The Walrus and the Warwolf coaaod-4 Page 12

  At first he was chary of breaking the place up. After all, something was making Ko island curl at the edges, and the only thing he could put it down to was his own Investigations. If he started some Destruction he might end up in serious trouble.

  'But there's no other way,' muttered Drake, picking up the lightest available machine. 'Don't take this the wrong way, little thing – it's sanctioned by the Theory of Investigations, don't you know.'

  And he hurled the item against the wall. It was fragile, having been designed only to store, sanitize and dispense tooth-brushes. It shattered. A toothbrush (perfectly preserved for millenia by a low-grade stasis field) fell from the wreckage.

  'A little jewel-cleaner of some sort,' said Drake, frowning. 'What was that doing in there?'

  And he Investigated, carefully, looking for jewels. There was none. But there were some thin, finely woven metal wires, sheathed in pliable jackets of different colours.

  'Hmmm,' said Drake. 'Maybe the last rule is the best of all. . .'

  And he went downstairs to retrieve the larger bones of the skeleton, thinking to use them as levers to help pry apart the larger machines.

  He was still hard at it when night came. He got little sleep, for the topmost room of the tower became amazingly cold by night. By the time dawn came, his stomach was seething with acid hunger. His mouth was thick, dry, furry. He sucked on the knucklebone of a long-dead man, generating saliva to ease the dryness of his throat.'To work,' said Drake. 'To work . . .'By noon, he had smashed every device in the room, and had woven a rope of wires which reached almost to the ground. Now he had to climb down.

  'No sweat!' said Drake, using an ugly vernacular expression meaning 'easy'.

  He was swiftly disabused of this notion, for in his weakened condition – he had lost a lot of water to the sun – he found it hard-going. By the time he reached the ground, he was in a state of wet-faced exhaustion.

  He still faced the half-league walk back to the vent he had exited from. Half a league? In this spasmodic terrain, rough as a storm-chopped sea, his undulating route would stretch the journey out to nigh on three thousand paces.

  Be a man.

  With a third of the journey done, he slipped, fell, and ricked an ankle. Broken? Even if it was, he still had to walk on it. With his dirk, he cut himself a hefty stick to lean on. Up. On! He almost swooned from the pain – but continued.A shadow flickered across the ground.The buzzard?

  Looking up, Drake saw something far, far above. High through the blue empyrean it flew. A great bulky body and a long, long trailing tail. It was a hundred paces long if it was a fingerlength. As Drake watched, it vanished into cloud.What was that?

  It was, he decided, a hallucination. Nothing which flew could be so big. Surely. But then, dragons – no, it had not been a dragon. A monster of the Swarms? Impossible. The Swarms were an invention of wizards, part of a bluff to keep the world from the riches of the terror-lands . . .Again a shadow flickered over the ground.Again Drake looked up.

  It was a buzzard, that was all. Probably the same one which had been hungering after him the day before. Well, it was right out of luck, for he had no intention of dying. Not today.'Not ever, in fact,' said Drake.

  As the purple shadows of evening were spreading across the terror-lands of the Deep South, Drake gained the vent which led into the depths of Ling. He was too tired to be happy. He stumbled to his quarters, drained a bowl of water then fell onto his bed and collapsed.

  'Our visitor has returned alive from the Forbidden Tower,' the Watchers reported to the Great One. 'How can that be?'

  'Omnia puris pura,' said the Great One, or words to that effect. 'He found no evil there for no evil lives within him. We must increase our efforts to incorporate him.'

  Drake spent two days in bed, utterly exhausted. His ankle, fortunately, was only badly bruised – but, even so, he knew there was no escape for him on foot.

  It was a good few marches to Drangsturm, with no wild water on the way. Even if he met no monsters, thirst would finish him for certain. He remembered the buzzard circling overhead; he shuddered. Even if he reached Drangsturm, he would be on the wrong side of that prodigious flame trench. Did it run right into the sea? If it did, how far would he have to swim to get to safety?

  Forget it! He would have to steal a canoe, yes. And, while stealing a canoe, he might as well go for some pearls. What did they really look like, those 'beads without holes'? Men deemed them fabulous wealth, but what made them so special?

  Drake's desire to learn about canoes was amply satisfied in the days that followed. On showing himself interested in the sea, he found plenty of tutors eager to learn him all its aspects. (And also to seduce him – though, fearing more torture, he resisted all their blandishments.)They taught him paddling.They tolerated his fondness for collisions.

  And then the Ling made a decision which would shortly allow Drake to satisfy his curiosity about pearls.Drake had lately taken to pointing at Ko, and making strange noises which were clearly meant to be questions. Obviously he wanted to go to the island.

  'Being pure,' said the Great One, 'he does not want to live as a parasite. He wishes to share our labours.'

  Which was how Drake got to be taken to the pearl-fishing grounds at Ko.

  'It's all right,' he said with relief, when they got there. 'It's not melting after all. It must've been some trick of the sea making it look so. We can go back now.'

  But the smiling Ling still confessed to no Galish. Instead, they set a bushel of pearl-oysters in front of him, and showed him how these were opened.

  Soon Drake knew why pearls were so precious: because in days of oyster-opening, in which he was sure he killed more oysters than all the world could have eaten in ninety generations, he found but one small pearl, and even that was misshapen, squashed almost flat. He had plenty of examples to compare it with, because the Ling were indulging in a positive orgy of pearling, diving from dawn to dusk.'I'll try diving,' said Drake. 'It's got to be easier.'

  It wasn't. It was exhausting. But, as he got good at it, he relished the fierce pleasures of physical mastery. To be good at something, to be excellent – yes, that was what made life worth living.

  Down in the depths of the sea he dived, swimming sinuous through translucent seas where sunlight sieved down through the blue-green fathoms, where fish flickered away into the mists of distance, or dawdled at weightless leisure between floating weed and plump red sponges.

  They dived, some days, near an underwater cliff which fell away to cold, cold, black-green depths. Once, Drake swam out above that unfathomable abysm, for the sheer pleasure of terrifying himself. Once was enough.

  In waters less deep, he joined the play with the big, lazy black-winged rays, ferocious in appearance but near enough to harmless unless hooked or speared. He broke open sea urchins for the pleasure of moray eels, which fed from his naked hands. When exhausted by the sea, he slept on rock ledges in the leisurely heat of the afternoon sun.

  'He spends less and less time bringing up pearl-oysters,' complained his comrades.

  'Doubtless he has a religious connection with the sea,' said the Great One. 'He is engaged in her worship. Let him be.''Oh,' said the Ling.

  It seemed there was much to learn about this strange, saintly son of Jon Arabin, who looked young and virile, yet refused every offer of the pleasure of the flesh.

  What the Ling did not learn – for they were very innocent, and not much good at arithmetic – was that Drake was robbing them blind. He massed a hoard of twenty pearls – a fortune in other parts, if sailors' stories were anything to go by. And he dreamed sweetly about what such wealth could buy him in civilization.

  Each evening, as night settled on Island Ko, he sat by a driftwood fire sucking the flesh from the claws of giant crabs, staring into the flames and imagining the soft breasts of women, the sighs of a swooning lover, the hearty laughter of a tavern, the chink of gold in a casino, the generous smiles of flattering faces admiring his silken ele
gance.

  Finally, the pearling on Ko came to an end. The divers shifted back to Ling. And Drake was ready to escape.

  He chose a canoe: one small enough to paddle himself. He scavenged a single waterskin, which he filled from the ever-replenished Inner Pool which supplied the whole community of Ling. Food was no problem: there was any amount of dried oyster flesh for the taking.

  He had more than a few doubts about the voyage. It was a hell of a long way to paddle.

  'But,' said Drake, 'I don't have much bloody option. If I can get back to Stokos, I can likely be king. Or a priest, at least. What's the choice? To stay here and rot, that's what!'

  Ling, as far as he could tell, was ignorant of both booze and gambling. And as for sex – he knew well enough that he would be tortured to death if he so much as laid hands on any of the young flesh which delighted in tantalizing him.

  So early one morning, while it was still dark, Drake launched his canoe. It was, in fact, Midsummer's Day -the start of the year Khmar 18, and the first anniversary of the Martyrdom of Muck.

  Drake was far out in the bay when the dawnlight, diminishing the dark, revealed a ship. A ship oncoming, a stately sight, all sail set to bear her along in the light winds of dawn. Drake stopped paddling, and sat there, hoping. The ship had green sails, yes. And – a dragon figurehead! It was the Warwolf! Shouting, weeping and whooping, Drake jumped up and down to such effect that he upset the canoe and precipitated himself into the water.

  'I wonder,' said one of the elders, observing him from the heights, 'why our young guest was out on the waters so early in the morning.'

  'Because,' replied the Great One, who was standing beside him, 'he has the Power. He knew his father was returning today, so set himself forth to meet him.''He will, then, leave us.' 'Doubtless.'

  'What then do you see for his future?' asked the elder. The Great One deliberated gravely, then said: 'I see him changed to a sail.' 'To a sail?'

  'Why not?' said the Great One. 'We each of us start as a fish in the womb. Is it any more miraculous to be changed into a sail?''Well. . . what else do you see?'

  'Monsters . . . many of them . . . and … a woman. Red skin. Red breasts. Her name – no, her name eludes me.'

  'Is this woman then to be the mate of our noble visitor?

  Or will he return here to honour us with his flesh?'

  'The way is murky,' said the Great One. 'I see a time when he will be but a step away from a world of destinies. Much then will rely on his wisdom – and the strength of his swordarm.'

  Thus ran the word of wisdom in the land of Ling.

  10

  Name: Jon Arabin. Alias: Warwolf. Occupation: pirate-trader.

  Status: master mariner; ship-owner; large-scale debtor; husband of Leela, Waru, Verona, Silobeth, Esylan, Tarawen, Gleneth, Parazela, Qualavinth, Janateerith, Zal, Ralathy et al.

  Birthplace: Ashmolea.

  Description: lordly lean black bald clean-shaven man with pale blue eyes, firm voice and forthright manner; wears brown leathers and big leather belt encumbered with sea-pouch and a variety of blades.

  One of the first things Drake saw when he got on board the Warwolf was Ika Thole, the Ebrell-born harpoon man. Seeing Thole's red hair and red skin, Drake was instantly reminded of his true love, Zanya Kliedervaust. Zanya of the honey-coloured voice! Zanya of the high-sprung breasts! Zanya the beautiful, the lush, the ultimately desirable!How long since he had been laid?Months!

  He had an urgent desire to be back on Stokos, to be face to face with the fair Zanya, praising her with poetry, offering her flowers, stripping away her clothes.

  'Zanya, no clothes can properly compliment your beauty-'

  'What's that you're saying?' said Jon Arabin, coming up behind him.

  Drake promptly turned and tried to punch him in the face. But Arabin caught Drake's fist, and laughed.'Easy, boy. Not so fierce.'

  'You toad-buggering bastard!' said Drake. 'You sailed away and left me.'

  'Aye, boy,' said Jon Arabin releasing Drake's fist and meeting his gaze without trouble. 'We knew you'd be safe enough.''Safe! Look at this!'

  Drake pulled up his tattered shirt with such force that the frayed and faded fabric tore, thus exposing his scar. Arabin chuckled.

  'Cut, were you? A fight over women, perhaps? Well, for the young, they're worth fighting for.'

  'Fight!' said Drake. 'It was no such thing! They tied me down for torture! Slashed me with a knife then put a snake to the wound. A great monster, all blood and gold. It ate its way to my innards.'

  'Aye, boy,' said Arabin, 'then they cut off your head, but you grew yourself another to be looking respectable.'

  And he dug his fingers in deep under Drake's floating rib. Drake winced as the hard man probed and palpated.

  'There's naught deep damage there,' said Arabin. 'Go any depth in there, and the man's dead. I'd say you got a wound, a fever with it, then some imaginings from the fever.'

  In fact, the snake which had eaten into Drake's flesh was still there, deeply encysted. Nourished by Drake's own blood supply, it was slowly changing. Even now, a mass of eggs was slowly ripening in its belly. Once they hatched, birthing millions of baby worms . . .

  Ah, but that lay in the future, and, for the moment, what Drake didn't know about didn't hurt him.But he was still angry.T hope I get a share of the profits,' he said.

  'Aye, boy, that you will, what's left after clearing debt. Aye, and we'll be paying to overhaul the ship as well. And does she need it!''Well, does she?' said Drake.

  'By the oath she does,' said Arabin, momentarily appalled at his ignorance. 'Go see Jon Disaster, he's in charge of our clothing chest. Tell him I've said you're to have new kit entire – you look rough enough to scare a scarecrow.'

  'Thanks for the compliment,' said Drake bitterly. 'It wasn't my choice to live so far from a tailor's shop.'

  'Once you're kitted out,' continued Jon Arabin, unperturbed, 'come along and watch the trading done. It's good to get to know the ropes.''Why so?' said Drake.'Why? Because we'll be back here two years from now.' 'Hrmph!' said Drake.

  He got Disaster to give him new kit – boots, linens and a set of sealskins. All the clothing was damp, and smelt rather of mould. But, thus dressed, he felt a new man.

  He went to watch the trading, and saw good pearls traded for a cargo Arabin had lately loaded at Narba -canoe timber, tarpaulins, canvas sails, fresh vegetables, rice, flour, hides, furs, bone-meal, fish-hooks, harpoons, cauldrons, glass beads, casks of salt pork, siege dust, bamboo, silk, cotton, awls, needles, calamanco, mandolins and ivory.

  With the trading done, a dozen girls and an equal number of satin-skinned young men lined up to kiss Drake on his lips, to force pearls upon him, to weep at his feet, to stroke his haunches and fondle his hands, while the crew of the Warwolf laughed, clapped, stamped and cheered.

  'So much for torture chambers!' said Jon Arabin, as the last suitor quit the ship reluctantly. 'It must have been the fever-dreams you were remembering.'

  And Drake, scratching his scar idly, was almost persuaded to agree.

  Though he was glad to be back on board, he could not help noticing how cramped and dirty the ship was, and how it stank. And it was crowded, yes, after the comparative privacy he had enjoyed in the caves of the Ling.

  He consoled himself with the thought that this was the last voyage of his life. Once they touched land, he would jump ship and buy a passage back to Stokos. Well – that would mean more sea, of course, but only briefly.

  On reaching his homeland, he would buy himself out of his apprenticeship, pay whatever theft-fines he owed with respect to Muck's mastersword, and then buy himself a place in the priesthood of the demon Hagon. His wealth was certainly equal to his ambition.

  Since it was midsummer, he was now seventeen years old plus a couple of months. In less than a year, King Tor would make a decision on his marriage prospects. Well. If he got Tor's daughter, he'd quit the temple and be prince (and, later, king). If he didn't g
et the daughter, he'd follow a career in the priesthood. But, either way, he'd have Zanya Kliedervaust as his pleasure-woman.His wealth would surely make certain of that.

  Drake worked on the finer details of his plans as he helped raise the anchor, labouring round in a circle, throwing his weight against one of the twelve bars of the capstan. Even with this enormous amount of leverage, all were a muck of sweat by the time the brutal weight had been broken free and hauled up high and dry.

  He was summoned below decks by the cook. As Drake helped hash up some unidentifiable gunk fried in whale oil, he imagined the beautiful meals which Zanya would cook when she was his pleasure-woman. His sweet daydreams blurred unfriendly verities; even the increasingly uneasy motion of the ship failed to trouble him.

  They had rough weather for the start of their trip north. Then, when they had just cleared Cape Songala, a storm claimed them.

  A ravaging wind blew from the west. After a two-day storm-fight, what little canvas they had dared carry was blown out entirely. Then the wind shifted to the north-west, threatening to drive them toward doom at Drangsturm.

  Jon Arabin decided to lie-to, praying the storm would blow itself out before wrecking them. So lie-to they did: but, slowly, remorselessly, they were driven toward grief where the flame trench met the Central Ocean.

  Finally, the fires of Drangsturm itself were seen glowering against the stormcloud sky. The wind's joy blew berserk. They must raise sail or die – but no canvas could stand the weather.'Man the fore-shrouds!' roared Jon Arabin.And so they did.

  When Drake was ordered aloft with the rest, he could scarce believe his ears – but soon enough he was up there, clinging in the rigging which braced the foremast. In his darkest imaginings, he'd never dreamed himself being turned into a storm-sail, but there he was, shuddering in the screaming wind while the ship lurched and his stomach lurched with it.