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  The Wicked and the Witless

  ( Chronicles of an Age of Darkness - 5 )

  Hugh Cook

  The Wicked and the Witless

  Hugh Cook

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rice Empire: Argan's most densely populated nation; supports over a million souls on landstrip roughly three hundred leagues long and a hundred wide between Ashun Mountains and Central Ocean.

  Population pressures relieved by mass marketing of slaves to Provincial Endergeneer (to the south) and wars with more lightly populated Harvest Plains (to the north). Capital: Galtras Laven Ruler: Lord Regan Language: Geltic

  In winter in Alliance 4324 Sean Sarazin was again wounded in combat. His lastest injury began life as a slight scratch which threatened to heal without trace. However, by diligently rubbing it with salt, he won a scar which would mark his face for a lifetime.

  He was intensely proud when girlfriends cherished his scar with delicate fingers and spoke in bated breath of the horror, the pain, the fear. The elegant Jaluba, who was somewhat more than a girlfriend, also admired it. Then made an extremely improper joke about a wound of her own.

  Another thing happened that winter: Sean Kelebes Sarazin turned twenty-two. With youth now well and truly over, he wrote elegant, allusive lyrics about falling leaves, mortal flowers and death inevitable. Friends lauded his genius when he poeticised in tea shops and boulevard cafes.

  In a more private place devoted to private places,

  Sarazin recited his poems to Jaluba also. Whereupon she, with a giggle, damanded poetry in praise of aspects of her anatomy which, though Sarazin admired their elegance, cannot be discussed with propriety.

  There was wine on Jaluba's breath when she made her demand. And wine on Sarazin's also. Therefore, let wine be blamed for the fact that he complied with her wishes. Or tried to. In truth, the task proved difficult indeed, for he had no stock of appropriate images on hand.

  When writing on love, battle or mortality one drew upon a hoard of hundreds of standard phrases. Such versification was almost effortless. But when Sarazin sought to extol Jaluba's biology, only the witless obscenity of the coarser taverns came to mind. This he did not care to use. You will have to inspire me,' he said. And Jaluba did her best to comply.

  Sarazin sought inspiration in wine also, which led Lord Regan to remark on the following morn: You look somewhat drawn. What ails you?'

  'Nothing serious, my lord,' answered Sarazin. 'A slight touch of weltschmerz – nothing more.'

  'Ah! Weltschmerzl' said Lord Regan. 'I knew it well in my youth. But sorrow for the world is an abuse of talent which maturity avoids. After all, those in pain have chosen to suffer. Concern for such is an error.'

  'It was but a trifling indulgence, my lord,' said Sarazin. 'I sorrowed in a poetical sense merely, not a political sense.' 'Good, good,' said Lord Regan.

  The two were strolling in the Sunrise Gardens. Green grass. Blue sky. Warm sun. Winter snow on the heights of the Ashun mountains to the east. Sage age instructing youth. Was there a poem to be won from the occasion? 'Remember,' said Lord Regan, 'that-'

  A peacock screamed near at hand, and Lord Regan began again:

  'Remember, we create ourselves. Always remember that. We have free will so we are entirely responsible for ourselves. Everything happens to us by our own choice. Never forget that.' 'I never will, my lord,' said Sarazin.

  'In the final analysis,' said Lord Regan, 'you can have whatever you want. You can be whatever you want to be. You can win whatever you want to win.' 'I believe it, my lord,' said Sarazin.

  'Some people become victims,' said Lord Regan. 'This only happens because they have a victim mentality. Feeling themselves to be victims, they behave in a way which makes them just that.'

  "My lord's wisdom is all-encompassing,' said Sarazin, truly impressed by the depth of Lord Regan's philosophy.

  Shortly thereafter, Lord Regan quit Voice and returned to his capital, Galtras Laven. But he left Sean Sarazin a birthday present. A sword of firelight steel forged on the island of Stokos. A blade so beautiful that Sarazin wept when he first set eyes on it.

  Thereafter, he trained more fiercely than ever before. Working by candlelight deep in the night, sweating, panting, pleasurably fatigued, he admired himself in the magnificent mirrors which graced his quarters. He liked what he saw. Muscles glistening, scars menacing, blade glittering. -Lord Regan was right. -We do create ourselves.

  Thus thinking, Sarazin strove to shape muscle and ability both. This he loved as much as boulevard delights or his hours of bliss with Jaluba, she of the honey-soft lips, the luxurious fur.

  What he liked less was steadily mounting pressure from his tutor, Epelthin Elkin, who worked him harder than ever before, drilling him ruthlessly in the Galish of the Salt Road and the Churl of far-distant Selzirk. Dull, boring, tedious, repetitive work. Unendurable! Sarazin demanded explanations but got none.

  Then his combat instructor, Thodric Jarl, announced that they would at last begin True Battle Training. Sarazin exulted, for this glamorous training would at least give him a break from scholarship's rigours. Shortly, he exulted no longer. Here is an example of what he had to endure:

  Armed with a shield almost too heavy to hold and an unwieldy blade of blunt bronze, clad in armour and a helm so massive he could scarcely see or hear, Sarazin was ordered into a waist-deep bog then left to defend himself against three aggressive thugs armed with sticks and clubs.

  That particular exercise had to be called off when Sarazin tripped, fell, was swallowed by the bog's oily mud, then found it impossible to surface because of the weight of armour oppressing him. He had nightmares about it for days afterwards.

  Then, early in spring, Lord Regan returned to Voice to give Sarazin the most startling news of his life.

  'You know' said Lord Regan, 'though you are not of my line, I look on you almost as a son.' "My lord has always been generous,' said Sarazin.

  'I had… I must confess, I had plans for you. Yet it is not to be. Certain internal political pressures make it impossible for you to remain within my realm. I am returning you to Selzirk.' That news left Sarazin incapable of speech. Once he had gathered his wits he asked:

  'My Lord… might I know the nature of the pressures which have forced this decision?'

  'Alas!' said Lord Regan. 'That I may not speak of. Not here. Not now. But this I promise you: all will become clear to you in the fulness of time.'

  When Lord Regan again departed for Galtras Laven, Sarazin's instructors drove him all the harder. He would leave for Selzirk early in summer, so had but a single season to prepare himself for the challenges awaiting in the city of his birth.

  At first, Sean Sarazin despaired. He loved life in Voice, the elegant three-aqueduct city where he enjoyed popularity, prestige, luxurious quarters and (the world would be well lost for such a woman) Jaluba's charms. In

  Selzirk he would be alone, lonely, totally isolated, without friends, without income, in a filthy foreign city which spoke an alien language.

  'Cheer up!' said Thodric Jarl. 'Your mother rules in Selzirk.'

  'Yes,' said Sarazin, "but the Constitution of the Harvest Plains says-'

  'What are you?' said Jarl. 'A lawyer? Test your ability and see where it gets you.'

  'Easy for you to talk!' said Sarazin bitterly. Tou're not being sent into exile.' 'No,' said Jarl. I'm not. But I'm coming regardless.'

  You – you can't!' said a much-startled Sarazin. 'What could I offer? I could scarcely pay you. My mother might find you a position, but I couldn't guarantee it.'

  'I'm a mercenary,' said Jarl, 'but I'm loyal to those who deserve loyalty. You're not much yet, but I see great things fo
r you, Sean Sarazin. I'll chance my fate with yours.'

  Jarl gave but little praise and that seldom. So this open- hearted declaration made Sean Sarazin dizzy with glorious pride. When Epelthin Elkin declared that he too would go north, Sarazin's ego knew no limits. He must really be something to have won the loyalty of two such men.

  However, Sarazin never thought to tell Jarl that Elkin was to accompany them to Selzirk. Elkin already knew all about Jarl, but Jarl had to find out about Elkin the hard way.

  Jarl and Elkin first men in the gravel-strewn Great Square where horses were being readied for their departure from Voice.

  'Who are you?' said the bulky-bearded Rovac warrior, his manner as blunt as his sword was sharp. Mark that he wore that sword in public in open defiance of the law.

  My name,' said the old scholar, whose beard was as grey as Jarl's but wisp-frail in comparison, 'is Epelthin Elkin. Sarazin's tutor.'

  "You'll find him fair lettered already,' said Jarl. 'An old servitor has learnt him his books, while I've taught him the more important things myself. Where is the rest of Selzirk's embassy?' You mistake my identity,' said old man Elkin.

  His arms were folded, hands warm-muffed by the voluminous sleeves of a gorgeous green and purple robe which fell almost to his open-weave sandals.

  'If you're not a tutor,' said Jarl, standing arms akimbo, feet shoulder-wide, 'what are you? A pox doctor? In that case-'

  Abruptly, Jarl broke off, slapped a horse fly, then swore at slaves seen overloading baggage animals. Then went to kick arse, boot-crunching across the gravel as if he had twelve leagues or more to cover by sunset. Slaves fell to their knees in fear.

  'Sir,' said the slavemaster, intervening on behalf of his charges. 'It's not their fault. We don't have enough pack horses.'

  "What's this rubbish, then?' said Jarl, kicking at a heap of goatskin travel bags. Those belong to Sarazin's tutor, the old man Elkin.'

  'By the knives!' exclaimed Jarl. Why so much baggage? He should have left this rubbish in Selzirk. Anyway – it came with the embassy, it can go back with the embassy.' 'Sir-' 'Don't answer back!' shouted Jarl, murder-voiced.

  The slavemaster quailed. Jarl kicked the goatskins again. Hard. Then, as a new shade joined the shadow-conference on the ground, turned to find himself facing Epelthin Elkin.

  'I would be pleased,' said Elkin, in sour displeasure, 'if you would be gentle with those bags. Within lie codicological treasures of antiquity considerable and value greater.' 'Which you should have left in Selzirk,' said Jarl.

  'As I meant to say before anger distracted you,' said Elkin, 'I am not from Selzirk but from Voice. I have tutored Sarazin through all the years he has spent here as hostage.' 'We have never met,' said Jarl. 'And the sky is blue,' retorted Elkin, by way of insult.

  They glared at each other. Dislike at first sight! Jarl thought to speak his mind – but several slaves were in earshot. To natives of Voice, slaves were invisible unless misbehaving. Jarl, worrying lest they overhear, thus proved himself an alien.

  'Come!' he said, striding away to the shade trees flourishing green at the edge of the Great Square.

  Thodric Jarl was forty-four. Elkin, though much, much older, matched his pace. Once under the trees Jarl looked up and around, then, satisfied as to privacy, turned on Elkin.

  'Know this, old man,' said Jarl. 'I go north at Lord Regan's hest.' That was all he could safely say of his commission from Lord Regan, who had actually recruited him as a spy. 'Understand? You interfere with me, you could be dead by sunset.'

  'I, too,' said Elkin heavily, 'am commanded by Lord Regan.'

  "What?' said Jarl, taken aback. Tou? What use is a dodderer like you?'

  This was unfair. Though ancient, Elkin was scarcely infirm. Grey-headed, yes (his hair pulled back and plaited into a single pigtail hanging almost to his waist) but upright. His mahogany skin walnut wrinkled, yet his bloodshot blue eyes sharp still – 'a knife to undress a virgin' as the local bawdry had it.

  'Well?' said Jarl, no reply being forthcoming from Epelthin Elkin. 'Tell! What wants Lord Regan from you?'

  'Allow me to think. Perchance the library of memory holds words rude enough to match the discourtesy of a Rovac warrior.'

  'Etiquette cannot breed horses,' said Jarl. 'We've few mounts and many leagues to cover, so you must ditch your rubbish.'

  'You organised the horsesK said Elkin. 'A sorry hash you've made of the job. I made my requirements known long in advance. If there aren't enough horses-'

  'I organised nothing! But nevertheless must straighten out our problems. You, for instance.'

  The argument threatened to get out of hand, for both Jarl and Elkin were capable of displays of the most monstrous bad temper. But before they could provoke each other further, four leather-clad horsemen cantered into the Great Square.

  'It must be the embassy,' said Jarl, for only foreigners like himself would wear iron-studded battle leathers in the Rice Empire, where the hides of brute beasts were thought unclean, and wearing such verged on obscenity.

  Indeed, this was Selzirk's embassy: Sarazin's brothers Celadon, Peguero, and Jarnel, plus a prince of Chenameg named Lod. But, being crass young men with no sense of etiquette, they did not introduce themselves when Jarl and Elkin approached. Instead: 'Ho!' said Lod, in Galish. "Where's this Sarazin?'

  'Never mind that,' said Jarl, his own Galish equally shy of protocol. 'Have you a pack horse spare?'

  'Soldiers and baggage beasts await on the outskirts of town,' said Celadon. 'But, before I say more – name yourself, old man.'

  Celadon, then aged twenty, was looking directly at Jarl, who, from the majesty of his forty-four years, replied:

  'Maturity is always old age to a young fool. But don't talk of me as an ancient, boy, or I'll bruise your arse with the flat of my blade.'

  'The hair dates the man,' said Celadon, with affected carelessness.

  Thus I was born,' said. Jarl. 'Like the grey of my eyes it is common enough on Rovac, which is where I hail from. Would'st like to test age and honour at swordpoint?'

  "Not with a nameless stranger,' said Celadon. 'I myself am Celadon, son of Farfalla, who is kingmaker of the Harvest Plains.'

  'Know that I am Thodric Jarl, son of Oric Slaughter- house, blood of the clan of the bear,' said Jarl, sword- blood grim.

  'Clan of the bear?' said Lod, laughing. 'A bad-tempered bear, I warrant. Yet should we be the dogs to bait it? Pray, friends, are we not diplomats? 'Twould be rash to bloody the streets of Voice. And tragic to boot should some of the blood be our own!'

  While Celadon and Jarl both had sword-sharp tempers/ neither wanted combat. Celadon had been warned by his mother not to rape, maim or kill in Voice, and Jarl was hesitant to imperil his mission to Selzirk. Thus both apologised, albeit grudgingly; Then Lod again asked after Sarazin. 'He'll be here soon,' said Jarl.

  Wrong! For Sarazin was delayed saying goodbye to Jaluba, she of the pink lips and the bedroom eyes, she who was but sixteen years of age. In the interests of decency, the less which is said of their long goodbye the better.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Name: Sean Kelebes Sarazin (who will one day win himself the name Watashi). To his mother (in dreams and letters, for they have been parted for years) he is Sarazin Sky. Mother: Farfalla, kingmaker of the Harvest Plains. Father: Fox, a farrier of Selzirk.

  Brothers: Celadon, Peguero and Jarnel (all Farfalla's children); Benthorn (a half-brother sired by Fox on the washerwoman Bizzie).

  When Sean Sarazin finally condescended to appear, Jarl berated him for wearing silks instead of battle-leathers, and for coming to the Great Square unarmed.

  'Swords,' said Sarazin, in a cool, supercilious voice, 'are banned from the streets of Voice.' 'I am armed!' said Jarl. 'So are your brothers.'

  These sworders?' said Sarazin, eyeing the four leather- clad strangers with disfavour. Tvly brothers? Which are you?'

  'I am Lod of Chenameg, sib of Chenameg's heir, Prince Tarkal,' answered the youth Sarazin had
addressed. This is-' 'Introductions later. First, let's get you dressed!'

  Jarl's command lacked legal force, but Sarazin, unable to resist his authority, was «oon leather-clad and armed with the worthjich blade of firelight steel given to him earlier that year by the Rice Empire's Lord Regan. Mean- while, Lod had fetched one of the embassy's spare baggage animals.

  'Good!' said Jarl, on Lod's return. "Well, load up, mount up and let's be off. I'm sick of pissing around.'

  "We did have formal greetings from Farfalla to Lord Regan,' said Celadon. 'After days on the road we did hope, indeed, to sleep tonight in proper beds.'

  Well, you're shit out of luck,' said Jarl. 'Lord Regan quit Voice days ago. Business in the capital demanded his presence. But he left me orders to ride for Selzirk immediately you arrived.'

  'Surely Sarazin has friends who want to see him off,' said Lod. 'Shouldn't we at least await their arrival?'

  'Oh, I farewelled my friends yesterday,' said Sarazin carelessly.

  And, all lobbying for delay having failed, they left the fair city of Voice forthwith – with Sarazin downcast, for Lod had chanced on a sore point. Though legally a hostage, Sarazin had ever been Lord Regan's pet, and hence popular always. But exile to Selzirk must inevitably end his influence with Lord Regan – so he had lately found himself unfriended. Except by Jaluba.

  Ah, the luscious Jaluba, mistress of the thousand volup- tuous perfumes, queen of the lubricous arts…

  Sarazin left Voice with her taste on his lips, her mur- muring passion still hot in memory. He regretted this

  (surely permanent) parting, but told himself that, while Jaluba was fun, he was growing too old for idle fancies of the flesh. -My career, that's the thing.

  For a full season he had indulged himself with dreams of ambition fulfilled. Now he planned – oh giddy thought! – eventually to make himself master of the Harvest Plains. His next woman would therefore have to be a princess of the Favoured Blood. He deserved – and needed – no less. But… would she love him as Jaluba did?