not this far south. Well – can I help my beauty?'
r />   Drake knew there was nothing he could do about his natural sex appeal.'It's not my fault!' he said. 'I'm innocent!'

  But his innocence would do him no good if he was caught embracing a nubile young female. Oh no. Likely as not, he would be discovered by some dour, ugly representative of the older generation, who would have him killed out of sheer jealousy, if for no other reason.

  'I've got to pretend I'm a professional virgin,' said Drake. 'Or something.'

  During the course of the next three days (in which he did, finally, after several blunders, manage to find the toilet), Drake was tempted by three dozen naked women. Young they were, and beautiful, faces so smooth they seemed to be wearing masks, their milk-white eyes adoring, their breasts high-sprung, their innards oiled and ready for his exertions.

  Ready they were indeed, knowing their guest was Drake Arabin, oldest and much-loved son of Jon Arabin, and heir to all the Arabin dominions: the Greater Teeth, the Lesser Teeth, the larger part of three continents, and several kingdoms in the Land of the Dead besides. Yes, to Ling, Jon Arabin was a mighty king, a great warrior, a powerful wizard, a minor demigod, and the richest man in the world.

  To Drake, Jon Arabin was something else altogether.

  He stood at a high window staring down at Ling Bay, where the distant Warwolf'lay, and said:

  'Jon, you're a sly scheming son of an octopus. And if I don't get out of here in one piece – then you're going to be in big trouble, man.'

  When the daughters of Ling reported the failure of their enticements, the elders consulted, then sent in their sons. By hook or by crook, they would see Drake Arabin committed in love to some flesh of their. flesh before his captivity ended.

  But the sons reported as little success as the daughters. The elders conferred again, then decided to bring Drake into the presence of the Great One.

  When the elders came for him, Drake Douay was practising a one-man kata with a wooden sword which he had whittled out of a broken paddle.

  'O-oo-o-ooo,' sang one of the elders, then grabbed Drake by the elbow.

  'You've come to take me back to the ship?' said Drake. 'Great! I thought it was just about time to be leaving.'

  And he threw down his waster and allowed the elders to lead him through many cool tunnels until they came to the audience chamber where sat the Great One. She was the oldest and wisest woman of Ling, a bright-eyed matriarch whose skin, in her old age, was mottled with dusky patterns which reminded Drake of the wings of a great moth.

  Drake looked around the audience chamber uneasily. It was a square-cut white room with upwards of fifty elders squatting on the rough brown matting which carpeted the floor. The Great One lay in state in a hammock of sharkskin. Drake, deducing her authority from her elevation, said:

  'Good morning, ma'am, pleased to meet you.' 'O-layma-nooloo,' said the Great One, making a formal response.

  'Really?' said Drake. 'Listen, if we're going to have a conversation, we'll need to get Jon Arabin in on this.' 'Jon Arabin,' said the Great One.'Aaaah!' wailed the elders. 'Jon Arabin!'

  And they lent forward in unison and kissed their right hand kneecaps (or, if that was forbidden by arthritis, their right hand wrists). Drake was not at all sure what to make of this. In any case, he had little time to think about it, for the Ling had begun to speak between themselves in their high-pitched sing-song voices.

  'Why does he refuse the flesh of our flesh?' asked the elders.

  'Because,' said the Great One, 'the spirit of purity burns strong within him.''Is he then Worthy?' asked the elders.

  The Great One laid her hand upon Drake's forehead. A wisp of a hand it was, too, more skin than flesh – as frail as an old leaf which has almost frayed through to its skeleton.

  'Yes,' said the Great One, after a lengthy pause. 'He is Worthy.'Even Great Ones have their off days.'Shall we then initiate him?' asked the elders.

  'We shall. Indeed, we must. For it would be a sin to let one of the Worthy depart to the Plague Lands without initiation.''It shall be done,' said the elders.

  And Drake was roughed onto a bloodstained metal rack and tied down with thongs of sharkskin. A jabber of excited faces crowded around him. Drums pulsed, nose flutes whined, witch doctors rattled bones, and an evil old gentleman made stone sizzle across steel as he honed a knife which already looked far more sharp than was necessary.

  'No!' screamed Drake, writhing against his bonds. T didn't do it! I never touched them! What have I done? Is it something I said? Is it something I didn't say? I'll do anything, anything, just let me loose! Don't hurt me! Is there anyone here who speaks Galish? Gaaa!''Why is he screaming?' asked the elders.'Because the Ecstasy has possessed him,' said the Great

  One gravely. 'It is a good sign. He shall be truly blessed.''Here is the box,' said the elders.'Good,' said the Great One.

  And took the implement of initiation from the box.

  Drake howled with incoherent fear as the gloating old woman held up a snake. It was small, and very much alive. It hissed, opening its jaws, showing sharp teeth. Before he had time to admire the red and orange markings twisting down its back (markings reminiscent of the forging-patterns of Gouda Muck's mastersword) it whipped free from the Great One's hands and fell to the floor.

  There was an uproar as heroes competed for the precious little monster. But the man who had been sharpening the knife stayed calm. Humming gently to himself, he leaned over Drake's body and cut once, neatly, making an incision under the floating rib on Drake's right-hand side.

  Drake hissed, with fear, with anger, with pain. The old woman had regained the snake. She was fondling it. Stroking it. Crooning to it. Bringing it closer. She was – no!'No! No! No!' screamed Drake.

  But she put the head of the snake to his open wound. He screamed again as it began gnawing into his vitals. It was like being stabbed repeatedly with a red-hot poker.

  Then, strangely, the pain lessened. It became dull. Disappeared altogether. Yes. While teeth still tunnelled, he no longer cared. He was starting to float, hmmm, yes, drifting away on a river of deliciously warm milk.

  The Great One leaned over him. He smiled up at her face, noting, for the first time, the red veins spiderwebbed in the milk white of her eyes. She kissed him, giving him her blessing for the Journey. He felt himself falling. Her face contracted to a point, then disappeared altogether. The last sounds hissed into silence.'Who am I?' he wondered.Idly.Then wondered no more, for he was unconscious. # # #

  Drake did not wake to clarity, but to fever. Hot, flushed and thirsting, he endured cramps, spasms and hallucinations. He was fed strange foods and stranger fluids, which sustained life but did not cure him.

  'Arabin,' he said. 'Get Arabin. Jon Arabin, understand?'

  ' O-fo-lo-mo-lee,' said one of the young women who fed him.And smiled, and left him.But did not return with Jon Arabin.

  Time and again Drake repeated his demand. He had to get a message through to his captain. If he stayed in this crazy place, he would die.

  'I'm sick, yes,' said Drake, to one of his handmaidens, 'but I'll do as well on the Warwolf as I would here. Honest. It's the sea air, I need it to keep me alive.'The response was another smile.Nothing more.

  He could see, through his sickroom's embrasure, a slice of blue sky, occasionally decorated by patches of high cloud. Fair weather cloud, yes. In the little time he'd spent on the Warwolf, he'd already got into the habit of taking a right healthy interest in the weather.

  'Those idle sons of sodfish will be playing around the anchor cable again, I suppose,' said Drake.

  Yes. Or practising sword under the hard gaze of the ship's weapons muqaddam. Or patching sails. Or splicing ropes. Or-

  But no matter. Whatever they were doing, Drake wanted to be with them. Aye. In the company of his comrades true. Quin Baltu, Shewel Lokenshield, Goth Sox, Lee Dix, Hewlet Mapleskin, aye, and Jon Disaster – he remembered them as brothers.

  Finally, the day came when Drake was well enough to quit his bed and venture to the em
brasure. Squinting into the brilliance of a world lit by real honest sunlight, he looked down on Ling Bay – and saw that the Warwolf was gone.

  No! Surely not! Surely Arabin's ship of green sails lay close to the cliff, hidden by the limitations of the embrasure!

  On rubbery legs, Drake staggered from the room, questing for a better view.

  'Jon, Jon,' he said, as he stumbled down white-lit corridors. 'Jon, you can't have left me. No, say it's not true!'

  How often did ships come to Ling? The Warwolf, or so it was alleged, visited once every two years. Apart from that – nothing.

  'You'd better be there, Jon Arabin,' threatened Drake. 'You'd better be there, you and your ship. Or I'll damn you to fifty hells for seventy times eternity!'

  Finally he found a square door cut in the side of the cliff, high above the sea. He stepped outside, into the warmth of the sun. Below lay all of Ling Bay: innocent of any ship. Clear shone the sparkling waters, as beautiful as the women of a poet's dreams. And empty.Drake wept.

  9

  Saba Yavendar. one of the Nine Immortals; won poetic fame with Winesong and Warsong, written in the Stabilized Scholastic Standard (later adopted as the High Speech of wizards) of the Technic Renaissance.

  Survived Genetic Mutiny and Interregnum. Joined Institute of Applied Theology (later destroyed by Founders in Wars of Suppression). After Famine Years, was adviser to Lords of the Eightfold Way (forerunner of Confederation of Wizards).

  Gained great power in Empire of Wizards after Long War against Swarms, but lost all in Years of Chaos. Disappeared after offending Talaman the Torturer (aka T. the Castrator, T. the Eye Gouger and T. the Baby Strangler).

  Later works (including notorious Victory of the Prince of the Favoured Blood) popular crowd-pleasers scorned by scholarship, which must concur with Larftink that Yavendar 'lived too long and wrote far, far too much'. Indeed, Gatquip's long-disputed claim that the Complete Works can be reduced to a canon of a dozen lines demands positive reassessment.