The Wicked and the Witless Read online

  Several voices spoke at once, but one query was clearly heard:

  Where is Fox?'

  Tvlissing,' came the reply. 'Hed with Sean Sarazin.'

  Plovey zar Plovey, who had listened to this impassively, then called for silence. Granted silence, he asked for wine to be served. The delay allowed the hysterical excitement to die down. Then Plovey, emphasising that he wished to be heard in silence, unfolded his tale.

  "Most cherished colleagues,' said he, 'young Benthorn is a most useful agent whom I hold in the highest regard. Yet he and his witnesses must on this occasion be mistaken.

  You see, dearest friends, last night I was summoned by Sarazin's tutor. Not his weapon master, Thodric Jarl, but Epelthin Elkin, who learns him in scholarship. It seems Sarazin was studying with Elkin when he collapsed, seized by a fit.

  'Sarazin could not be roused, and Elkin feared him dying — perhaps from the epilepsy. He summoned army surgeons to his assistance, and, that the death might be well-witnessed, called on certain people to mount a death watch. One of those people, dear friends, was me.'

  Incredulity greeted his words: but his tale proved true. In all, a dozen people had stood watch at Sarazin's side throughout the night; he was unconscious still, scarce breathing, and obviously close to death. The Regency there- fore had Benthorn and Qid interrogated under torture: an acknowledged road to the truth. Before the torturers could draw blood, both Benthorn and Qid had confessed that:

  Fox had planned the raid on Smork, and had coerced them into joining him by extracting oaths of obedience from them under threat of death.

  Amongst the raiding party's riders had been a masked man whom Fox had named as his son Sean Sarazin; neither Qid nor Benthorn had actually seen his face.

  Fox had personally freed the slaves then incited them to torch the buildings and commit all manner of atrocities.

  This confession fitted the circumstances fairly well, so it was accepted as truth. Warrants were sent out for the arrest of Fox and troops began to quarter the countryside, hunting for him. And Plovey of the Regency had an angry interview with both Qid and Benthorn, at which he chastised them severely for being so unreliable.

  This, then, was the situation to which Sean Sarazin awoke after being unconscious for a night, a day and a night. But he, of course, found the publicly accepted explanation entirely unacceptable, and very soon reached his own conclusions.

  * * *

  Farfalla was still officiating at the protracted funeral rites for the dead king of Androlmarphos when the news reached her. Fox missing, outlawed, on the run. Sarazin bedridden following a life-threatening collapse. The village of Smork burnt to the ground by runaway chaingang slaves now pillaging their way across the countryside while soldiers hunted them.

  To abort the funeral rites and return to Selzirk would have been an unthinkable insult to the dead king. Besides, Farfalla had work to do in 'Marphos, for she was already negotiating with some of those who wished to become king in that city.

  These powerful yet power-hungry men included two generals, three bankers, and the master of one of the guilds. To remain in contention they would have to glut Farfalla's greed with money, information, and political favours. Farfalla had few chances to exercise such power, so wanted to make the most of this one.

  As Farfalla was therefore unable to interrogate personally those involved in the latest scandal, she could only guess at the truth. However, even at a distance she divined — rightly — that there was more to this affair than met the eye.

  Why had Benthorn and Qid turned state's evidence so promptly? From what she knew of them — and her spies kept her well-informed about those whose lives were entangled with Sarazin's — she did not think them cowards. Logic suggested they had not been terrorists at all, but agents of the Regency sent to tangle Fox (and, perhaps, Sarazin as well) in treason.

  Ten days later, with the rites at an end, Farfalla was aboard a slave-powered galley slowly making its way upstream against the flow of the Velvet River. The slaves worked like brute animals, like animated corpses. Yet Farfalla was sure their minds were active, imagining the dance of power bringing them the rule of empire, the possession of silken women, the fame of forever.

  From thinking of the slaves Farfalla went on to think of Benthorn and Qid. Why should they conspire to evil at the behest of the Regency? Unlike chained galley slaves, both had reasonable jobs, reasonable lives. But they wanted more. Everyone wanted more.

  That was her opinion: and it was founded on experience. Take her own case, for example. She had a palace of her own (an architectural monstrosity, admittedly, but never- theless a palace), had comfortable clothes, had three meals a day (four or five if she wished), yet was not satisfied.

  It was not enough.

  —Nobody is ever satisfied.

  Watching the slaves at labour on the oars, Farfalla knew all they wanted for the moment was release from pain and effort. But, set free, if given palaces, clothes and food, they would soon be wanting more. Focusing on one young man in particular, she wondered how he would look dressed in silks. Or undressed. A notion occurred to her. She suppressed it. Then thought, defiantly:

  —But I could.

  It was one privilege of her position. Selzirk's Constitution forbid the kingmaker to marry, but did not forbid mating or breeding. Nobody cared who she mated with, as long as she did not take that person too seriously. She had made her first mistake with Fox. Her only mistake. Her worst mistake.

  In the first year of her reign, the young and lovely Farfalla had fallen heavily for the apprentice farrier Fox, and their love had been both tender and passionate. If content with the possession of her body, he would have done her no harm. But this ambitious young man had sought to convert her to his own political beliefs. Which had been wild. Naive. Fantastical.

  For Fox, believing in the equality of all, had campaigned for the abolition of slavery, very soon converting Farfalla to his own cause. She herself had been cautious, knowing such radicalism would wrath the established order.

  But, soon enough, her commitment to the cause of the slaves had been suspected, and suspicion alone had been sufficient to unite the Regency in the unanimous vote which had so early in her career taken away nearly all of her executive powers. Since then, kingmaker and Regency had been forever at odds, their best energies devoted to power politics while the practical issues of the day were ignored.

  Issues such as inflation, now painfully high; poverty; unemployment; military indiscipline; the growth of the criminal classes; and the (possibly insoluble) problem of slowly but steadily declining crop yields. Long years of irrigation had led to ever-increasing amounts of salt in the soil of the Harvest Plains, threatening to doom Argan's greatest civilization within a few short generations.

  Salt?

  Yes, salt alone could overthrow an empire.

  In idle fantasy, Farfalla imagined herself as an all- powerful ruler mastering the practical tasks of empire: salt, water, work, crime, inflation, law, trade, language, literacy, treaties, diplomacy, matters of war and peace. All that and more. But her actual life was dominated by political intrigue, much of it devoted to the business of simply staying alive. Her war with the Regency was the tragedy of her life. She exhausted herself simply struggling to stay alive. As for the slaves, why, they were no better off.

  What if she had never met Fox, had never fallen under his spell, had never been intoxicated by his radical rhetoric? Then, doubtless she would never have taken it into her head to worry about the slaves. By ignoring their suffering, she would have achieved far more both for herself and for her country. As it was, history would record her reign as one long exercise in procrastination.

  Still, she had loved Fox dearly, dunking him ever faithful in a world of uncertainty. Her only lover, her only friend. Her emotional investment in the man had been enormous. She had even forgiven him when he had betrayed her love, siring his bastard son Benthorn upon the varletess Bizzie.

  But one can only
forgive so much . . .

  Recently, there had been days of rain as summer gave way to autumn. But today the sun shone, it was hot, and, stirred by the heat of old memories, Farfalla at length summoned the slavemaster. He stood there silent while she hesitated still. Was this what she really wanted? At last she said: 'I want . . .'

  The one with the dragon tattoo?' Yes,' said Farfalla.

  Though she had meant to say 'no'. And the slavemaster was gone before she could cancel her order. Well, time enough to do that when the boy had been brought to her. She could send him back easily enough, no harm done, though it would be courteous to offer him some wine first.

  Farfalla retired to her cabin to wait. At length the dragon-adorned slave was brought to her. He had been washed, cleansed, scrubbed. His hair was still wet. And, watching the grace with which he seated himself, she was no longer so certain she had made a mistake . . .

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sean Sarazin: oldest son of kingmaker Farfalla. Is doomed by Constitution to spend his life in the armed forces of the Harvest Plains, but is most reluctant to accept that fate.

  Sarazin was in no hurry to rise from his sickbed. Indeed, having much to gain from illness, he did his best to stay there. When the army surgeons visited, he took care to answer their questions in a slow and stumbling voice. He complained of joint pains, dizziness, inexplicable echoes and shadows which spoke to him. Thus they decided to defer his enlistment into the armed forces for a full three years, 'that time may determine whether he is possessed by the demons of epilepsy'.

  In secret, Sarazin smiled, for this was the outcome he had been seeking. But still he lay abed, busy with brain- work: brooding, planning and plotting. It was very pleasant to lie there warm and comfortable while autumn rains drummed against the shutters. However, on Farfalla's return his holiday ended. She listened to his recital of symptoms with every appearance of sympathy — then ordered him out of bed.

  'Get fit!' she said. 'And fast! For you're joining the army in spring whatever the surgeons say.'

  Next, a petition from Lod came to Selzirk by diplomatic courier. Unlike a certain notorious group of chaingang slaves, Lod had not had the good luck to be freed during the battle at Smork, but had been carried all the way back to Chenameg as a prisoner of his kidnappers. On reaching Shin, he had been imprisoned by his father on a charge of being a wastrel, a crime carrying a penalty of thirty years' penal servitude. Lod begged Farfalla to send Sarazin to Shin to be a character witness at his trial.

  'I must go!' said Sarazin, when he learnt of this. 'Lod needs my help.'

  "No,' said Farfalla.

  'But he's my friend,' protested Sarazin.

  True. Also, Amantha had returned to Shin, and Sarazin needed to follow to pursue his destiny.

  "You are not going to Chenameg,' said Farfalla. The very thought is lunatic'

  "But Lod needs my help.'

  'What do you know of Lod?' said Farfalla.

  Why,' said Sarazin, 'that he's a fine fellow with a spritely wit. I'd not want him dead.'

  "Nobody wants him dead, but his father obviously wants him chastised. Who are we to argue with that? I got the boy's measure while he was here. Lod's an idle wit, a reckless gambler, a profligate whoremaster — in a word, the wastrel he's alleged to be.'

  "You condemn him?' said Sarazin.

  'I leave that to Chenameg's courts. But surely if you evidenced in Shin, you yourself would condemn him. For you know yourself of his idleness, his debts, his drinking, his debauchery.'

  lod wants me,' said Sarazin stubbornly.

  "Then Lod,' said Farfalla, 'is a fool.'

  And she sent a message back to Shin saying the petition was denied.

  A day after this disappointment, Sarazin received a letter from Madam Sosostris inviting him to inspect the new book of prophecy which she had discovered. From Madam Ix, he already knew this book concerned a prince called Watashi; he could not deny that he was curious.

  However, he suspected curiosity might cost him dear, and he was saving his dorths to finance a projected journey east to Shin. Despite Farfalla's interdict, he yet hoped to attend Lod's trial, save his friend, win Amantha's hand — and kill Tarkal, thus clearing the way to the throne of Chenameg.

  The next evening, another letter arrived from Madam Sosostris. With it was a note written in the Rice Empire's Geltic in a familiar hand. All it said was:

  'I will be there.'

  This Sarazin could not resist. However, he could not hurry to Jaluba's charms immediately, for Farfalla required him to banquet that night with certain candidates for the kingship of Androlmarphos. Sarazin was abstracted throughout the feast, to his mother's great annoyance. She took him aside to say:

  Those here tonight are all powerful people well worth cultivating. Charm them. Delight them. Impress them. Win their confidence. It may be worth your while.'

  'I thought you didn't want me to play politics,' said Sarazin.

  'It never hurts to make friends,' said Farfalla. You won't play politics with these people, but their friendship, if you can win it, may yet save your life.'

  But Sarazin was too deeply engrossed with thoughts of Jaluba to pay much attention. He slept poorly that night, woke at dawn, and was soon off and away.

  laluba' he murmured. 'Heart of my heart. Dream of my dreams. Shortly, my darling, shortly. Soon . . .'

  Thus murmuring, he hurried to the Sosostris lair. He was allowed in through the door without charge, but his attempts to see Jaluba were rebuffed.

  'She has a headache,' he was told by Madam Sosostris herself, a much-scented heavily ornamented woman who shrouded her face with an inscrutable veil.

  'I see,' said Sarazin, 'so this is a con! You've tempted me here on false pretences. Well, you're out of luck. You'll not gouge money out of me today, no, not so much as a dorth. I'm leaving.'

  You misjudge us!' said Madam Sosostris. Is it my fault that Jaluba is ill? Her beauty is tender, like that of a flower. It bruises easily. You must have patience, patience. She will recover shortly, if not today then tomorrow. Mean- time . . . surely you wish to see this marvellous book which speaks of power and princes.'

  'I cannot afford such marvels,' said Sarazin.

  'But this is free,' said Madam Sosostris.

  'Free?' said Sarazin. 'What do you mean by free?'

  'I mean, there's no charge for it.'

  "Then what are you demanding by way of donation?'

  'I demand no donation.'

  Colloquy continued further along these lines, for Sarazin was sure there had to be a catch. Somewhere. But, at length, he allowed the seer to usher him into a small uncarpeted upstairs room where an immense volume with a cracked leather binding lay on a reading desk. Open shutters showed the morning bluesky bright. Perhaps the autumn rains would resume on the morrow, but today was perfect. Sarazin took this as a good omen.

  Now . . . why were there bars on the windows?

  'What's with the bars?' said Sarazin.

  This was built as a strongroom,' said Madam Sosostris, settling herself into a chair.

  You're staying?' said Sarazin, still standing.

  'It is a valuable book,' said Madam Sosostris.

  Sarazin hesitated, then drew up a chair and sat down at the reading desk. Touched the cracked leather. Opened the book, carefully. Breathed antiquity's dust. Gazed upon the ornate illuminated text, and knew at once that this could not possibly be a forgery worked up for his benefit.

  A book of this quality, so painstakingly illuminated, took immense labour to create. Its colours glowed. The gold of gold, the silver of silver. Sky, leaf, river, sea. The orange of a dusty sunset, the purple of aubergine. The capital letters were works of art in themselves, each evolving itself into a plant, an animal or an element.

  In wide white margins other fantasies ran amok. Trailing vines grew leaves, grew flames. Fish metamorphosed to dragons. Eagle-winged cats chased yelping dogs beneath trees from which skulls hung as fruit. A basilisk peered from ben
eath a rock, eyes smouldering. An armed and armoured warrior, mounted on a gryphon, assailed a gigantic wasp with a flaming spear. A huntsman with a vulture's head rode an oliphant, urging a pack of carrion- eaters to close with their helpless human prey.

  Fascinating.

  Now Sarazin knew why his hostess was sitting there watching him. And why there were bars on the windows. This was a priceless treasure, whatever the text might say. And what might that be?

  Turning his attention from art to content, he was dismayed to see that the elaborately decorated text was written in Churl in the antiquated Spiral Style. He could decipher it, but only with great difficulty.

  'I don't speak Churl that well,' said Sarazin. 'Could you translate this into Galish for me?'

  "Why, no,' said Madam Sosostris, 'for I know not what it says.'

  'But you must,' said Sarazin. 'for Madam Ix had know- ledge of its contents. It's about princes and prophecy and such. How did she come by such knowledge except through you?'

  'I bought this book from a travelling pox doctor,' said Madam Sosostris. 'He himself told me what was in it. But it was only the outline he gave me. I know no more than the outline.'

  'I don't suppose I could take this book away,' said Sarazin.

  'Impossible,' said Madam Sosostris. Then: Why do you ask?'

  'There's someone who could help me with it. Epelthin Elkin.'

  Ever since his collapse in the Voat Library, Sarazin had steered well clear of Elkin, believing the old scholar to have previously unsuspected powers. Powers that were poten- tially very dangerous. But he would rather risk further acquaintance with Elkin than grapple with the complexities of Spiral Style.