The Walrus and the Warwolf coaaod-4

by Hugh Cook

  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, taking 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 chosen 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.'

  Something must have gone terribly wrong. Clearly the ambassadors Tor sent to Selzirk had not been up to the job. Something had to be done, urgently, or the world would war to ruin for no purpose. Who could save the day? Why, Drake Douay, of course! He'd present himself to Tor's ambassadors, promptly. And offer to negotiate a deal with the rulers of Selzirk. For.a cut of the ambassadorial profits, of course.

  'These ambassadors sent by Tor,' said Drake. 'Where do I find them? I have to speak to them. Urgently!'

  'Too late,' said the sucker-fool. 'For the dogs have had their guts already.''Say what?' said Drake.

  'They were hung, drawn and quartered yesterday,' said the sucker-fool, shoving his face hard up against Drake's. 'By order of our rulers, who'll have no truck with bandits. Which is why, I'm thinking, they'll pay a good price for you.'

  So saying, the sucker-fool grabbed Drake by the collar.

  Whereupon Drake slid his hand slick and swift between the sucker-fool's garments, grabbing him by the testicles. 'Wah!' said the fool, in alarm.

  'Hush!' said Drake, squeezing slightly. 'Or I'll cripple you for life. Walk. Quiet like. Down that alleyway.'

  Walking on tip-toe, the hapless fool obeyed. The alleyway opened onto a deserted mews. There Drake did his bit for international relations by teaching his Selzirk sucker-fool why he should respect King Tor and his hard-fisted minions.

  After which Drake climbed onto the roof of a warehouse and sat there, brooding as he watched the ferrymen taking the soldiers across the broad reach of the river. So many soldiers! King Tor was done for. Drake was upset. Close, indeed, to crying. That morning, everything had looked so sweet. And now?

  Man, this is rough.

  What should he do? Three ambassadors had talked sweet for Tor, and had ended up getting torn to pieces for their troubles. Could Drake do better?

  I'm smarter, surely. The fastest tongue this side of Chi'ash-lan, I reckon. If anyone could talk things right for Tor, it's me, surely. But the time for talk looks to have gone. Aye. But if I wanted to try?

  If Drake chose to try talking things right for Tor, his first step would have to be to learn who the rulers of Selzirk were. But was it wise to ask questions?

  Man, I can't question without risk. What happens if I'm named as Lord Dreldragon? Lord Dreldragon, beloved of Tor, heir to Stokos? Likely it'll be head-chopping time. Or I'll conceal my nobility, yet get killed anyway, as a common bandit.

  It don't look too good, does it? Not now. But might look better if the army gets, a bloody nose. Aye. Army stuff, that's full of risk. Weather and such. Disease. Mutiny. Folks hot in temper don't talk too sweet. I reckon these – in Selzirk have got their blood up. Aye. Hot for the kill. But if their army gets pounded in Hok, they'll talk different then.Thus Drake came to a decision.

  If the army of Selzirk returned from Hok defeated, mauled by Tor or decimated by the standard hazards of campaigning, then Drake would make discreet inquiries, with a view to determining whether it was safe for him to proclaim his royal status. Till then, he would have to shift for himself as best he could, hiding both his nationality and his nobility.

  It's right hard being a prince in exile. Aye. A prince, having to live in the gutters. That doesn't sound right. B
ui I'll have to bear with it for the while, if I'm to be king on Stokos. So what do I need? Bed and board. Aye. Work and eats. And how to find that?

  Well. Go where there's talk, that's the way to start. Aye. For certain. A lesson here, isn't it? I was too close to my misery, back in Kelebes. Should have gone into the town more often earlier. Might have heard rumour sooner. Might have got to Selzirk in time to talk away the war. Talk, that's the thing! To know what the talk is! Well.Live and learn.

  And now? Search talk!

  So thinking, Drake scrambled down off the roof of his warehouse. If he'd found no shelter by nightfall he'd return there to sleep. Cold, yes, but sleeping at ground level might be rash in this big and evil city.

  Searching for talk, Drake soon enough found himself a tavern. Alcohol, he knew, would do him no good – and no bad, either. Nevertheless, a tavern was the place to be. There, people would gladly keep him company and tell him – he was sure – the things he needed to survive.

  The tavern he found was a cedar-built beer-barn filled with bodies mostly male, some for sale but most not, and with the wuthering uproar of a hundred upraised voices, and with the smells of sweat, porter, lager beer, arak, gin and zythum.

  The denizens of this murky boozing hole, practical worshippers of the Demon to a man (whether they knew it or not), were mostly drunk, and were mostly talking Churl. Not the High Churl of the upper classes, or the City Churl of the commons, or any of the coarse country dialects known collectively as Field Churl, but a thieves' cant which named itself as Shurlspurl. Not one in a thousand upright citizens could have followed their conversations.

  Drake elbowed his way between thief and fence, pimp and pad, and a dozen types of lout, loon, hoon and ruffian. He shoved past a cly-faker, scrattling away at a yuke while keeping conversation with a burly brute who might have been the city slave-brander or the public executioner.

  'Shanema chovea,' said a man curtly, as Drake jostled past.'Up yours!' said Drake.

  And pressed on through the babbling gloom to the bar, where he slapped down a coin and said, in Galish: 'Wine.'