Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

'And we – we allow these princes thus to try to encompass our doom?' Jarl laughed.

'By tradition, each questing hero turns back on getting his first wound. You gave Tarkal a scratch, so he goes home a hero.'.

'That's not much of a quest!' said Sarazin, with a touch of outrage in his voice.

'Ah,' said Jarl, "but it's the best kind of quest for one in line for wealth and power. A survivable quest, quickly undertaken near to home. No prince in the last five generations has needed to quest beyond the borders of the Harvest Plains to get the scratch which sent him home.' 'If I were a prince of Chenameg-'

Yes,' said Jarl, 'yes, I know. You'd feel yourself honour- bound to quest through danger until you came to this tectonic lever, yea, though you had to fight through fifty thousand dragons to reach its doorstep.'

Sarazin, chagrined to be so easily read, blushed. To cover his confusion, he went on the attack:

'How come you never told me this in Voice? Surely I should have been told!'

Why?' said Jarl. 'I taught you weapons. That was my responsibility. Nothing more, nothing less. Anyway, I never knew much of Chenameg till I came to Selzirk. But since then, I've found out much.'

As members of the Watch were still trying to persuade Jarl to mastermind a coup and put Sarazin on the throne of the Harvest Plains, Jarl was doing his very best to learn all he could of both the internal and external politics of the nation.

I've never asked you this before,' said Sarazin, 'but – why did you come back with me? From Voice, I mean.' 'I like to finish what I start,' said Jarl.

Which reminded him: it was about time for him to complete his latest report and send it off to Lord Regan of the Rice Empire. Master of Combat, conspirator, spy and tutor to Sarazin to boot: Thodric Jarl was a busy man indeed. 'I've another question,' said Sarazin. 'What?'

'At the end of the fight, why did Amantha go to Tarkal, not to me?'

'What a senseless question!' said Jarl. 'He's her brother, hence owns her allegiance. What did you expect?'

'But it was for love of her that I got myself into all this trouble!'

'Then the more fool you,' said Jarl, 'for she's a nasty piece of work, if I'm any judge of womanflesh.'

Perhaps. But she was the woman Sarazin wanted. And he was still determined to make her his before the embassy left Selzirk to return to Chenameg.

Lod: gambler, layabout and professional debtor who also happens to be the youngest son of King Lyra of Chenameg and guest of Farfalla of the Harvest Plains.

Description: a slim, graceful man of twenty who has athlete's foot and (alasl) syphilis, and a wary eye alert for approaching creditors.

Rest lence: guest quarters (by the Hall of Wine), palace of the kingmaker, Selzirk.

Once Sarazin was back in his quarters the full import of what had happened began to sink in. He was alive! Alive and – blessed be the gods! – unhurt. He was ebullient. He danced up and down on the spot for the sheer joy of being alive.

Abruptly his mood changed. Realising how completely he had failed, he threw himself down on his bed. He was disgusted with himself. The duel had been his big chance: but he had bungled it. He could have killed Tarkal three times over if his heart had really been in the fight. But his enemy had escaped with little more than a scratch. -What could I have been thinking of?

Unfortunately, he knew exactly what he had been thinking of: chiefly his own mortality. He had been scared. Shit scared. (Literally, since fear was the source of that morning's diarrhoea.) And he had let Tarkal escape. A bad mistake indeed, since he must kill Tarkal sooner or later, otherwise there was very little point pursuing Amantha. -What now?

Self-disgust was already giving way to fatigue. He was very, very weary. He closed his eyes, intending to take just a little nap, and when he woke it was afternoon. A meal was sitting on a chair by his bed, the plate covered by muslin to protect it against the summer flies. Lunch, doubtless. He wished Bizzie had woken him when she brought the meal, for he had work to do.

He had to arrange another meeting with Amantha so he could once more declare his love to her.

When Sarazin found the embassy was returning to the Chenameg Kingdom the very next day, he looked for Lod, since he wanted advice urgently. He had decided to pen some lines in praise of Amantha and wanted Lod to tell him what would appeal to his sister. But Lod was nowhere to be found. Accordingly, Sarazin did the best he could unaided.

The next day, Sarazin was on hand when the visitors assembled at noon to take their departure. They faced a long journey eastward from Selzirk to Chenameg's borders, then through the forests to Shin, which was King Lyra's capital.

Farfalla herself was not there to farewell the embassy. Word had come from Androlmarphos to say the governor of the place had died, so she had departed for that city, where she would officiate at the funeral.

She would not, however, appoint another governor. Not today, not tomorrow. The privilege of appointing such 'kings' was one of the few powers the Regency had been unable to alienate from her. Such positions were eagerly sought after, and competition would be fierce.

For once, Farfalla would have real power, real influence. Of course, while she toyed with those who sought to become king of Androlmarphos, the city's administration would suffer. But – what of it? Once she appointed a king, another vacancy might not occur for twenty years. Or thirty. By which time she might be long dead. -This is not the game I would have chosen.

Thus thought Farfalla. But it was the only game in town.

Farfalla's downstream journey westward from Selzirk to Androlmarphos would be swift. But the embassy travelling east would have a slow journey, for the riders had but one horse apiece. Furthermore, three baggage wagons were going with them, heavily laden with goods usually un- obtainable in Chenameg, plus gifts from Farfalla and from the Regency.

None of the travellers condescended to notice Sarazin's existence – least of all Tarkal, who was sitting bravely in his saddle with a plump swansdown pillow between his injured buttock and the unforgiving leather.

In a few moments they would leave and Sarazin's chance would be gone. So:

'In honour of the Princess Amantha,' said Sarazin loudly, 'I wish to read a poem.' 'So it can read,' said Tarkal. 'Hush,' said Amantha. 'Let it read. That can do no harm.'

Amantha, despite herself, could not help being interested in a poem which promised to honour her. Sarazin produced his manuscript with a flourish, and cleared his throat.

He had been trained in oratory, and had read his poems in public in Voice often enough, to generous applause – but, even so, could not help but feel nervous.

Well,' said Tarkal. 'Get on with it. We haven't got all day.'

So Sarazin began to read his poem: 'Though even phoenix must in time renew-' Tarkal sneezed, and his horse suddenly began to sidestep with a clatter of hooves on cobblestones. As if by black magic, an epidemic of coughing and sneezing broke out amongst the courtiers; their horses became restless; their hound-dogs howled But Sarazin, raising his voice, continued his lines about petal-scented wonder, the worship of shadows, the adora- tion of hearts, the difficulties which must lovers sunder, and that fine renaissance of feeling which will in time splendour love anew.

Concluding, he offered his manuscript to Amantha, saying:

'Fair flower of inspiration, please accept this humble token of my esteem.'

This kind of flowery phraseology had been all the fashion in Voice (though there, of course, Sarazin had couched his phrases in the Geltic of the Rice Empire, instead of the City Churl which he spoke in Selzirk).