The Wicked and the Witless Page 6

  Then sat back and watched him as he read.

  Well?' said Farfalla, once Sarazin had finished.

  'How did you come by this?' he said.

  "My agents intercept Galish kafilas from south and north some leagues before they reach Selzirk. Thus I get at least a few of my own letters before Plovey does. An expensive business — but the cheap alternative might well be an early death.'

  Then I’ll tell Jaluba to write with less passion in future,' said Sarazin. 'I for my part will be circumspect in my reply.'

  'You'll not write back to this whore,' said Farfalla in unsuppressed fury. 'If you're known to have contact with an agent in or of the Rice Empire, that alone may be evidence sufficient for the Regency to impeach—'

  'Impeach! Impeach!' said Sarazin. Having made some concessions to his mother already that day, he was in no mood to surrender on this point also. 'Are our lives entire to be ruled by this mythical impeachment?'

  'Politics is our life whether we like it or not.'

  Tour life, you mean,' said Sarazin. 'You've got the fun of it, the command of secret agents, rights of release and pardon, powers over half the best jobs in Selzirk. You've got—'

  'Responsibility,' said Farfalla, cutting him off. 'A responsibility to keep us alive. Both of us, if possible.' 'Then what have I got?'

  A rhetorical question. But it earnt itself a straight answer nonetheless:

  'You've got your education. Since you won't be fit to join the army for some time yet, concentrate on your studies with Elkin. Also, Thodric Jarl has consented to continue your combat training, so you've that to work on as well.'

  The river-fever does no lasting damage — except when it kills — so by late summer in the year Alliance 4325 Sarazin was most definitely once more fighting fit.

  The army thinks your enlistment delayed indefinitely by disease,' said Farfalla. 'But you know yourself you've made a perfect recovery. I can see that for myself — as can others. It would be safer for all of us if you joined up now.'

  That would upset the army surgeons,' said Sarazin blandly, confident his mother would indulge him in this small matter. Their professional judgment would be called into question.'

  'Don't give me that nonsense,' said Farfalla.

  She spoke so curtly that Sarazin, hurt, felt momentarily tearful. She had terminated his intrigues with Qid. She had cancelled his correspondence with Jaluba. Was he not going to be allowed any freedom whatsoever? He mastered his emotions then said:

  'I won't be a soldier. I couldn't stand it. A lifetime of garrison routine with that drunken mob of foul-mouthed oafs? It would kill me.'

  What do you -want then?' said Farfalla.

  To be what I feel I have the ability to be. To make the most of myself. To fulfil the purpose for which I was born.'

  His mother would have wanted as much for him, had they lived in a time and a place where ambition did not promise death. As it was . . .

  You were born,' said Farfalla, 'as the natural consequence of an act of lust. That's all there is to it. You understand?'

  It hurt her to talk of his birth so coldly. Sarazin, her firstborn. A child conceived in love. Worshipped at birth as something sacred. His hand so small, clutching her finger to tightly! Yet talk harshly she must, to try to make him see sense.

  Sarazin did not answer. Farfalla had already betrayed herself to him in an earlier meeting when she had spoken of his foot jammed beneath her rib, of his birth, his first words, his first step, the agony of their parting when he was aged but four. Did she think he had forgotten already? She loved him. Wanted him. Needed him. Valued him above almost anything in the world. Surely he could secure her indulgence. Seeking to do that, he said:

  'I believe I can have whatever I want. I can be whatever I want to be. I can win whatever I want to win. All I need is just a little help to tap my true potential.'

  'I give up!' said Farfalla. You're as senseless as a teenager. It's Lord Regan's fault. The old fool indulged you in a game of princes. But you're not a prince. You're a farrier's bastard, that's all.'

  She hoped to educate through shock where reason had failed. Her vehement outburst shocked herself. But made little impact on Sarazin, who proved as much by saying:

  You were consecrated as one of the Favoured Blood. In sacred ceremony, you joined your blood to that of the lineage of the rightful rulers of Argan. As all legend knows—'

  'Legend! Legend!' said Farfalla. 'Do you want to be a legend-hero? Very well! Ride forth, my son, and kill yourself a dragon. Or dare the lands beyond Drangsturm and make a name for yourself as explorer. Or win yourself a princess, and make yourself lord of some kingdom through her inheritance.'

  Thus raged Farfalla. Sarazin knew she was being sarcastic, but, even so, once he had escaped from her wrath he began considering her suggestions in earnest. Neither dragons nor Drangsturm appealed, but the idea of winning a princess recommended itself to his imagination.

  The next day, Lod found Sarazin deep in research amidst heaps of books, scrolls, papers and maps.

  What are you doing?' said Lod.

  'Researching my marriage to a princess,' answered Sarazin.

  'Really! Have you found any candidates?'

  'One or two. Things may have changed, but some of these reports claim that the kings of both Dybra and Chorst have daughters as yet unmarried. Slerma of Sung is also unmarried. Unfortunately, a traveller's tale alleges that she's slightly overweight. I must say I don't like fat.'

  Then you must see my sister Amantha,' said Lod, whose appetite for devilment was unconstrained by any thought of the probable consequences of such. 'She's thin as an eel. And, I'm sure, every bit as slippery when wet.'

  He winked.

  '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 evening?'

  '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 Astr
ologers — 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.