Sebastian Darke: Prince of Fools

by Philip Caveney

  'You have to understand,' Sebastian told him. 'I can't just turn it on and off at will. I . . . need the right setting. An audience—'

  'I'll be your audience,' Max assured him. 'And I'll make allowances for the setting. Let's face it, you won't have many other opportunities to practise, will you? The next time you perform it will probably be for the king and his court.'

  Sebastian swallowed. It was not a particularly encouraging prospect. 'All right then,' he said. 'I'll try . . . but please don't interrupt until I've finished. And try to laugh in the right places.'

  Max rolled his eyes but refrained from commenting further.

  'Well then . . .' Sebastian thought for a moment, then launched into his opening routine with as much confidence as he could muster. 'Greetings, Lords and Ladies! I'm not saying it took me a long time to cross the plains, but I was wearing short pants when I set off!' He paused briefly, anticipating a laugh, but there wasn't one, so he continued.

  'So . . . so this is the fine city of Keladon! I've heard so much about it. I heard that the merchants here are so prosperous, they've actually removed the padlocks from their dustbins! Of . . . of course, back where I come from, in Jerabim, things aren't quite as plush. I'm not saying it's squalid, but next week they're knocking it down so they can build a slum!'

  No reaction from Max. Nothing.

  'I . . . I had a very deprived childhood. Our family was so poor, we couldn't afford a fire in the winter. My father would chew pepper-root and we'd all sit round his mouth! And food . . . we . . . we could never afford to eat properly. Every so often my mother would send me to the slaughterhouse to buy a babarusa's head. And I had to ask them to leave the eyes in it – so it would see us through the week!'

  Sebastian looked hopefully down at Max, who was plodding resolutely onwards, showing no signs of having heard anything. 'A little encouragement wouldn't hurt,' he growled.

  'I'm sorry, I'm afraid the jokes so far are rather familiar . . .'

  'That wouldn't have stopped you laughing if Father was telling them.'

  There was a brief silence.

  'Your father had the gift of making the most unpromising material seem funny. Whereas you may have to work some?what harder to achieve those results . . . but please, continue.'

  Sebastian gritted his teeth for a moment and then decided to weigh in with one of his own jokes.

  'Did you hear the one about the two merchants who were walking to market? And the first one said—'

  'Illogical,' interrupted Max.

  Sebastian stared at him. 'What?' he snapped.

  'Merchants never walk anywhere.'

  'Oh . . . all right then, they were riding to market. And one of them said—'

  T don't seem to recognize this joke.'

  'No. That's because it's one of my own.'

  T see. And do you think it's a good idea to use your own material? Your father's jokes have at least been tried and tested.'

  'If you'd just let me finish!'

  'Sorry. Do go on, I'm all ears.'

  'So . . . so one of them says, "How long have we been travelling?" And the other one says, "Three days. But to you, two days"!'

  There was another achingly long silence, during which the creaking of the harness seemed unnaturally loud.

  Then Max said: 'Of course, there's nothing to stop you pursuing other lines of work. I believe they're crying out for builders in Keladon.'

  'It wasn't that bad!' protested Sebastian.

  'No. No, it wasn't bad, as such. It's just that I failed to discern any actual humour in it. I mean, was it three days they'd been travelling or was it two?'

  'That's . . . that's the point,' said Sebastian. 'You know these merchants, always trying to make you an offer? So, like, it's three croats, but to you—'

  'Your father always used to say . . .'

  ' . . . never explain a joke! Yes, I know. But . . . but then he didn't have you deliberately failing to see what he was getting at, did he?'

  T can't help feeling you're being a little over-sensitive,' said Max primly. 'It's hardly my fault that you can't write decent material. Still, it's perhaps unfair to judge from one example. Please, continue – at least it's passing the time.'

  'Forget it,' said Sebastian bitterly. He could see that the clouds on the horizon were darkening from red to a deep shade of crimson. Night came quickly here, and packs of wild lupers crossed the length and breadth of these plains, so it made sense to keep a decent campfire. Furthermore, they were approaching what must have been one of the only clumps of bushes he had seen on these flatlands. They were stunted and withered but would at least offer a little shelter. 'We'll stop over there for the night,' he told Max.

  'Good thinking. My hooves are killing me!' Max expertly manoeuvred the caravan in beside the bushes. Sebastian jumped down from the seat and unhitched the harness. Max made a big show of shrugging his shoulders and stretching his legs. 'Ah, that's a relief,' he said. 'It's no easy task pulling that caravan all day.' He glanced at Sebastian hopefully. 'And what delights have we for supper then?'

  'Dried mulch for you,' said Sebastian, trying to sound positive. 'And elvish black bread for me.'

  'No, no, too much – you'll spoil me,' said Max dolefully.

  Sebastian ignored him. He went round to the back of the caravan and retrieved Max's nosebag, into which he threw a couple of handfuls of the dried food he had purchased in Jerabim. It smelled stale and unappetizing, but was probably preferable to the rock-hard chunk of bread that he had to look forward to. He carried the mulch round to Max, who sniffed at it disdainfully.

  'My compliments to the chef,' he said grimly.

  Sebastian gestured to the nearby bushes. 'You could always supplement your diet with those,' he said. 'Provided you leave us a little bit of cover.'

  Max looked downright offended by the very suggestion. 'Good idea,' he said. 'A bout of dysentery is just what we need right now.'

  'You won't get dysentery,' Sebastian told him; but then thought that Max was awkward enough to go down with it just to spite him.

  He slung the nosebag around Max's ears and went back to the caravan for some of the dry kindling he had collected on his way through the forest. He had accumulated quite a pile in the back – enough, he hoped, to see them through a couple of nights on the plain.

  'Go easy with that stuff,' Max warned him, his voice muffled by the nosebag. 'We don't want to run out.'

  'We can always resort to the bag of dried buffalope chips,' said Sebastian cheerfully, though he really hoped it wouldn't come to that. They were hard to light and gave off a dreadful stench when they finally got going.

  'Burning dung,' said Max quietly. 'Oh goody. I can hardly wait.'

  CHAPTER 3

  DINNER IS SERVED

  Sebastian had the fire burning by nightfall and was soon sitting on his bedroll, toasting a hunk of black bread over the flames in the vain hope of making it a bit more palatable. Max lay slumped nearby, staring gloomily into the fire, the reflection of the flames dancing like tiny devils in his large brown eyes. Every so often he arched his back slightly and let out a prodigious gust of wind.

  'Excuse me,' he said, each time it happened. 'It's the mulch.'

  'No, it's you,' Sebastian corrected him. 'Can't you try and exercise a bit of control?'

  'Well, we'll see how you fare after you've downed that bread. Honestly, are you sure it's safe to eat?'

  'No, I'm not, but the only alternative is to eat nothing, so if I can force it down without choking on it, I shall do so.'

  Max sighed. 'Look at us,' he said. 'Reduced to this! Why, I remember when your father would bring me out a bucket of Sargan grain drenched in wild bee's gold. And if I'd been working particularly hard, there'd be a couple of ripe pommers on the side . . . maybe even a yellow sweet fruit.'

  'That's all history now,' said Sebastian.

  'And what about you? Many's the time I've looked through the window of the house and seen you and your parents dining on su
cculent roast swamp fowl, with heaps of fried taties and thick, black mushrungers—'

  'Could we talk about something else?' snapped Sebastian. 'You're making my stomach rumble.' He could wait no longer, so he lifted the steaming hunk of black bread to his mouth and took an exploratory bite. It was like eating hot sawdust. He forced his jaws to munch, having to work very hard to swallow down mouthfuls of the stuff. He was happy to wash it down with elvish coffee, one of the few luxuries they had brought with them, and by this method, he some?how managed to consume the rest of it. He found that the paltry meal had taken some of the dull ache out of his stomach but had done absolutely nothing to pacify his hunger. He gazed hopelessly around, but the moon was obscured by tumbled banks of rolling clouds and he couldn't see very far beyond the flickering light of the fire. Not that there was much to see anyway, just the endless plain rolling onwards to some unknown world. 'What I wouldn't give for a hunk of hot meat right now,' he said.

  'Well, you needn't look at me,' Max chastised him. 'Actually, we buffalopes make very poor eating.'

  'That's not what I've heard,' said Sebastian, casting a sly look at him. 'As I understand it, buffalope meat is one of the favourite ingredients on any Brigand's menu.'

  'Really?' Max cast a nervous glance over his shoulder. T suppose I shouldn't be surprised. From what I've heard, they're little more than animals. I've been told that when times are hard, they've even been known to resort to cannibalism.'

  Now it was Sebastian's turn to be nervous. 'We . . . er . . . probably won't encounter any this far north,' he said. 'Still – just in case.' He stroked the scabbard of the big curved sword that lay beside him. That too had been his father's. Alexander had been a fine swordsman and had spent many an after?noon trying to pass on his skills to his son. Sebastian remembered the long hours spent sparring with him, until the sweat spilled from every pore. Alexander had been a stern teacher and thought nothing of making Sebastian go over every move again and again, until his hands were blistered.

  Max looked down at the sword doubtfully. 'What do you suppose you'll do with that if some villain comes calling?'

  'Well, I'll . . . brandish it and . . . I know how to use a sword!' he said. 'My father taught me well.'

  'That I do not doubt. But knowing how to swing a sword and being ready to smite somebody's head from their shoulders, without a moment's hesitation – that's a different matter.'

  Sebastian flung a broken branch into the fire, sending up a great shower of sparks into the night sky. 'You're always getting at me,' he complained. 'If it's not my jokes, it's my complete inability to measure up to my father in anything I do. I wish you—'

  Sebastian broke off abruptly as a distant sound rose and fell on the air – a long, drawn-out howl that seemed to echo eerily in the night.

  'What was that?' asked Max fearfully.

  'Oh, just a luper,' said Sebastian, trying to sound casual. 'They aren't a problem unless they're hunting in a pack.'

  As if in answer to his statement, more howls sounded in response to the first. Sebastian counted at least six or seven different tones.

  'Probably miles away,' he added, attempting to keep the note of desperation out of his voice. He tried to smile encouragingly at Max, but he could see a familiar expression in the buffalope's eyes. A look of apprehension.

  'I've heard stories about lupers,' said Max uneasily. 'A pack of those things can strip a fully grown buffalope down to the bones in just a few moments.'

  'You shouldn't believe everything you hear,' Sebastian chided him. 'It would take half the night to do that.'

  'Oh, now I feel better,' said Max.

  'And besides, you can tell by listening to them – they're not hungry.'

  'Really?'

  'Really. A hungry luper makes a particular sound. Sort of like a—'

  Sebastian stopped talking. He had just heard something different. A rustling sound. His stomach seemed to fill suddenly with cold water.

  'There's something behind us!' whispered Max. 'In the bushes!'

  'I know!' Sebastian mouthed back at him. He reached out a hand to the hilt of his sword and began to slide it gently out of its scabbard. Now he could distinguish another sound mingled with the rustling: the dull, metallic clanking of armour.

  'Oh, mercy!' whimpered Max. 'It's Brigands! They'll murder you and have me for dinner!' He thought for a moment. 'From what you've been saying, they might even have you for dinner!'

  'Quiet!' hissed Sebastian. 'I'm trying to—'

  'Who goes there?' bellowed a deep voice from the midst of the thicket.

  Sebastian gave up all thoughts of delicacy and slid the curved sword clear of its scabbard. He got to his feet and stood crouched, ready to meet any attacker that came at him from out of the undergrowth.

  'J-just a traveller,' answered Sebastian, settling both hands around the leather grip and noting with a hint of dismay how the blade seemed to be quivering uncontrollably.

  'Two travellers,' Max corrected him.

  'A traveller and his beast of burden,' ventured Sebastian.

  'Oh, that's nice! A little while ago I was a partner; suddenly I'm downgraded to a beast of burden.'

  'Will you shut up?' snarled Sebastian. He returned his attention to the bushes, trying to remember the advice his father had given him all those years ago. But nothing seemed to come to him. 'We mean no harm,' he said. 'We're just passing through.'

  'Please don't eat us!' whimpered Max.

  There was a long silence, during which Sebastian became aware of a rhythmic thudding sound in his ears. It was a few moments before he realized it was the sound of his own heart.

  'Would you be willing to share your campfire with a fellow traveller?' boomed the deep voice.

  'Er . . . possibly,' said Sebastian.

  'It's some kind of trick,' whispered Max. 'He'll get you off guard and then stick a knife in your ribs!'

  'Shush!' Sebastian took a deep breath and tried to gather his courage. 'Step forward and show yourself,' he demanded.

  Another silence. He licked his dry lips and waited, for what seemed an age. He was abruptly aware of how small and vulnerable he was, camped out here in the midst of this great, featureless plain. And how could he be sure that there was just one person out there? It could be a band of rogues, one of them trying to get him off guard, while his friends sneaked round behind him. He turned his head to take a quick peek over his shoulder, then snapped his gaze back as the bushes parted.

  Somebody stepped out into the open – but at first Sebastian saw nothing. Then he realized that he needed to lower his gaze considerably.

  A man was walking towards him out of the bushes, a thick?set fellow wearing a battered-looking breastplate over a chain-mail singlet. He also wore a crested iron helmet, with elaborate nose and cheek protectors that covered his face entirely. In one hand he held a vicious-looking straight sword, and slung across his left shoulder was what looked like the carcass of a javralat, the fleet-footed quadrupeds that inhabited this part of the country.

  The newcomer was undoubtedly a fierce warrior and a force to be reckoned with. But unlike most warriors, he was no higher than Sebastian's hip.

  CHAPTER 4

  LITTLE BIG MAN

  The stranger came to a halt a few steps from the fire, sheathed his sword and reached up a hand to remove his helmet. The hand seemed surprisingly big for one so small, and the action revealed a face that was strangely baby-like, with big blue eyes, jug ears and no sign of any hair whatsoever.