Hugh Cook - The Walrus and the Warwolf

'He'll not tell stories better than Andranovory,' said Erhed, speaking up loyal for his comrade.'Aagh!' said Drake. 'My wit's as ready as my cock, so I could fake a right pretty story if I needed one to win, aye, to prove myself champion liar. But I'll start with a truth. Like as not you'll think it a lie anyway, since it's nine parts incredible.

'The wizard Miphon, a green-eyed fellow I know of old, he once told me I was the most amount of trouble he'd ever seen in one package in the last ten thousand years. This proved out real enough when I got to Hexagon, which is where I won the name of Drake Douay in battle.

'Was an ogre I fought, a scum-faced thing as hateful as that mother-rapist known as Tor, the brute from Stpkos who had me thrown into the seas a horizon away from land. He hated me, for I fell foul of his law. But that's another story – An'vory may tell it, perhaps, he knows the start of it at least. Anyway, to begin with Hexagon-'And Drake was off.

Many a lie he told, and in consequence his tavern audience thought him truthful enough. The really incredible tales of the world are, without exception, those which follow the facts – and Drake's tales were wonderfully light on facts.

Andranovory told no story in reply, for he passed out while Drake was telling of his wanderings in Chi'ash-lan, and was still dead to the world when Drake finished a much longer tale about a trip to Gendormargensis in far-off Tameran (a tale, mark, replete with authentic detail remembered from stories told by his comrade of adventures past, Rolf Thelemite).

As An'vory was unconscious, Drake was declared the winner. Champion liar of all the world.'Encore!' shouted an enthusiastic audience.So Drake told one last tale.

'It happened that I once went north from Estar in company of a woodsman by name of Blackwood. North we ventured, way past Lake Armansis to the Valley of Forgotten Dreams, where we came upon the Old City, a place of legend, aye. Though legend tells not the half of the horror.'

And Drake told of adventuring through a Door with the woodsman Blackwood, of meeting the Pretender to the throne of Tameran, of daring a danger of centipedes in the terror-lands south of Drangsturm, then saving a red-skinned wench from a peril of monsters in the Great Arena of Dalar ken Halvar. Then bedding her soundly.'Aye, she was real sweet,' he concluded.'So where is she?' shouted Anonymous.

'Man, she died of delight in my arms,' said Drake. 'And she's not the first.'

'She died of delight?' cried Anonymous. 'Doubt it! Why, likely she died of blue leprosy!'

The grin on Drake's face faltered for half a heartbeat. Then he recovered himself.

'Nay, man,' he said. 'Wasdelight, for real. Delight kills instant, while this blue leprosy – it's a pox hidden for years before it shows.''An expert speaks!' jeered Anonymous.

'And an expert raised this question of blue leprosy to start with,' said Drake. 'Why, mostly only pox doctors know it for a pox of love. Most folk think it spread by sharing cups or such.'

'A pox doctor lectures!' yelled Anonymous, manic with delight.

'Brother,' said Drake, acknowledging Anonymous with a bow. 'It takes a true professional to recognize a colleague. But I think my skills higher than yours, for I'm free of the pox for the moment. But you, man – your nose is losing the battle, isn't it?'

This was true. The nose of Anonymous was being eaten away by syphilis.Curses proceeded from Anonymous.

'Aagh, the man's jealous!' said Drake. 'Jealous of my skills with pox, aye, and of my skills of love, for he knows I'm best at both. When I talk of killing women with delight, it's truth, with naught exaggeration. Why, it's got to the point where I have to stay celibate, since the trail of dead women has become larger than embarrassment.'

He bowed again, ducked a rotten tomato, accepted a complimentary skin of liquor from the barman, and joined Pigot Quebec and a few others at a corner table out of the main swill.

'Booze, boys,' said Drake, thumping the skin onto the tabletop.

'Good,' said Quebec, and topped up his mug from the skin. Then said: 'Have you heard the news?'

'Why, I've heard that the world ended yesterday,' said Drake, 'that every fish in the sea is dead, that rats will conquer and horses sing in Galish. What else is new?'

'Let the Scholar tell it. Drax – meet the Scholar. Friend Scholar – this is Shen Shen Drax, the famous.'

They touched fingertips, lightly, in a ceremony of greeting peculiar to the criminal fraternity of Selzirk. Drake had heard of the Scholar, whose speciality was forgery. Now he listened while the Scholar told of how they were being threatened by a Law of Association which would forbid convicted criminals from consorting with each other.

'A suspension of civil liberties, that's what it is,' said the Scholar.

'Yes, well,' said Drake, 'that's less painful than suspension by the neck, no doubt.'

He picked up an empty mug which was lying lonesome on the floor, filled it with liquor from his complimentary skin, drained it, burped, patted his stomach then filled it again.

'It's an unprecedented extension of state authority, you know,' continued the Scholar. 'I hear the Regency's behind it.''What's the Regency?' asked Drake.

His research had been deep in war but thin on politics. He had, after all, only the one life. He had to work for Ol Tul, amuse himself, survive – and do research in his spare moments. So he had left a study of the leadership of Selzirk to the time when he should have some positive prospect of becoming ambassador or such.

'The Regency,' said Quebec. 'Why, that's the Guild of Brothel Masters.'

Not so, protested the scholar. He began to explain the truth – but was interrupted by the arrival of Scurf Drumbo.

'Why, pickle me balls and dig out me eyes with needles,' said Drumbo. 'I'm as buggered as a rat's arsehole.''Why,' said Drake, 'what have you been doing?'

'Drinking, man. And listening. Is that ale? No? Gah! Still. . .tastes sweet enough to me. Thanks, friend. Yes, drinking. And listening, hearing young sparrow-fart here blister the paint with untruthing.''Man, it was all true enough,' said Drake.'Oh, hearty sure, I bet,' said Drumbo.'You believe none of it?' said Drake.

'Oh, a word here, a word there,' said Drumbo. 'But Drax – I'd never believe a woman to die in your arms of delight.''She died smiling,' said Drake, deadpan.

'In your arms?' said Drumbo. 'Never! If she died, you strangled her, that's what. Man, but that story stirred me up a bit, though. I've never had a red-skinned whore.''She wasn't a whore,' said Drake.

'Red meat,' said Drumbo, pushing on regardless. T saw a red-skinned bitch today, sweet, yes, worth having.''There's plenty of red in the city,' said Quebec.

'Oh, this was no woman in her fancies,' said Drumbo. 'It was one of those Ebrell bitches. You can tell the difference. It's the nose, you see. With the Ebrell, the colour goes right up the nose.''You got that close?' said Drake.

'Drax,' said Drumbo, 'she was so hot for changing, she was near to mating with me.'

'Changing?' said Quebec. 'Changing? You mean she was a witch, to change you to pig or beast-hound?'

'How could she do that?' asked Drake. 'Friend Drumbo's been half pig and three parts beast-hound these last three thousand years or more.'

'Gah!' said Drumbo. 'She was no witch. Whore, more like it. Preacher's whore. When I speak of changing, it's faith I'm talking of.'

'You mean this woman was talking religion?' said Drake.

'Talking changing, yes, that's what I said,' declared Drumbo. 'Though this preacher fellow was talking more than her. Lucky old bugger! I vum he screws her nights.''What preacher was this?' said Drake.

'Oh, you know,' said Drumbo, helping himself to more liquor. 'A preacher's a preacher, isn't he?'