Steven Erikson - Crack’d Pot Trail

Gulping, he tried out his singing voice. “Va la gla blah! Mmmmmmm. Himmyhimmyhimmy!”

Behind us the harashal vulture answered in kind, giving proof to the sordid rumour of the bird’s talent at mimicry.

“Today,” Brash began in a reedy, quavering voice, “I shall sing my own reworking of an ancient poem, a chapter of the famous epic by Fisher kel Tath, Anomandaris.”

Apto choked on something and the host ably pounded upon his back until the spasm passed.

One of the mules managed a sharp bite of Flea’s left shoulder and he bellowed in pain, lumbering clear. The other mule laughed as mules were in the habit of doing. The Chanters as one wheeled to glare at Mister Ambertroshin, who shook his head and said, “Flea slowed his steps, he did. The beasts are hungry, aye?”

Tulgord Vise turned at that. “You, driver,” he barked, “from where do you hail?”

“Me, sir? Why, Theft that’d be. A long way away, aye, no argument there, and varied the tale t’bring me here. A wife, you see, and plenty of Oponn’s infernal pushings. Should we run outta tales, why, I could spin us a night or two.”

“Indeed,” the Mortal Sword replied dryly, one gauntleted hand settling on his sword’s shiny pommel, but this gesture was solitary as he once more faced forward in the saddle.

“For your life?” Arpo Relent asked, rather bitingly.

Mister Ambertroshin’s bushy brows lifted. “I’d sore your stomach something awful, good sir. Might well sicken and kill you at that. Besides, the Dantoc Calmpositis, being a powerful woman rumoured to be skilled in the sorcerous arts, why, she’d be most displeased at losing her servant, I dare say.”

The host gaped at that and then said, “Sorcerous? The Dantoc? I’d not heard-”

“Rumours only, I’m sure,” Mister Ambertroshin said, and he smiled round his pipe.

“What does ‘Dantoc’ mean?” Arpo demanded.

“No idea,” the driver replied.

“What?”

“It’s just a title, ain’t it? Some kind of title. I imagine.” He shrugged. “Sounds like one, t’me that is, but then, being a foreigner to it all, I can’t really say either way.”

A tad wildly, Arpo Relent looked round. “Anyone?” he demanded. “Anyone heard that title before? You, Apto, you’re from here, aren’t you? What’s a ‘Dantoc’?”

“Not sure,” the Judge admitted. “I don’t pay much attention to such things, I’m afraid. She’s well known enough in the city, to be sure, and indeed highly respected and possibly even feared. Her wealth has come from slave trading, I gather.”

“Anomandaris!” Brash shrieked, startling all three horses (but not the mules).

“Anomandaris!” cried the vulture, startling everyone else (but not the mules).

“Right,” said Tiny, “get on with it, Phluster.”

“I shall! Hark well and listen to hear my fair words! This song recounts the penultimate chapter of the Slaying of Draconus-”

“You mean ‘ultimate’ surely,” said Apto Canavalian.

“What?”

“Please, Brash, forgive my interruption. Do proceed.”

“The Slaying of Draconus, and so… “

He cleared his throat, assumed that peculiar mask of performance that seemed to afflict most poets, and then fell into that stentorian cadence they presumably all learned from each other and from generations past. Of what stentorian cadence do I speak? Why, the one that seeks to import meaning and significance to every damned word, of course, even when no such resonance obtains. After all, is there really anything more irritating (and somnolent) than a poetry reading?

“Dark was the room

Deep was the gloom

That was Draconus’s tomb

Dank was the air

Daunting the bier

On which he laid eyes astare

The chains not yet broken

For he not yet woken

His vows not yet revoken

His sword still to awaken

In its scabbard black oaken

Cold hands soon to stroken”

“Gods below, Phluster!” snarled Calap Roud. “The original ain’t slave to rhymes, and those ones are awful! Just sing it as Fisher would and spare us all your version!”

“You’re just jealous! I’m making Fisher’s version accessible to everyone, even children! That’s the whole point!”

“It’s a tale of betrayal, incest and murder, what are on earth are you doing singing it to children?”

“It’s only the old who get shocked these days, old man!”

“And it’s no wonder, with idiots like you singing to innocent children!”

“Got to keep them interested, Calap, something you never did understand, even with a grown-up audience! Now, be quiet and keep your opinions to yourself, I got a song to sing!

“And his head flew into the air

On a fountain of gore and hair!

And-”

“Hold on, poet,” said Tiny, “I think you missed a verse there.”

“What? Oh, damn! Wait.”

“And it better start getting funny, too.”

“Funny? But it’s not a funny story!”

“I get his brain,” said Midge. “All that fat.”

“You get half,” said Flea.

“Wait! Here, here, wait-

“Envy and Spite were the daughters

To the Consort of Dark Fathers

She the left breast and her the right

Two tits named Envy and Spite!

And deadly their regarrrrd!

Cold the nipples’ rewarrrd!

And when Anomander rose tall

Between them so did they fall

Sliding down in smears of desire

Down the bold warrior’s gleaming spire!

And crowded the closet!

Sharp the cleaving hatchet!”

“Damn me, poet,” said Tulgord Vise, “the Tomb of Draconus has a closet?”

“They had to hide somewhere!”

“From what, a dead man?”

“He was only sleeping-”

“Who sleeps in a tomb? Was he ensorcelled? Cursed?”

“He ate a poisoned egg,” suggested Nifty Gum, “which was secreted into the clutch of eggs he was served for breakfast. There was a wicked witch who haunted the secret passages of the rabbit hole behind the carrot patch behind the castle-”

“I hate carrots,” said Flea.

Brash Phluster was tearing at his hair. “What castle? It was a tomb I tell you! Even Fisher agrees with me!”

“A carrot through the eye can kill as easily as a knife,” observed Midge.

“I hate witches, too,” said Flea.

“I don’t recall any hatchet in Anomandaris,” said Apto Canavalian. “Rake had a sword-”

“And we been hearing all about it,” said Relish Chanter, and was too bold in her wink at me, but for my fortune none of her brothers were paying any attention to her.

“I don’t recall much sex either-and you’re singing your version to children, Brash? Gods, there must be limits.”

“On art? Never!” cried Brash Phluster.

“I want to hear about the poisoned egg and the witch,” said Sellup.

Nifty Gum smiled. “The witch had a terrible husband who spoke the language of the beasts and knew nothing of humankind, and in seeking to teach him the gifts of love the witch failed and was cast aside. Spiteful and bitter, she pronounced a vow to slay every man upon the world, at least, all those who were particularly hairy. Those she could not kill she would seduce only to shave clean their chest and so steal their power, which she stored in the well at the top of the hill. But her husband of old haunted her still, and at night she dreamed of warped mirrors bearing both her face and his and sometimes the two were one in the same.

“The city was named Tomb. This detail, by the way, is what confused legions of artists, including Fisher himself, who, dare I add, is not so nearly as tall as me. And Draconus was the city’s king, a proud and noble ruler. Indeed he had two daughters, born of no mother, but of his will and magic gifts. Shaped of clay and sharp stones, neither possessed a heart. Their names they took upon themselves the night they became women, when each saw her own soul’s truth and could not look away, could not lie or deceive even unto their own selves.”