The Wicked and the Witless Read online

  'Why hasn't it come?' said Sarazin.

  'It only does this once in every half a thousand years,' said Amantha, 'so maybe it's having trouble remembering the way.'

  Sarazin wondered whether Phoenix Day was going to be another crushing disappointment — like the city of Shin, which had proved to be a dismal lumber town with unpaved streets and gloomy high-gabled wooden build- ings. However, at last the bird of wonder came flying in from the east. It looked very much like a stork, except its feathers were every colour of the rainbow.

  Where does it live?' asked Sarazin.

  'Somewhere in the dragonlands,' said Amantha, 'Ssh! Watch!'

  She had spoken too late. People were already staring at them. Sarazin realised he had made a faux pas. He was acutely embarrassed. What he really needed in this place was a reliable guide to courtly behaviour whom he could consult in private. In that respect, Thodric Jarl had proved a total disappointment.

  What was the phoenix doing? Circling overhead. Was it supposed to go round in circles? Maybe it had heard him speak. Maybe he had scared it off. Then what would happen to him?

  To Sarazin's relief, after another half-dozen circles the phoenix landed on the altar of the Temple. There was a glitter like water on diamonds as it burst into flames. Incandescent, it writhed in an uproarious conflagration.

  To the audience came an appalling stench of burnt feathers and charred flesh. Sarazin thought for a moment that something had gone wrong. Then the phoenix started to ascend. The bird of wonder rose sheathed with incandes- cent fire, which fell away to reveal brilliant new plumage.

  As the phoenix climbed in glory, everyone clapped.

  Wasn't that marvellous?' said Amantha.

  Wonderful,' agreed Sarazin, out of duty.

  He felt somehow cheated. The fact that the burning bird had stunk had spoilt the whole thing.

  However, he cheered up soon enough when the poetry competition began, for he had high hopes for his own com- position. The ruling fashion at the moment was the poetry of extravagance, which had lately ousted the poetry of horror — which in turn had conquered the poetry of lust.

  Sarazin's competition poem was entitled 'A One-winged Treacle-Bat Dares Its Dragon's Tongue To Make Some Observations'. He had written it in the Gel tic of the Rice Empire before translating it into Churl. Since none other than Arez Stone had helped with the translation (flattery works wonders, and Sarazin knew its use well) it should be good.

  When his turn came, Sarazin cleared his throat then began:

  The earthworms coagulate. The fish

  Throttles the politics of the mayfly.

  My love is red. Gashed. Wounded.

  Her vampire teeth a parrot, her nose a comb,

  No breadcrumbs but a nipple!

  Yea, leavened with lead and gold I mount

  (As dogs mount goats and diamonds,

  As fish mount quartz-dove rings)

  Past rhetorics of menstruating heavens,

  Past cloves of coal and petal-folds of cream,

  Then close — ah, say it, love! — with adoration.

  Fraught with revolutions then the moon

  Observes my buttermilk shock, my stirruped deed

  Drive to her grease and annul

  All pleasures in the heartlands of a rose.

  Her savour licks one pearl from my rampole strength,

  Splices with lead my gold, then sets my steel

  Quivering to the perfumes of her naos.'

  His admiring auditors applauded his daring, for he had cunningly blended the poetries of lust and horror with the current style of extravagance, and with the poetry of nonsense which looked set to replace it. His art was a triumph of fashion.

  'The winner,' said the herald, shortly, 'the winner is . . . Sean Kelebes Sarazin, lately of Selzirk.'

  Everyone cheered. And Sarazin, flushed and triumphant, exulted. He was a leader of fashion, and intensely proud of himself on that account. His pride only increased when King Lyra handed over the poetry prize, which was an ornate porcelain chamber-pot painted with pictures of bluebirds and daffodils.

  The day would not have been complete without a feast. Thus, that evening, they were indulged with precisely that. They dined upon roast dziggetai, upon mountain trout, sparrows stuffed with raspberry jam, upon pickled pigs' eyes and truffle delight, all washed down with draughts of ale, skull and dandelion wine.

  After eating: dancing. Whirling music. Laughter by lantern light. Sarazin inveigled Amantha outside, and they stood for a while together in a doorway in a romantic silence. They could not wander beneath the stars because, had they attempted anything so foolish, they would swiftly have found themselves ankle-deep in mud.

  'I'm cold,' said Amantha.

  'I could warm you up,' said Sarazin.

  And kissed her.

  'Really!' said Amantha. 'I think we had better go back in- side. And you, Sean Sarazin, had better remember yourself.'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  King Lyra: portly widower who rules the Chenameg Kingdom from his palace in Shin. Father of Tarkal (his eldest child), Amantha (who will attain the throne if Tarkal dies) and Lod (his youngest, currently in jail awaiting trial on a charge of being a wastrel).

  The next day, there was to be a royal hunt. When invited to participate, Sarazin had at first begged off, saying his pony was lame. In fact, he was too embarrassed to ride such a meagre beast in such elevated company. However, King Lyra discerned the true cause of Sarazin's discomfort, and forced Tarkal to lend him a beautiful caparisoned charger, a gallant grey looking ready to challenge the wind itself. He also ordered 'the best royal hunting garb' to be delivered to Sarazin in the morning.

  Thus Sarazin went to sleep content, waking at dawn, rejoicing in his (temporary) possession of one of Tarkal's horses — not least because it was a mark of the monarch's favour. It seemed King Lyra (like Lord Regan of the Rice Empire) recognised Sarazin's princely qualities. The king, then, must truly be an excellent judge of character.

  Sarazin's high spirits were, however, somewhat damp- ened when a set of hunting clothes was delivered to his quarters. He had imagined himself hunting in silks, but received instead some incredibly thick, virtually indestructible padded trousers of a very coarse wool which scratched his thighs, and a woollen jacket of similar strength and thickness, its exterior armoured by plates of lacquered wood stitched to the wool by means of threads passed through hundreds of awl-holes.

  Sarazin was half-convinced this vile rigout was someone's idea of a practical joke. However, he dressed, put on his trusty boots, buckled on his swordbelt, checked his weapon for rust, popped a jaunty blue bycoket on his head, then went forth to the stables where he collected his noble grey.

  Then he joined the riders of the hunt, who were con- gregating in a mudfield on the outskirts of Shin, hard up against the forest. Sarazin was glad to see his companions of the day were similarly accoutred. A light rain was falling, but it quite failed to dampen their spirits. As a cold wind began to urge the rain across the mudfield, Sarazin began to see the sense of being so warmly dressed.

  He wished they could have been hunting in autumn, for autumn's treasury forest, with its hoard of bronze, copper, gold and unblemished silver, would have offered so many more opportunites for poetry. Still, even a winter hunt should be good for a few lines or so.

  'Well, youngling,' said King Lyra genially, riding up beside him, 'they're bringing out the quarry. Are you ready?'

  "With cock and sword!' said Sarazin.

  'Ah, would that I were young!' said King Lyra. 'Still, I'll show you young dogs a thing or two before the day is over.'

  'Do you ride with us?' said Sarazin.

  'But of course, man, of course!'

  Frankly Sarazin thought the gouty old gentleman unfit for such vigorous sport. But he thought no more on it, for his interest was now focused on the quarry, a slim young peasant woman. He watched as she was unchained and released.

  At first, despairing of escape,
she would not consent to run. But whips got her going. Her naked body flitted away between the trees. Silent as a dream-wraith.

  'Now that,' said Lyra, nodding in the direction of the departing woman, 'that is a virgin. I checked her myself. Fresh meat for the victor!'

  'Sire,' said Sarazin, 'you are a most generous host.'

  For a while, the riders milled around, drinking from gilded cows' horns. Sarazin wondered aloud how they would find the woman in the forest.

  'For,' he said, 'we have no dogs.'

  'No need for them,' said King Lyra. 'See those fellows over there? Those ugly-looking brutes on the black horses? Those are our trackers. Capital men, capital. Here, get some of this inside you.'

  So saying, the king passed Sarazin a drinking horn. Flames of a startling green danced the surface of the liquor within.

  'Firewater,' said King Lyra, by way of explanation. 'From the Ebrell Islands, you know.'

  Sarazin, having heard something of firewater, doubted it was really the thing to drink before a fast-paced ride

  through a dangerous forest. However, he durst not decline the offer.

  'Sire,' he said, 'you honour me.'

  You honour us, man,' said King Lyra. 'Not often we get visitors from Selzirk, you know. Liked your poem. Don't say I understood it, but that's not what it's for, is it? Had some arse in it, eh? Arse! That's the stuff!'

  And the king slapped Sarazin on the back, and laughed heartily.

  What did he mean with his talk about arse? Was he making some sort of invitation? If so, how could Sarazin decline it? To cover his confusion, Sarazin sipped at the green-burning liquor in the horn, which fired his blood with summer warmth and made his head swim.

  He handed the horn back to the king, who drained it. Then, swaying slightly in the saddle, began to sing a song of some considerable obscenity. Other hunters took up the tune. As it was, obviously, a tradition — and a royal tradition at that — Sarazin, after some hesitation, began to sing himself.

  King Lyra's drinking horn was refilled, then emptied again. Not once, but twice. And not by the king alone — he had generous help from Sarazin. Who began to feel positively buoyant. There was strength in his chest, fire in his loins, a splendour in the weather. He looked around for Amantha, thinking to demand a kiss. But there were no women evident, for this was a strictly masculine assembly.

  He began to get impatient. Surely their quarry would be leagues away by now! What if they lost her? What if she got away? That would put everyone in a bad humour, doubtless. Which Sarazin could not afford, since he wanted the king in the best of moods that evening.

  Sarazin — even when under the influence of firewater — was not so foolish as to think he could ask the king for his daughter's hand in marriage on such short acquain- tance. However, he thought he might, with some effect, be able to ask the king to show mercy to Lod.

  By rescuing Lod he would win another ally in his campaign for the throne of Chenameg. Doubtless Lod would be suitably grateful if Sarazin could pull it off — for otherwise he would surely be adjudged a wastrel and be put to death on that account.

  'Sean Kelebes!' cried King Lyra, already some ways distant. 'Are you woolgathering? Come on, man — we're off!'

  Sarazin sat up with a start. It was true! Horsemen were already thundering out of the mudfield. Sarazin spurred his steed and joined them, his eyes slit-gritted against the mud spraying in all directions from the hooves of the horses.

  While Sarazin was one of the last of the riders to leave, he made up for it as they plunged through the bare- boughed forests of winter. Trees flashed past as he rode pell-mell, daring life and limb for glory. He was excited, exulted, exhilarated.

  Swiftly he gained on the trackers, who rode with abandon, for they were drunk on firewater. Drunk as well was King Lyra, who rode whooping on the heels of the trackers, his son Tarkal close behind him. Sarazin, ardent in the pursuit of honour, strove to draw level with them.

  In among the forest were tumbled piles of stone, the remnants of a settlement long since overthrown and over- grown. Here were thorny hedges, their winter-proof blue- black leaves rising in ramparts. And one lay directly across their path. In the base of the hedge was a scuffling hole through which, it seemed, the quarry had fled — for the trackers put their horses to the hedge.

  King Lyra followed, as did Tarkal. So Sarazin, nothing daunted — a little firewater goes a long way — spurred his mount. Urged it to flight. And crashed to the ground when his horse fell heavily on the far side.

  Bruised, dazed and dizzy, Sarazin struggled up from the ground. Tripped over something. What? A tracker, lying like a rag doll, neck broken. He heard swearing on the far side of the hedge where riders not reckless enough for the jump were deliberating a detour.

  Sarazin's horse? The brute was getting to its feet. Sarazin stumbled towards it, to the tune of the click-clacking of a dozen free-swinging wooden plates which had been loosened by the shock of his fall to earth. He mounted up.

  'Gah!' he said, urging his steed with a word expressive of disgust.

  The horse allowed itself to be persuaded to walk, but would go no faster. Which way now?

  In the winter mud, Sarazin had no trouble whatsoever in following the tracks of three horses — the steeds of the leading tracker, of King Lyra and of Tarkal. And — where they had not been overlaid by footprints — the impressions of someone's feet.

  —She must be close.

  Indeed. The woman could hardly be running still. She must have slowed to a walk. The horse would outpace her. But King Lyra and Tarkal would have her first.

  Or would they?

  Through the trees, Sarazin saw a glitter of water. Saw the surviving tracker floundering neck-deep in bog-mud, his arm wrapped around the neck of his struggling horse. Amidst mud and sedge, King Lyra himself. The king and his tracker, both intoxicated by firewater, had ridden straight into a swamp. But the king was only in it up to his waist, and Tarkal was nearby. Had dismounted. Had a long branch in his hands.

  —What now?

  Help with the rescue? No need. The king was in no danger. The tracker? Perhaps. But since the drunken loon had led his royal master into danger — why, he deserved death.

  With all due care and caution — the effects of the firewater were wearing off — Sarazin skirted round the swamp, taking a wide swing through the forest. Picked up the stumbling trail of the woman's footprints. And rode on, his unsprung armour clock-clacking, the forest creaking around him in a gathering wind, the topmost branches of the skeletal trees clawing at the sky.

  Ahead, Sarazin saw the naked woman, who had fallen exhausted to the muck beneath an oak tree. She was panting, her flanks heaving. Her wild eyes upstaring as his horse at leisure rode up alongside her.

  Sarazin dismounted. He drew his sword in case she resisted him, but she quailed away, hiding her face in her hands. So he planted the brave blade Onslaught in the turf and, with masterful leisure, divested himself of his trousers and boots.

  He felt a sensation of, above all else, power. But all was not perfect, for he was irked by his itchy-scratchy hunting coat with its click-clacking armour. So he shrugged it off and draped it over the saddle of his horse. He was so hot with lust, with the excitement of the chase, with the aftermath of indulgence in firewater, that he felt warm even once naked.

  Looking down on the woman, Sarazin laughed for sheer delight at his own triumph. He touched himself. He was ready.

  He was about to fall upon his prize and claim her with his swollen pride when he heard a branch break. Turning, he saw a black horse bearing a black-clad man who carried a blood-sharp spear. Saw the man's steady gaze. His orange-red beard. He looked remarkably like .. . like Fox.

  He was Fox!

  'Fox!' said Sarazin.

  Fox made no reply, but gestured to the woman. With some handhold help from a nearby tree, she scrambled up behind him, then put her arms around him and laid her cheek against his black leathers.

  You can't tak
e that woman!' said Sarazin, outraged. 'She's the king's meat. She's . . .'

  His voice trailed away. He felt — what? Ashamed? Impossible! He'd done nothing wrong. Yet there was something in Fox's expression which he found hard to bear. He felt diminished. Dirtied. Soiled. And stupid, standing there bare-arse naked with winter's elements chilling his flesh.

  A single acorn fell — ithlopl — to the mud. It was, perhaps, the very last acorn left over from the autumn. There was no sound louder. Then Fox urged his horse forward. The bare steel of his spearblade was pointed straight at Sarazin's chest. Sarazin stepped back, stumbled, fell, recovered himself, ran. He ducked between trees too close-grown for a horse to follow. Then turned at bay.

  Fox leaned down from the saddle to pluck Sarazin's sword from the mud. He spiked Sarazin's trousers on the point of his spear. Took Sarazin's coat and passed it to the woman. Then grabbed the halter of Sarazin's horse and rode off at a leisurely pace.

  Hey!' said Sarazin. You can't — I mean — hey — stop! Whoa!'

  Fox rode on, without looking back.

  'I say,' said Sarazin. That's not — that's not my horse. Not mine to lose, I mean.'

  Fox, by this time, was almost lost amidst the trees.

  Sarazin began to patter along after his father. But ran into stinging nettles which brought him to a halt promptly. Feet smarting, he beat a retreat.

  'Fox!' he cried. Then, in a moment of anguish: 'Father!'