The Wicked and the Witless coaaod-5 Page 6

  'I don't think you quite understand,' said Sarazin. 'I want a princess who comes with a kingdom. Slerma of Sung, for instance. She sounds nearly ideal. Her father rules from a mighty mountain city rich with the wealth of a thousand mines. Whereas Chenameg – well, it's a nice place, but Tarkal inherits, doesn't he?' There was a pause. Then Lod said: Tarkal is not immortal.' Who… who is next in the line of succession?'

  'Amantha, of course. Tarkal was the firstborn. Then there was Amantha. Then me. The succession is from the oldest to youngest, regardless of sex.' 'But Tarkal is young,' insisted Sarazin. 'And, as I said, he is not immortal.' They eyed each other in silence. Then:

  'Tell me then,' said Sarazin, choosing his words very, very carefully, 'what exactly do you want for yourself?'

  'To live in my homeland, to start with. Only fear of my life sent me running to Selzirk. Tarkal thrice tried to kill me, I'm sure of it. He's three parts mad, I've seen it clear. But my father refuses to believe it.'

  'This is all… very interesting,' said Sarazin. 'I'll have to think carefully about this.'

  Think quickly,' said Lod. 'For Tarkal and Amantha will both be here some ten days hence. They come as part of an embassy, and will lodge within the walls of your mother's castle. That will be your best chance, perhaps your only chance, if you seek opportunity for romance. Or for… for other things.'

  Ten days! Yes, ten days for Sarazin to think things through. What did he have to lose? His life! But then, of course, he had a kingdom to win.

  CHAPTER EIGHT Sing me a song of love, my dear. Once more before I perish – Of love, the word that all men know, Of nuzzling lips, of golls which gloat, Of womanheat ready and waiting. Sing me a song, and make it of love: For my money for whores is exhausted. -Saba Yavendar, 'Lust Song'.

  Fortune had indulged her with a royal name. She was Amantha of Chenameg, and she came to Selzirk of the Harvest Plains with the embassy which brought her brother Tarkal to the city. At an official reception, she met with Sean Kelebes Sarazin, a young man known to his mother as Sarazin Sky. He would, in the fulness of time, bear the name Watashi – which means, among other things, death.

  They met beneath a sky of cerulean blue, when the world was at peace, for both had been born into the final years of the Golden Age. Then, the Swarms were kept safely south of Drangsturm, allowing the lands of Argan North to flourish in peace and prosperity. Sean Sarazin was then twenty-two years old. The fair lady Amantha was the same age, and carried herself with all the grace befitting a princess of the Chenameg Kingdom.

  Sarazin fell in love with Amantha immediately. Just as he had expected to. Which was fortunate, since it would scarcely have been proper for him to pursue his princess unless he loved her. It is certain that love rules Sarazin's heart, not lust, for his princess was not made to excite the flesh. She was tall. She was thin. She was pallid. She had buck teeth. Therefore why did he adore her?

  Because she moved with the mystic grace immanent in the flesh of those of the Favoured Blood. Because she was of a line of kings, and therefore possessed a share of divinity. She was the woman of his dreams.

  On introduction, he had no immediate chance to profess his love, for three hundred others were waiting to kiss her hand. Afterwards, however, they dined alfresco, choosing food at liberty from the buffet spread beneath a marquee on the banks of the Velvet River at a spot some half a league east of Selzirk, and Sarazin shortly seized his chance to accost her. 'Amantha,' he said. 'I know my name' she said tartly.

  It was not an auspicious beginning. Already she was turning away from him.

  'But you don't know mine,' he said. 'It's Sean. Sean Sarazin.'

  'Oh yes, I've heard of you,' said Amantha. 'You're the washerwoman's bastard.'

  "No, no,' said Sarazin, desperately. You're confusing me with someone else. That's Benthorn you're thinking of. Benthorn, my half-brother. I'm Farfalla's son.'

  He was close enough to breathe the perfume from the silken sachet hanging at her neck.

  'I was not mistaken, then,' said Amantha. You're the son of a farrier.'

  'The kingmaker's son! Farfalla's son! And – and I love you!' You what!?' she said, half gasping, half laughing. 'I love you!'

  'How can you?' she said. 'I am a princess and you a peasant.' 'I must die unless I can have you,' said Sarazin. 'Die, then,' she said, indifferent to his fate. He seized her hand in his. 'Fair lady,' he said, 'I pray, hear me out.' 'Oh, what style it has!' said Amantha.

  She pursed her lips for a kiss, raised Sarazin's hand to her lips – then bit it. Hard. Sarazin jerked his hand away. And Amantha, laughing, flirted away into the midst of a gaggle of hard-drinking cavalry officers.

  She had a nice grasp of the political realities. While the Harvest Plains were more powerful than Chenameg,

  Sarazin commanded none of that power in his own right, and never would. His prospects were zero.

  A little later, Lod of Chenameg caught up with Sarazin, and asked how Sarazin had made out. 'Amantha,' said Sarazin, "bit me.'

  'Oh, doubtless she was in one of her little moods,' said Lod.

  Tell me about these little moods,' said Sarazin. 'How long do they last for?' 'A few days,' said Lod. 'How many is a few?' 'Any number less than twenty.'

  'So she sulks, then,' said Sarazin. 'In a very professional way, by the sound of it. Has anyone tried using a whip on her?'

  'Sarazin, my man!' cried Lod. What a delicious thought! You're a genius. But, alas – the world so seldom appreciates true talent. Indeed, I suspect your genius in action might get us both arrested. Come, there's no joy for us here. Let's be away.'

  So the pair saddled up, quit the riverside buffet and set off for Selzirk. 'How did you find Tarkal?' said Sarazin.

  Tarkal's health was of course a matter of intense interest, since only his death would let Amantha ascend the throne of Chenameg.

  'Tarkal I found fiery,' said Lod. 'A dragon in his eye. Methinks my head was gripped in the jaws of that dragon.' 'Dragonising apart, how did he treat you?'

  'In truth, we scarcely spoke two words. But the way he looked at me… it bodes ill for the future.' 'You still think he means to kill you?' Think!' said Lod. 'I know it! Murder is his middle name.'

  On reaching Selzirk, they rode through the streets of Wake to Kesh, walked their horses through the crush of people shuffling through that gate-tower, won their way through to Santrim then rode through that elegant quarter to Farfalla's palace.

  There they returned their horses (theirs to borrow, though technically the kingmaker's property) to the stables, then walked back to Kesh and then on to Lod's favourite watering hole, a smoke-sour tavern in Jone where the rough-brawling inhabitants of the city's dockside quarter came to gamble and get drunk.

  In that maze of barracks, brothels, shipyards and bars, of tenement slumlands, thieves' dens and rat- rule warehouses, Sarazin was safer than when at home. In Farfalla's palace, he was ever watched by spies from the Regency – but few such would dare to follow him into Jone, most dangerous of the Four Worlds of Selzirk.

  That, at least, was the theory advanced by Lod when the rascal first tempted Sarazin into the slum streets. Later, Sarazin had realised he was watched always and every- where, regardless of the dangers of his environment. Still, he had to admit he sometimes found the atmosphere in Farfalla's palace claustrophobic, and was glad to escape to the free and easy dockside life.

  These excursions were not really reckless, for Sarazin was too poor to be mugged for his money, since Farfalla gave him only a trifling allowance. He was not pretty enough to be kidnapped for the sake of his flesh. He carried weapons from habit, and knew how to use them. And, most important of all: Lod had many friends in Jone. Heavymen, bouncers and gateguards would protect Sarazin, for Lod's sake, if the going ever got rough.

  For a while Lod and Sarazin sat brooding over a couple of beers, playing a desultory game of cards. Sarazin won a few dorths off Lod.

  'It's getting late,' said Lod at length. 'Shall we liven the ev
ening?' 'How so?' said Sarazin.

  There's cock fighting at the Vampire's Stake tonight. Want to come along?'

  'Not this evening,' said Sarazin. 'I've an appointment with a fortune teller.'

  'The one to whom I introduced you?' said Lod. 'Madam Ix?' 'The same,' said Sarazin.

  Idly, he wondered if Lod got a cut from the money he paid out to these palmists and shadow-thinkers. But Lod put his mind to rest by his very next words.

  "You should beware,' said Lod. These people always overcharge. Never part with so much as a dorth if you're short of full satisfaction.' You're a fund of good advice,' said Sarazin. That,' said Lod, 'is the source of my pride.'

  So Sarazin was certain Lod was honest. But even if Lod had been in the pay of the fortune tellers to whom he introduced Sarazin, it would still have been necessary for Sarazin to use their services. For how else could he find out why he was not succeeding in life?

  There was so much he wanted so very very badly. Power. Fame. Prestige. Honour. Glory. And money money money. But none of it was coming his way. Indeed, wherever he turned his prospects seemed to be blocked by insuperable barriers. However, he knew there had to be a way to get what he wanted.

  For, after all, since we have free will, all things are possible. Furthermore, possession of free will makes us entirely responsible for our lives. Everything happens to us by our own choice.

  'All I want, then,' said Sarazin to himself, 'is a little advice on how to take responsibility for myself. That's not asking too much, is it now?'

  Madam Ix did not dwell in the slumlands of Jone, but resided to the north, in Wake, hard up by Ol Unamon (the inner battle-wall of Selzirk). Her house was right next to the Seventh College of the Inner Circle of the Fish-Star Astrologers – just across the road from Wargol's Statue Hire and Thatcher's Slave Correction Services. When Sarazin entered her chambers, joss sticks were 66 burning, scenting the air with mysterious perfumes. Candlelight stirred shadows in dusty corners. Quarles the owl – to whom Sarazin was introduced with a consider- able degree of ceremony – sat on Madam Lx's shoulder. Blinking.

  'Sit you down, young Sarazin,' said Madam Ix, patting her powdered wig, which was adorned with three dozen fishbones. Sarazin sat. What is it you wish to know?' said Madam Ix. "The future,' said Sarazin.

  Then he crossed her palm with silver in the time- approved manner. It is often averred that Money, like Music, hath Powers; what is beyond dispute is that professional powers of prognosis can seldom be made to work without it.

  There was a pause while Madam Ix tossed the yarrow sticks, consulted the Book, sacrificed a pinch of salt to the Sacred Goldfish, engaged in telepathic communion with Quarles the owl, then orientated her turtle-shell knife towards north.

  'Now,' she said, breathing heavily, 'now I am ready to commune with the Beyond.'

  Madam Ix stared for a while at nothing. Eyes vacant. Then began twitching. Shaking. Shivering. Voices mut- tered in the corners of the room. Sarazin had the fearful impression that something without was trying to break into the room. To get at them. To To what? He dared not think, but was relieved when life returned to the eyes of Madam Ix. Now she would speak. She had seen Beyond: now she would talk and reveal.

  'I see war,' she said. 'I see, too, you youfself named for war. Watashi they will call you.'

  'A strange name!' said Sarazin, perplexed by this. Then, keen to know how he would fare with Amantha, he said: 'What do you see of love?'

  The fortune-teller looked at his face and saw there what she took to be the hormone-hyped gleam of puppy love, though it was in fact the lust for power, fame, wealth and glamour. She told him what he wanted to hear.

  You love a lady,' she said. Through love, your destiny you'll find.' 'But how?' said Sarazin, in a voice close to despair. 'The how and the why are not in my keeping,' she said.

  And, lacking the money to persuade her to say more, he had to depart unsatisfied.

  That night, Sarazin lay dreaming of Amantha. He dreamed in particular of the pink flesh which lined her naos, the holy of holies which he wished to penetrate. By force, if there was no other way. Force? Yesl In his dreams, at least, that much was possible. He raped her: and woke pumping. 'Shtig!' said Sarazin, giving vent to sour obscenity.

  Unable to sleep, he took to his sword and trained with the blade until the moth-shy light of morning began to unshadow the world. The sword in question was not, of course, the blade of firelight steel given to him by Lord Regan. It was a workaday weapon which Farfalla bade him keep with him always for protection. At sunrise, Sarazin finally gave this sword a name.

  'Onslaught be your name,' he said. Yes, you are Onslaught from now on.'

  The name expressed Sarazin's own grim determination to renew his attack on Amantha, to press home the assault, to give no quarter, to strive, to win, to conquer. To make the woman his.

  Sarazin, realising it was going to be difficult to persuade Amantha to yield to his charms, decided he needed to know more about her, particularly her likes and dislikes. Therefore early that morning he went looking for Lod, hoping for a long and productive talk with his friend from Chenameg.

  However, Lod was not available for such a talk. The young prince was closeted in conference with his brother Tarkal. So Sarazin, impatient to bring his campaign against Amantha to a successful conclusion, took his problem to Thodric Jarl, whom he found renewing the sharkskin grip on a favourite sword.

  Now Jarl was Master of Combat for the Watch, he usually only saw Sarazin during their daily combat training sessions. But, knowing his young charge well, he had no trouble divining his problem. 'A woman, is it?' said Jarl.

  His hard face unsympathetic. Gnarled by the weather of half a dozen wars. 'Not just a woman!' protested Sarazin. 'I'm in love!'

  'Oh, love,' said Jarl, in a dismissive tone. 'A sorry sickness! Haven't you yet got a regular whore? Believe me, these fevers pass soon enough if properly treated.'

  But Sarazin knew merely slaking his lust would not cure his passion. He wanted Amantha. Not just for a night, but for life. As his true love. His wife.

  'This is a special woman,' said Sarazin. 'It has to be her. Nobody else will do.'

  'Then knock her over the head and have your wicked way with her,' said Jarl. 'Have you anything else on your mind? If not, I've got work to do.'

  Sarazin left Jarl, mind full of plots and plans. Could he seize Amantha by force? No! The very idea was absurd! Kidnapping would scarcely serve his purposes. He wanted a legal marriage which would see him in line for the throne of Chenamag.

  Again he asked after Lod. On finding his friend was still in conference with Tarkal, Sarazin took his problem to his aged tutor, the venerable Epelthin Elkin.

  'In love, are you?' said Elkin. 'Ah, love! I've not learnt much of love in my life of dusty scholarship.'

  'But you must have some ideal' said Sarazin. 'How can I win the woman? Not just for a night, but for life.'

  You can never win a woman for life,' said Elkin, 'for all liaisons are but treaties which must nightly be renewed.'

  'For a night, then! A night would be a start. How can I win her for a night?'

  'Jewels, boy,' said Elkin. That's the answer. The scin- tillation of diamonds. The gleam of rubies, glowing like blood amidst yellow butter.'

  You suggest I give her gemstones in butter?' said Sarazin, who was always hoping to catch Elkin in open senility. 'Nay, boy. Jewels and gold.' 'But I'm broke!'

  He was certainly impoverished, since whatever money came his way soon went on drink, cards and fortune tellers. And tips for Bizzie, his maid. Besides, he did not want to bribe Amantha. He wanted her to choose him out of love, lust, respect, admiration. Or any combination of those. 'So you've no gold,' said Elkin. 'None.' 'Any diamonds?' 'No.' 'Jade? Silver? Amber? Silk?' You know the answer already.'

  Sarazin's one valuable possession was his blade of firelight steel. But his mother had taken away that weapon. Thodric Jarl had been given custody of it, and Sarazin only saw it during tra
ining sessions with the Rovac warrior.

  Then,' said Elkin, maliciously, 'all I can suggest is that you take your problem to Amantha's brother.' 'Lod can't help me,' said Sarazin. 'I didn't mean Lod. I meant Tarkal.' 'Tarkal?' said Sarazin, incredulously.

  Trust me,' said Elkin, sure that Tarkal would beat some sense into Sarazin – and sure, also, that this was the neatest way to deal with the problem.

  Thus, on the advice of his tutor, Sarazin sought out Tarkal, who, having finished his business with Lod, was busy with his armourer in the guest quarters. 'I want to talk to you,' said Sarazin. 'Then wait,' said Tarkal brusquely.

  Then resumed his conversation with his armourer. He wanted the aventail of his helm modified. This subject was dear to his heart, and very technical. Sarazin, listening, was embarrassed to find the niceties of the matter completely beyond his comprehension.

  'What do you want?' said Tarkal, when the armourer had left. 'A private audience with your sister.' Who are you?' said Tarkal. 'I am Sean Sarazin, a prince of the Harvest Plains.' You are no prince,' said Tarkal. Tvly mother is Farfalla.'

  I've seen that fat sow for myself. If such spawned you, that makes you a piglet at best.'

  Sarazin declined to be insulted. Deciding boldness would serve him best, he said: 'I wish to-' 'To what?' 'To marry your sister.'

  You are refused,' said Tarkal, not bothering to laugh since he had no audience to appreciate the laughter.

  And, when Sarazin persisted, Tarkal booted him. Hard. Since the event happened in privacy, Sarazin chose to ignore it. He left the Chenameg princeling's presence, and went and sought out Lod.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Bizzie: a matronly woman who is wife of the ostler Hof- Gof, a past lover of Farfalla's sometime paramour Fox, and mother of Sarazin's half-brother Benthorn. You were with Tarkal for a long time,' said Sarazin. 'So I was,' said Lod. 'How did it go?'

  'Badly,' said Lod. Tarkal claims my father demands my return to Chenamag. But he showed me no proof of this order, so I refused absolutely to obey. He then threatened me. But I've no fear of his threats, for he has no powers in Selzirk.'