Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

However, on escaping into the street Sarazin went directly to the Sosostris lair. The hunt for Lod could wait. Jaluba was in town! Melon-fleshed Jaluba, she of the scented omphalos, the ticklish armpits. Mistress of the raptures, the joys, the delights.

On his way to see Sosostris (and Jaluba) Sarazin dreamt dreams and saw visions. But his prospects for converting these dreams and visions to reality fell sharply when the gateman guarding the Sosostris lair asked him a ridiculous price for admission alone.

'Once you get the price down to something reasonable,' said Sarazin, I'll think about it.' But the gateman proved reluctant to bargain.

'I'll wait for you to see reason,' said Sarazin, 'I'm in no hurry.'

And wait he did, drawing his good sword Onslaught to practise his weapon-work. Though the sky was clouding over, it was still hot; in fact, though the weather promised rain, this was the hottest day Sarazin had endured in Selzirk. He was soon sweating profusely.

A small boy challenged him with a stick, and Sarazin indulged him by engaging in a slow-motion duel. While he was amusing himself thus, a palankeen came by. It halted, and a woman dismounted. Sarazin paid her no attention till she spoke to him. 'Do you think it will rain?' she said.

Sarazin turned to examine the body which went with the voice, and found himself face to face with a veiled matron awash with scent. The child who had been duelling with Sarazin poked him in the gut with his stick and said 'Die!' Sarazin brushed the stick away, said 'Vanish!' in a tone which commanded instant obedience, then said: 'Madam Sosostris?'

'Oh no, oh no,' said the perfume-drenched matron, with a girlish giggle which ill befitted her years. 'I am Mistress Turbothot. I have an audience with Sosostris, though. And you?' 'I'm just leaving,' said Sarazin.

The Turbothot woman was obviously rich. Her silks, her rings and her gold-braided shoes told him that. The waiting palankeen, of course, also spoke of wealth. Whatever plans Madam Sosostris might have for Sean Sarazin, he was unlikely to command her attention when she had a client so wealthy waiting for her services.

Wait, wait, don't go!' said Mistress Turbothot, as Sarazin turned to go. 'Or, if you must, tell me at least this – who are you, darling boy?'

'I am no boy but a warrior,' said he. 'I am Sean Kelebes Sarazin, son of the kingmaker Farfalla.' 'Oh, a prince!' she said, in tones of unabashed admiration.

While Sarazin liked the title, he saw no point in smallchat with a woman older than his mother and twice the weight, so without further ado he departed for Jone to search for Lod amongst the streets of the poor and the ruthless.

Now that the prospect of an immediate interview with Jaluba had vanished, Sarazin finally began to think. And realised he had indeed a lot to think about. Obviously, Ix and Sosostris already knew of his lust for Jaluba. The wench must have told them her past. But this was a strange coincidence, was it not? -Too much of a coincidence. -It must be conspiracy!

Madam Ix and Madam Sosostris must have learnt Sarazin's past from Lod – who had, after all, introduced Sarazin to these practitioners of the Art. They must have sent all the way to Voice for Jaluba. Hoping for – for what? Money?

– Perhaps Lod told them I'm rich. Perhaps he gulled them completely. As a joke, perhaps.

– Or it could be that this is political. Perhaps they think I've influence over my mother.

Either way, the really intelligent thing would be for Sarazin to forget about Jaluba. Because, one way or another, he would surely be made to pay heavily for the privilege of bedding the woman. Sarazin knew this. But could not help himself. – The world would be well lost for such a woman.

Then Sarazin reminded himself that he was wrong to be thinking thus, for he was in love with a princess. Yes, his true love was Amantha of Chenameg, who came complete with a kingdom, whereas Jaluba owned little more than a giggle.

Sarazin diligently conjured with visions of Amantha (and of power, of fame, of fortune) as he strode on towards Jone.

Benthorn: Sarazin's half-brother, son of Fox and Bizzie. The owner-operator of a dung cart who has an uncom- monly keen interest in the Constitution and other matters political.

In Jone's bars and taverns, in brothels and wharfside gambling pits, Sarazin saw no sign of Lod. But he did meet several people whom Lod would usually have seen on a typical visit to the quarter. All averred that Lod had certainly not been in Jone that day. By evening, Sarazin was thoroughly frustrated. Lod was the key to his life. Lod alone would know how he should pursue Amantha now that the lady had left Selzirk. Should he write her letters, send her poems? Or saddle a horse and ride to Chenameg in person?

Sarazin also believed Lod might also be able to help him work out a strategy for securing admission to Jaluba's charms without paying exorbitant amounts of money to Madam Sosostris. Yet he had no idea where he should look next.

On his way home, Sarazin had to pass through Libernek Square, the site of the Voat Library where the old man Elkin worked as Archivist. Sarazin wondered if his tutor could help him. Epelthin Elkin had a very organised intel- lect. Any problem discussed with him automatically became clearer, even if it did not necessarily become soluble.

Without further ado, Sarazin invited himself into the library and was shortly discussing his woes with the elderly scholar. Who told him, of course, what he would have been told by Thodric Jarl, or Bizzie, or his father or mother. Namely: to go home, get to bed, and forget Amantha and Jaluba both. And not to waste so much as another dorth on fortune-tellers!

'Fine advice!' said Sarazin, unimpressed by Elkin's little homily. 'But it hardly helps me find Lod.'

'You want Lod, do you?' said Elkin, rummaging around for a map. 'Very well,' he said, one map-stabbing finger striking. This is Selzirk. And this?' The Velvet River, of course,' said Sarazin.

'Where, no doubt, you'll find young Lod,' said Elkin maliciously. 'Floating downstream with his throat cut.' 'Some help you've been!' said Sarazin, rising to go.

Elkin showed him to the door. The night was dark and clouded, and Sarazin would not be surprised if the weather broke on the morrow. He was weary, and could smell his own body. He wanted a wash. Then bed. Sleep. Dreams. It had been a long, long day.

'Well,' said Sarazin, 'I'll tell you this, I wouldn't pay much for your advice.'

You're not being asked to,' said Elkin. 'But-' He broke off. Peered into the dark, suddenly intent. Then said, in a loud voice: You! Yes, you! Come here!'

Someone came forward into the lamplight spilling from the library's open door. It was Benthorn.

What were you doing lurking around out there?' said Elkin.

'Just waiting for Sarazin,' said Benthorn. 'I didn't want to disturb you.' You waited all this time?' said Elkin. 'Why?' 'Oh, it's nothing, nothing, just a personal thing.' 'Come inside,' said Elkin. 'Sorry,' said Benthorn, "but I don't have time.'

'All night to play shadows but not a moment to spare for me? Don't give me that nonsense. Inside!'

Reluctantly, Benthorn came into the library, bringing with him a pervasive smell of dung. Out in the streets his condition could pass without notice, since there were so many stinks and smells in Selzirk. But in enclosed spaces he was positively offensive.

'Did you know Benthorn was waiting for you?' said Elkin. 'No,' said Sarazin. 'So how did he know you were here?' said Elkin. Why, he

… I… I don't know…' 'Is he psychic?' said Elkin.

'My best beloved Benthorn?' said Sarazin, looking his half-brother in the face. Why, no, I don't think so.' Therefore what follows?'