Steven Erikson - Crack’d Pot Trail

His eyes flicked at mine. “If we could do what you do, don’t you think we would?”

“Ah.”

“It’s like the difference between a fumbling adolescent and a master lover. We’re brilliant in squirts, while you can enslave a woman across the span of an entire night. The truth is, we hate you. In the unlit crevices of our cracked soul, we seethe with resentment and envy-”

“I would not see it that way, Apto. There are many kinds of talent. A sharp eye and a keen intellect, why, they are rare enough to value in themselves, and their regard set upon us is our reward.”

“When you happen to like what we say.”

“Indeed. Otherwise, why, you’re an idiot and it gives us no small amount of pleasure to say so. As far as relationships go,” I added, “there is little that is unique or even at all unusual here.”

“All right, it’s like this, this here, this very conversation we’re having.”

“I’m sorry? “

“ ‘Entirely lacking profundity, touching on philosophical issues with the subtlety of a warhammer. Reiterations of the obvious’- see my brow lifting to show just how unimpressed I am? So, what do you think I’m really saying when I make such pronouncements?”

“Well, I suppose you’re saying that in fact you are smarter than me-”

“Sharper than your dull efforts to be sure. Wiser, cooler of regard, loftier, far too worldly to observe your clumsy maunderings with anything but amused condescension.”

“Surely it is your right to think so.”

“Don’t you feel a stab of hate, though?”

“Ah, but the wise artist-and indeed, some of us are wise- possesses a most perfect riposte, one that pays no regard to whatever murky motives lie behind such attacks.”

“Really? What is it?”

“Well, before I answer let me assure you that this in no way refers to you, for whom I feel affection and growing respect. That said, why, we forge a likeness in our tale and then proceed to excoriate and torture the hapless arse-hole with unmitigated and relentless contempt.”

“The ego’s defense-”

“Perhaps, but I am content enough to call it spite.”

And Apto, being a critic whom as I said I found both amiable and admirable (shock!), was grinning. “I look forward to the conclusion of your tales this day, Avas Didion Flicker, and you can be assured that I will consider them most carefully as I ponder the adjudication of the Century’s Greatest Artist.”

“Ah, yes, rewards. Apto Canavalian, do you believe that art possesses relevance in the real world?”

“Now, that is indeed a difficult question. After all, whose art?”

To that I shrugged. “Pray, don’t ask me.”

All chill had abandoned Apto upon our return to the others. Light his step and fair combed his hair. Brash Phluster bared his teeth upon seeing the transformation, and stewed to a boil of suspicion was his glare in my direction. Mister Must was already perched and waiting atop the carriage, small clouds of smoke rising from his pipe. Steck Marynd sat astride his horse, crossbow resting across one forearm. He wore his soldier’s mask once again, angled sharp with a strew of discipline and stern determination. Indeed, backlit by the morning sun, the exudation surrounding this grim figure was an aura of singular purpose, a penumbra ominous as a jilted woman’s upon the doorstep of a rival’s house.

Tulgord Vise was in turn swinging himself onto his mount in a jangle of chain and deadly weapons. Stalwart in pose, vigorous in defense of propriety, the Mortal Sword of the Sisters cast grating eyes upon the much-reduced party, and allowed himself a satisfied nod.

“Is this my horse?” Arpo Relent asked, glaring at the beast that still stood barebacked and hobbled.

“Gods below,” growled Tulgord. “You, Flicker, saddle the thing, else we linger here all day. And you, Phluster, give us a song.”

“Nobody has to die anymore!”

“That’s what you think,” retorted Tiny Chanter. “The Reaver himself is your audience, poet, as it should be. A blade hovers over your head. A sneer announces your death sentence, a yawn spells your doom. A modest drift of attention from any one of us and your empty skull rolls and bounces on the road. Hah, this is how performance should be! Life in the balance!”

“And if was you?” snarled Brash in sudden courage (or madness).

“I wouldn’t waste my time in poetry, you fool. Words-why, anyone can put them together, in any order they please. It’s not like what you’re doing is hard, is it? The rest of us just don’t bother. We got better things to do with our time.”

“I take it,” ventured Apto, “as a king you are not much of a patron to the arts.”

“Midge?”

“He arrested the lot,” said Midge.

“Flea?”

“And then boiled them alive, in a giant iron pot.”

“The stink,” said Midge.

“For days,” said Flea.

“Days,” said Midge.

“Now, poet. Sing!” And Tiny smiled.

Brash whimpered, clawed at his greasy mane of hair. “Gotho’s Folly, the Lullaby Version, then.”

“The what?”

“I’m not talking to you! Now, here it is and no interruptions please.

“Lie sweet in your cot, precious onnne

The dead are risin from every graaave

The dead are risin, I say, from every graaa-yev!

Bright your little eyes, precious onnne

Bright as beacons atop that barrowww

“Stop your screamin, precious onnne

The dead ain’t deaf they can hear you fine

Oh the dead ain’t deaf I say, they hear you fiii-yen!

Stop your climbin, precious onnne

Sweet it’s gonna taste your oozin marrowww

Oh we never wanted you anywayyy-”

“Enough!” roared Tulgord Vise, wheeling his horse round as he unsheathed his sword.

Tiny giggled. “Here it comes!”

“Be quiet you damned necromancer! You-”Tulgord pointed his sword at Brash, whose poor visage was pallid as, well, Sellup’s (above her mouth, that is). “You are sick-do you hear me? Sick!”

“Artists don’t really view that as a flaw,” observed Apto Canavalian.

The sword trembled. “No more,” rasped Tulgord. “No more, do you hear me?”

Brash’s head was bobbing like a turd in a whirlpool.

Done at last readying the horse I gave its dusty rump a pat and turned to Arpo Relent. “Your charger awaits you, sir.”

“Excellent. Now what?”

“Well, you mount up.”

“Good. Let’s do that, then.”

“Mounting up involves you walking over here, good knight.”

“Right.”

“Foot into the stirrup-no, the other-oh, never mind, that one will do. Now, grasp the back of the saddle, right, just so. And pull yourself up, swing that leg, yes, perfect, set your foot in the other-got it. Well done, sir.”

“Where’s its head?”

“Behind you. Guarding your back, sir, just the way you like it.”

“I do, do I? Of course I do. Excellent.”

“Now, we just tie these reins to this mule’s harness here-do you mind, Mister Must?”

“Not in the least, Flicker.”

“Good… there! You’re set, sir.”

“Most kind of you. Bless you, and take my blessing with solemn gratitude, mortal, it’s been a thousand years since my last one.”

“Then I shall, sir.”

“For that,” Tulgord said to me, “it’s all down to you for the rest of the day, Flicker.”

“Oh Mortal Sword, it is that indeed.”

I would at this moment assert, humbly, that I am not particularly evil. In fact, if I was as evil as you perhaps think, why, I would have killed the critic long ago. We must bow, in either case, to the events as they truly transpired, though it might well paint me in modestly unpleasant hues. But the artist’s eye must remain sharp and unforgiving, and every scene’s noted detail must purport a burden of significance (something the least capable of critics never quite get into their chamber-potted brains, ah, piss on them I say!). The timing of this notification is, of course, entirely random and no doubt bred and born of my inherent clumsiness.