Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

To the audience came an appalling stench of burnt feathers and charred flesh. Sarazin thought for a moment that something had gone wrong. Then the phoenix started to ascend. The bird of wonder rose sheathed with incandes- cent fire, which fell away to reveal brilliant new plumage.

As the phoenix climbed in glory, everyone clapped. Wasn't that marvellous?' said Amantha. Wonderful,' agreed Sarazin, out of duty.

He felt somehow cheated. The fact that the burning bird had stunk had spoilt the whole thing.

However, he cheered up soon enough when the poetry competition began, for he had high hopes for his own com- position. The ruling fashion at the moment was the poetry of extravagance, which had lately ousted the poetry of horror – which in turn had conquered the poetry of lust.

Sarazin's competition poem was entitled 'A One-winged Treacle-Bat Dares Its Dragon's Tongue To Make Some Observations'. He had written it in the Gel tic of the Rice Empire before translating it into Churl. Since none other than Arez Stone had helped with the translation (flattery works wonders, and Sarazin knew its use well) it should be good.

When his turn came, Sarazin cleared his throat then began: The earthworms coagulate. The fish Throttles the politics of the mayfly. My love is red. Gashed. Wounded. Her vampire teeth a parrot, her nose a comb, No breadcrumbs but a nipple! Yea, leavened with lead and gold I mount (As dogs mount goats and diamonds, As fish mount quartz-dove rings) Past rhetorics of menstruating heavens, Past cloves of coal and petal-folds of cream, Then close – ah, say it, love! – with adoration. Fraught with revolutions then the moon Observes my buttermilk shock, my stirruped deed Drive to her grease and annul All pleasures in the heartlands of a rose. Her savour licks one pearl from my rampole strength, Splices with lead my gold, then sets my steel Quivering to the perfumes of her naos.'

His admiring auditors applauded his daring, for he had cunningly blended the poetries of lust and horror with the current style of extravagance, and with the poetry of nonsense which looked set to replace it. His art was a triumph of fashion.

'The winner,' said the herald, shortly, 'the winner is… Sean Kelebes Sarazin, lately of Selzirk.'

Everyone cheered. And Sarazin, flushed and triumphant, exulted. He was a leader of fashion, and intensely proud of himself on that account. His pride only increased when King Lyra handed over the poetry prize, which was an ornate porcelain chamber-pot painted with pictures of bluebirds and daffodils.

The day would not have been complete without a feast. Thus, that evening, they were indulged with precisely that. They dined upon roast dziggetai, upon mountain trout, sparrows stuffed with raspberry jam, upon pickled pigs' eyes and truffle delight, all washed down with draughts of ale, skull and dandelion wine.

After eating: dancing. Whirling music. Laughter by lantern light. Sarazin inveigled Amantha outside, and they stood for a while together in a doorway in a romantic silence. They could not wander beneath the stars because, had they attempted anything so foolish, they would swiftly have found themselves ankle-deep in mud. 'I'm cold,' said Amantha. 'I could warm you up,' said Sarazin. And kissed her.

'Really!' said Amantha. 'I think we had better go back in- side. And you, Sean Sarazin, had better remember yourself.'

King Lyra: portly widower who rules the Chenameg Kingdom from his palace in Shin. Father of Tarkal (his eldest child), Amantha (who will attain the throne if Tarkal dies) and Lod (his youngest, currently in jail awaiting trial on a charge of being a wastrel).

The next day, there was to be a royal hunt. When invited to participate, Sarazin had at first begged off, saying his pony was lame. In fact, he was too embarrassed to ride such a meagre beast in such elevated company. However, King Lyra discerned the true cause of Sarazin's discomfort, and forced Tarkal to lend him a beautiful caparisoned charger, a gallant grey looking ready to challenge the wind itself. He also ordered 'the best royal hunting garb' to be delivered to Sarazin in the morning.

Thus Sarazin went to sleep content, waking at dawn, rejoicing in his (temporary) possession of one of Tarkal's horses – not least because it was a mark of the monarch's favour. It seemed King Lyra (like Lord Regan of the Rice Empire) recognised Sarazin's princely qualities. The king, then, must truly be an excellent judge of character.

Sarazin's high spirits were, however, somewhat damp- ened when a set of hunting clothes was delivered to his quarters. He had imagined himself hunting in silks, but received instead some incredibly thick, virtually indestructible padded trousers of a very coarse wool which scratched his thighs, and a woollen jacket of similar strength and thickness, its exterior armoured by plates of lacquered wood stitched to the wool by means of threads passed through hundreds of awl-holes.

Sarazin was half-convinced this vile rigout was someone's idea of a practical joke. However, he dressed, put on his trusty boots, buckled on his swordbelt, checked his weapon for rust, popped a jaunty blue bycoket on his head, then went forth to the stables where he collected his noble grey.

Then he joined the riders of the hunt, who were con- gregating in a mudfield on the outskirts of Shin, hard up against the forest. Sarazin was glad to see his companions of the day were similarly accoutred. A light rain was falling, but it quite failed to dampen their spirits. As a cold wind began to urge the rain across the mudfield, Sarazin began to see the sense of being so warmly dressed.

He wished they could have been hunting in autumn, for autumn's treasury forest, with its hoard of bronze, copper, gold and unblemished silver, would have offered so many more opportunites for poetry. Still, even a winter hunt should be good for a few lines or so.

'Well, youngling,' said King Lyra genially, riding up beside him, 'they're bringing out the quarry. Are you ready?' "With cock and sword!' said Sarazin.

'Ah, would that I were young!' said King Lyra. 'Still, I'll show you young dogs a thing or two before the day is over.' 'Do you ride with us?' said Sarazin. 'But of course, man, of course!'

Frankly Sarazin thought the gouty old gentleman unfit for such vigorous sport. But he thought no more on it, for his interest was now focused on the quarry, a slim young peasant woman. He watched as she was unchained and released.

At first, despairing of escape, she would not consent to run. But whips got her going. Her naked body flitted away between the trees. Silent as a dream-wraith.

'Now that,' said Lyra, nodding in the direction of the departing woman, 'that is a virgin. I checked her myself. Fresh meat for the victor!' 'Sire,' said Sarazin, 'you are a most generous host.'

For a while, the riders milled around, drinking from gilded cows' horns. Sarazin wondered aloud how they would find the woman in the forest. 'For,' he said, 'we have no dogs.'

'No need for them,' said King Lyra. 'See those fellows over there? Those ugly-looking brutes on the black horses? Those are our trackers. Capital men, capital. Here, get some of this inside you.'

So saying, the king passed Sarazin a drinking horn. Flames of a startling green danced the surface of the liquor within.

'Firewater,' said King Lyra, by way of explanation. 'From the Ebrell Islands, you know.'

Sarazin, having heard something of firewater, doubted it was really the thing to drink before a fast-paced ride through a dangerous forest. However, he durst not decline the offer. 'Sire,' he said, 'you honour me.'

You honour us, man,' said King Lyra. 'Not often we get visitors from Selzirk, you know. Liked your poem. Don't say I understood it, but that's not what it's for, is it? Had some arse in it, eh? Arse! That's the stuff!'