Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

'You must have seen things as bad in Chenameg,' said Epelthin Elkin. 'I understand that peasant revolt in Shin was a moderately sanguinary affair.'

Yes, but that was against peasants. One might expect a brawl with the mob to be ugly. But this – this was army against army. You know. Honoured foes and all that. I expected-' 'Honour? Glory?'

'Something! Not… not deaths so indecent. What's worse – they ate the dead. Thodric Jarl organised it. At least half of the men took part. They were – they were disgusted with themselves, yet at the same time they were grinning. Laughing. It was – it was obscene.'

'So,' said Epelthin Elkin, resting an old hand on a treasured book. Sarazin waited for revelation, but none came. 'Is that all you can say?' said Sarazin.

'I could say many things,' said Elkin. 'But what would be the point, when you know them all yourself? You know, for instance, that warfare is not your metier. You were not born to be a warlord. However, with effort, you might yet make yourself a tolerable poet.'

'But that's just the thing!' said Sarazin. They want me to do it again. War again. In Tyte, this time. They want me to bring the anarchists to heel. To collect back taxes for the last ten thousand years or whatever it is.' 'Jarl's going with you, I suppose,' said Elkin.

'No,' said Sarazin. 'He says I don't need his talents. He says the job's too simple. What he really means is that it's hopeless however brilliant the general.' 'Why so?' said Elkin.

'Because tactical brilliance is useless when your soldiers are neck-deep in mud!' said Sarazin. 'So Jarl won't help. But I thought maybe you could give me some ideas. Either to cope with the situation. Or else to get out of this fix.'

'I thought your brother Celadon was taking care of Tyte,' said Elkin.

"No' said Sarazin. 'Celadon was in Shin till I got there, and now he's been sent back there again. Jarnel was supposed to conquer the anarchists, but he failed. It's a hopeless job. Right now he's off with Peguero hunting bandits in the Spine Mountains.'

'Well,' said Elkin, I'm sure they're having the time of their lives.'

'Oh, doubtless,' said Sarazin. 'They're like kids playing at ores and elves – only they're getting paid for it.' 'Doesn't that suggest anything to you?' said Elkin. Sarazin thought about it. 'No,' he said, finally. 'It doesn't.' Elkin sighed.

When you go to collect taxes in Tyte,' said Elkin, 'you'll have young lieutenants equally as eager as your brother. So! Unleash them. Let them go sloshing through the mud in pursuit of the anarchists. Meanwhile, you find a nice, dry spot by the seaside and camp there till it's time to come back to Selzirk.' You're brilliant,' said Sarazin.

But he spoke only from politeness, for he doubted things could be so easy.

Once Sarazin had left Elkin's presence he gave way to despair. He had fought at the headwaters of the Shouda Flow; now he was doomed to go campaigning in Tyte; when that campaign was over no doubt there would be further military duties awaiting him elsewhere.

All his ambitions had come to nothing. He was a prisoner of the system. He had tested his ambition, will and ability against the social order: and he had failed. He was condemned to exactly the fate the Constitution prescribed for him: an endless life of soldiering.

Would he win fame through his sword? Fame, glory, renown? Would he make a name for himself? Perhaps. But it would make no difference. For some reason, he lacked the ability to change the world to suit himself, even though Lord Regan had always made it very clear that any determined person could alter reality at will. -Maybe I'm not trying hard enough. Thus thought Sarazin.

But, such was his state of doubt and depression that he lacked the will to try at all.

Sarazin's military lifestyle had brought him at least one advantage: an improved relationship with his mother. Now he was conforming to society's expectations, and no longer trying to reshape the world for his own benefit, Farfalla was prepared to indulge him to a certain extent. Indeed, it was a pleasure for her to do so: she took no joy in disciplining her long-lost son.

One of her little indulgences was the present she gave him before his departure to Tyte.

'This is for you,' she said, handing him a little package. 'With my love.' 'What is it?' said Sarazin. 'Something practical,' she said.

He opened the package and, finding a purse of money, duly tendered his thanks. But what was he to do with this money? He was not in the mood for whores, gambling or drink.

In the end, it was Sarazin's half-brother Benthorn who took the money off his hands. Benthorn sold him an amulet which was, or so he claimed, an heirloom from an ancient elven kingdom now remembered only in legend.

This intriguing trinket was a flawless lozenge of glossy black on a necklace-chain of similar colour. On one side was a gold sun disk, while seven silver stars and a sex-sharp silver moon adorned the obverse. Sarazin, unable to resist this bauble, bought it for fifty skilders. Then marched for Tyte.

Epelthin Elkin: elderly scholar who serves in the secret service of the Rice Empire and works as Archivist in Voat Library in Selzirk.

Sean Sarazin knows Elkin to be a wizard of the order of Ebber, but does not know him to be a spy. The Rovac warrior Thodric Jarl, a spy himself, knows of Elkin's intelligence work, but, though he dislikes Elkin, does not know him to be a wizard.

Once Sarazin reached Tyte with his army he tried to put Elkin's advice into practice. The trouble was, his fiery young lieutenants lost all their enthusiasm the moment they saw Tyte's hopeless bog-mud tidal flats.

Still, Sarazin did his best. He camped by the seashore and occupied himself with busy work, such as sending out endless patrols to 'gather intelligence'. He wrote long reports. He had his picture painted by a soldier eager to prove his artistic talent if that would keep him out of the swamps for one day longer. Then, on a whim, Sarazin had that same soldier design a coat of arms for him.

This coat of arms,' said Sarazin, improvising a story to protect him against any possible accusation of treasonous intent, 'is a toy for the son of a friend of my half-brother Benthorn.'

The 'toy', when it was finished, was a shield emblazoned with a black rustre, with seven stars and the crescent moon on the surrounding red. Sarazin, in his dreams, conjured with images of a fabulous future in which this coat of arms would be recognised as the emblem of his line, and all of Argan would recognise his suzerainty.

So far, Sarazin's campaign had been comfortable enough. However, after ninety days of timewasting, boredom got the better of him, and he started a major drive to seek out anarchists and (with luck) capture some so they could be tortured till they paid their back taxes.

The campaign that followed is best described as follows: mud, swamp, bog, quicksand, rain, wind, swamp fever, blood fever, blue fever, green coughing fever, toad fever, eel fever, yellow frog fever and vomit fever.

Sarazin campaigned right through the autumn and into the depths of the following winter, by which time he had caught two anarchists (both of whom had leprosy) and had lost over 700 men to assorted diseases. As he had started his campaign with an army of only 900, this made it somewhat difficult to continue operations.

At this point he was recalled to Selzirk and chastised severely by his superior officers.

He scarcely cared, for he had come down with hepatitis, and was too sick to worry. The army surgeons Were called in and sent him home to recuperate. There he stayed through the rest of the winter and the spring which fol- lowed, on a strict regime of bland meals (no spices, no alcohol) and bedrest.