The Wicked and the Witless Page 29

  —That a prince of the Favoured Blood would be exiled from Selzirk in his youth, then would return to the city.

  Well, that fitted the facts of the life of Sean Sarazin, no doubt about it.

  —That wicked and witless men would unleash great dangers threatening Selzirk's survival, and that the prince would be scorned when he revealed the solution.

  Maybe, with a little prodding and poking, the past events of Sarazin's life could be made to fit that part of the prophecy. Or perhaps that part had yet to come.

  — That he would earn the name Watashi, would marry the princess of an ancient kingdom, would war against (and kill) his own father.

  All true. All that had happened. His public knew him now as Watashi. He had married Amantha. And he had killed Fox in a rooftop battle in Shin — something he regretted but which was not his fault, for the ring of invisibility had made it impossible for him to recognise his father as they did battle.

  —That his father's death would give him the power he needed to save Selzirk.

  Did that fit? Not exactly. But maybe he had gained some power from his father's death which was not yet revealed to him.

  —That he would rescue the city from danger, and would be praised with great praises, his name enduring forever in glory.

  What did that mean? Doubtless it referred to the future, because so far he had saved the city from no real danger, only from the sham danger posed by Epelthin Elkin. Presumably, his moment of greatest glory lay in the future. And, while the prophecy did not specifically promise him rule of the Harvest Plains — he could see that now, though in the past he had somehow deluded himself into believing it did — surely such rule was implicit in its promises.

  After all, surely he could parlay great glory into a leadership position. He was Sean Sarazin, was he not? Sarazin the bold, the brave, the valorous!

  So thought Sarazin.

  Then abruptly pushed the book away from him. 'What was I thinking of?' said he. The whole thing's a con. It was Lord Regan who sent me the book.'

  Then the most marvellous thing happened. Sarazin remembered that, while Lord Regan had sent him the book, Lord Regan had not had it forged. The text was genuine — and very old.

  Then . . .

  Sarazin felt as if his consciousness was expanding. His mind was getting larger and larger. He understood every- thing, in scarcely the time it takes to swallow a mouthful of bread.

  The text was genuine. The prophecy was no forgery. Furthermore, it fitted the facts of Sarazin's life. While Lord Regan had sent it to him, surely the facts implied that Lord Regan was but a tool of destiny. Sean Sarazin was fated to have the prophecy revealed to him, and the fates had worked themselves out by means of Lord Regan.

  'FoolsI' said Sarazin, hammering the table with his fist.

  He laughed.

  Exulting.

  All these people thought they could control him, use him, manipulate him. Lord Regan thought as much when he sent Sarazin the prophecy by a tortuous route. But Lord Regan was not using the prophecy — no, the prophecy was using him! Jarl thought Sarazin condemned to (even- tually) pledge his allegiance to Lord Regan in return for military assistance. But Jarl was wrong, for Sarazin had the ring, the candle, the dragons.

  'I am no pawn of theirs,' said Sarazin. 'They are now players in my game!'

  His doubts were gone, now. He had to act as he did because it was fated. It was no use fighting against fate.

  That night, before Sarazin slipped off to sleep, he remem- bered walking with Lord Regan long ago in the Sunrise Gardens in the elegant city of Voice.

  'In the final analysis,' Lord Regan had said, 'you can have whatever you want. You can be whatever you want to be. You can win whatever you want to win.'

  That was what free will meant.

  Lord Regan had spoken thus because he was manipulating Sarazin, working on Sarazin's sentiments, shaping Sarazin to be a weapon to use against the existing order in the Harvest Plains.

  —But what he said is true.

  —I can be what I want to be. I can have what I want. The will is free so all things truly are possible. So thought Sarazin.

  Later, when he was almost asleep, it finally occurred to him that such a faith in free will was in conflict with his faith in fate. He trusted Lord Regan's doctrines because he believed free will shaped the future. Yet allowed himself to be comforted by prophecy because it suggested the future was fixed already.

  That woke him up properly.

  'Have I got it wrong?' he said.

  He sat in bed thinking about it for a long, long time, his thoughts getting more and more tangled all the time. Happily, he was able to bring things to a nice conclusion:

  —These are philosophical questions and I no philosopher. Who am I to say that fate and free will cannot exist in the same world? Surely it is a dichotomy, like light and dark, right and wrong, good and evil, up and down. Who can deny that such opposites exist? The one is necessary for the existence of the other.

  —The contradiction, then, is not there at all. It only seems to be there. If I were a better philosopher, I would see how the one world supports the two opposites. One room supports both light and dark, does it not, when a candle burns at midnight?

  —When I am older, when I am wiser, when the pro- phecy has worked itself out, then I will understand. I must live for that day. I must work for it.

  With that settled, Sean Sarazin fell asleep, and slept more soundly (and with sweeter dreams) than he had ever done before in his life.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Jaluba: Sarazin's doxy, who pleasured him first during his exile in the city of Voice, and who later came to Selzirk to take employment with the fortune-teller Madam Sosostris. Circumstance suggests that it is highly probable that she is an agent in the pay of Lord Regan of the Rice Empire, though Sarazin has never seen fit to ask her about this.

  Autumn brought wind and rain. The open arches of Farfalla's throne room were boarded up, as they always were in bad weather. With the views shut out, it became a dim, dull, draughty place. Sarazin went there twice that autumn — once when his mother had an audience with the king of Kelebes (who was, of course, her appointee) and once when she received Plovey of the Regency and discussed the budget for her palace for the following year. Dull stuff.

  And what Sarazin was doing from day to day was equally dull. His work on the military committee preparing for an invasion by the Red Emperor Khmar had almost ground to a halt, for it was clear by now that the invasion was not going to take place.

  Reports from the north were contradictory.

  One said the Lord Emperor Khmar had been eaten alive by the dragon Zenphos. Another said that mountains of fire had arisen in the north, blocking the salt road and drowning Khmar and his armies in molten rock. A third

  said the Red Emperor had been killed by wolves in the forests of Penvash.

  But all agreed that there would be no invasion.

  The military committee was preparing its final report. The public, for its part, had almost forgotten about Khmar altogether. As for Sean Sarazin — his battles in Hok had become part of ancient history. His triumph against the evil wizard Epelthin Elkin had been but a five-day wonder.

  He was bored. Even the routine work of conspiracy was just that — routine. But Jaluba — ah, she was never routine. She was not just delicious but exciting as well. Sarazin romanced her, boasting of his achieve- ments and his potential. To his delight, she believed his every word.

  Unlike some people one could mention, Jaluba knew her demon lover was a strong, brave hero who was des- tined for great things. She said as much. Sarazin then became at least half-convinced he was in love with her, for her protestations of praise told him his own opinion of himself.

  In daydreams of the future, Sarazin imagined marrying Jaluba and making her queen of Selzirk. He would name a month of the year in her honour, would raise statues to her praise on every street corner, would turn Libernek Square into a walled gar
den where she could walk naked in summer amidst butterfly sunlight, delighting in the possession of her own beauty.

  Thus Sarazin dreamed: while others worked, schemed, plotted, and prepared his downfall.

  One autumn morning, Bizzie admitted Jaluba to Sarazin's quarters as she was accustomed to. The morning then passed in love and games. Sarazin for the first time showed Jaluba his bard; he also almost went so far as to read to her from his prophetic book. Then, shortly before noon, the lovers were disturbed when Bizzie arrived with a message: Sarazin was wanted by Farfalla.

  'How long will this take?' said Sarazin.

  'I don't know,' said Bizzie. 'I've no idea what your mother wants with you this time.'

  Sarazin exchanged kisses with Jaluba and told her to wait.

  'Will you leave me this toy, then?' said Jaluba, dangling the bard from one of her dainty fingers. 'By all means,' said Sarazin.

  Then was off, hoping he would not be away from Jaluba for long. He hurried to Farfalla's High Court where his mother was in conference with several men. To his astonishment, he found they were discussing the possibility of building a new capital to the east, near the border with Chenameg.

  'How can I help?' said Sarazin.

  You are our military expert,' said Farfalla. You will advise us on this project's strategic implications. You also know Voice, of which you have spoken highly. We are particularly interested in these aqueducts which you have praised so freely.'

  'Well, yes,' said Sarazin.

  He was no longer in a hurry to get away. Jaluba, after all, would still be available on the morrow. But to have people of importance attend seriously to his opinions, his knowledge, his expertise — well, that was a pleasure which rarely came his way.

  It was late afternoon before Sarazin finally returned to his room. As he had only rented Jaluba from Sosostris for the morning, he was not surprised to find her gone. Unfor- tunately, one or two of his possessions appeared to have departed with her. His bard, for example. And his pro- phetic book. Worse, a whole armload of documents was missing.

  'The minx must have hidden them,' muttered Sarazin.

  He looked under the bed, under the blankets, in his travel chest . . . but found nothing. His valuables were gone for real!

  'I've been robbed!' exclaimed Sarazin.

  Shocked, hurt and alarmed. How could Jaluba do this to him? More importantly — why had she done it? Where had his valuables gone? If she had decided to flee the city and had stolen his bard and his book to sell for cash — why, then there was no harm done.

  'I'd not grudge her those trinkets,' said Sarazin bravely, though in fact he already knew he would mourn the loss of his book and bard for years. 'But the documents! What could she want with those?'

  Of course, he knew the answer already. He was simply trying to deny his own awareness. But, in the end, that proved impossible. Jaluba must be planning to blackmail him with those documents.

  Some were innocuous — maps, official briefing papers and so forth. But on some there had been his own notes. Lists of names. Records of dates, appointments, pass- words, safe houses and so forth. To most people, such cryptic notations would mean nothing. But if they fell into the hands of someone who already suspected con- spiracy — Plovey, for example — they might prove his death.

  'Gods!' said Sarazin.

  'There are no gods to help you here,' said Plovey zar Plovey, striding into his room.

  A dozen thug-faced brutes with truncheons followed close behind. They seized Sarazin and threw him against the nearest wall.

  'Hey!' said Sarazin.

  One of Plovey's brutes hit him — hard! — in the solar plexus. He expostulated no more, but stood there gasping, fighting the pain.

  Meanwhile, Plovey gave calm, crisp orders. Obedient to these, his men shovelled all of Sarazin's remaining books and documents into capacious sacks. Then searched his room. They tore apart his mattress, smashed his furniture, explored the stones of the wall and— 'No!' cried Sarazin in anguish.

  For one man had found the loose stone which guarded his magic treasures: his dragon-bottle, his ring of invisi- bility and his eldritch green candle.

  'Aha!' said Plovey. 'So there's something in there, is it? What is it, darling boy? What have we found?'

  'Nothing, my lord,' said the searcher, who had explored the hole and had found it empty.

  'Let me see!' said Plovey.

  But there was truly nothing to be found behind the loose stone. Another thief had been there before them.

  'This will suffice, then,' said Plovey, kicking one of the sacks. 'I'm sure there's enough within to hang our pretty young friend. Ah yes, hang him — and draw him and quarter him as well. Come! Let's be gone!'

  Plovey's men grabbed Sean Sarazin and dragged him from the room. He screamed for help, and help came — but Plovey had a warrant for Sarazin's arrest on a charge of high treason and that warrant was sufficient to repel the would-be rescuers.

  Plovey escorted Sarazin to the Regency's headquarters and there a ferocious interrogation began. Plovey's very first question told Sarazin that all was lost:

  'Name your fellow conspirators.'

  'I don't know what you're talking about,' said Sarazin bravely.

  And remained obdurate while the afternoon wore away, while evening darkened to night, while dawn stained the sky with blood. By that time, he was too exhausted to be frightened any longer. Just as well: for Plovey had assumed a truly frightening mien.

  You set me up, didn't you, darling boy?' said Plovey, in a voice of snakes and scorpions.

  'Set you up?' said Sarazin, bewildered. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

  'You take me for a fool?' said Plovey.

  And, giving way to his own anger, Plovey zar Plovey slapped Sarazin. Once. Very hard. But did not hit him again, for at that moment Thodric Jarl burst into the Regency's headquarters. Jarl had twenty men of the Watch at his back — and, more importantly, he had Childermass Imbleprig with him.

  Imbleprig had a warrant signed by Judge Syrphus himself, ordering that Sean Sarazin be released by the Regency immediately. Shortly, Sarazin was stumbling through the streets, dazed by the morning sunlight, supported by Jarl.

  'We've got him now,' said Jarl savagely. 'We've got him for real now.'

  'Who?' said Sarazin. "Who have we got?'

  'Plovey!' said Jarl.

  'I don't understand,' said Sarazin. 'I thought he had us.'

  'No, no, no,' said Jarl. 'He thought you were part of a conspiracy to launch a coup. So he raided your quarters.'

  'But I am part of a conspiracy!' protested Sarazin.

  'Yes, yes, yes,' said Jarl. 'But he can't prove that. So we've got him for false arrest.'

  'But he had a warrant!' said Sarazin.

  'It was a forgery,' said Jarl. 'He had to move fast, for his informant told him you were about to burn the Conspiracy Papers and flee the city. So he didn't have time to get a warrant sworn out, so he forged one, so we've got him for that too. Forging a warrant is a capital offence.'

  'Say all that again,' said Sarazin, by now completely disorientated.

  'Later,' said Jarl. 'Once we're safe in Farfalla's palace.'

  Once they were indeed safe in that palace, Jarl went through the whole story again.

  For a long time, Jarl had been developing contacts within the Regency. These contacts had warned him of Plovey's impending raid on Sarazin's quarters.

  'But I don't understand,' said Sarazin. 'What were these Conspiracy Papers supposed to be? And who told Plovey I was supposed to have them in my possession?'

  'We don't know who Plovey's informant was,' said Jarl. 'The Conspiracy Papers are of course that informant's invention. They were alleged to hold all the details of our conspiracy. That's why Plovey took every document he could find from your room. Of course he found nothing suspicious.'

  'How do you know that?' said Sarazin.

  'If he'd found proof sufficient to have you arrested,' said Jarl, 'you'd be
in a dungeon right now, and Plovey would be persuading a judge to validate his forged warrant retrospectively. That's been done before now.'

  'So ... so Plovey knows nothing.'

  Jarl laughed.

  'On the contrary,' said Jarl. 'Plovey knows everything. But he can prove nothing! That's the important thing.'

  'Jarl,' said Sarazin, slowly, 'there's something you ought to know.'

  'What?' said Jarl.

  'There were some things . . . some things that went missing. Before Plovey raided my quarters. There was a book, a bard, and . . . some documents. I think . . . Ithink Jaluba's taken them.'

  For a moment, Jarl was silent, thinking. Then, his voice grim, he said:

  'Tell.'

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Sarazin's stolen possessions: the prophetic book telling of his return from exile and his rise to glory; the Lost Bard of Untunchilamon, holding a complete recital of the 'Warsong' and the 'Winesong' by Saba Yavendar himself; a ring of invisibility; a magical green candle; an enchanted bottle holding a dread of dragons; sundry documents, some of which hold potentially incriminating notations by Sean Sarazin.

  Sarazin told Jarl most of the truth — but not all of it. He did not mention his magic candle, his dragon bottle or his ring of invisibility. Those things were secret. Only Glambrax knew about them. Sarazin had kept them hidden from Bizzie, from his mother — even from Jaluba.

  And he could not tell Thodric Jarl of those implements of power, for they were the surprise he was keeping in reserve. The power he meant to use to win the civil war which would surely be the end result of the conspiracy he was engaged in.