Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

In the little time remaining after the demands of army and conspiracy, Sarazin devoted himself to the disposal of the wealth which had come his way. Some of it went on things Benthorn brought him. Always things connected with royalty, nobility. Illuminated texts on heraldry and courtly manners. Ancient scrolls dedicated to poetry such as Saba Yavendar's Victory of the Prince of the Favoured Blood. And other items of a similar nature.

Late in the summer, Sarazin's brothers Jarnel and Peguero marched away at the head of an army which was to have a second crack at destroying the ogre Tor. Sarazin wished them luck, then forgot about them, for he had seen his brothers so seldom that they were still very much strangers to him. Celadon he had scarcely seen at all: the man was still in Shin.

To his surprise, Sarazin found he envied his brothers' simple lives. They lived free from the doubts which had lately begun to plague both his waking moments and his dreams. All they had to do was put in a day's work then get drunk in the evening.

Some of those doubts were entirely natural. He feared for his life, and not without reason – for many things could go wrong with the complex conspiracy he was involved in. Well, he could steel himself against fear.

But it was harder to deal with his growing doubts about the ethics of the conspiracy he was involved in. He could not say where doubt had come from. Was it a symptom of senility, perhaps? Despite his best efforts to ignore it, he could not. What right did he, Sean Sarazin, have to overthrow the present government and impose his will on the Harvest Plains?

– I could govern the country better. That's the main thing. So he told himself.

Indeed, he was sure he could improve things. By now he knew full well that many important problems were ignored because Selzirk's power brokers were absorbed by the long, slow, agonising political struggle between Farfalla and the Regency.

Once Sean Sarazin had swept away both the Regency and the institution of kingmaker, once he had made himself absolute and unopposed ruler of the Harvest

Plains, why then surely he could end inflation, abolish unemployment, bring the criminal classes to heel, get dung-dropping animals banned from the streets (or at least put an end to the taxes on dung carts) and take the thousand and one other initiatives necessary for the health of the nation. So why this doubt?

Things had been much, much simpler back in the old days, when he had believed absolutely in the prophecy. Of course, once Jarl had revealed the prophecy to be but Lord Regan's instrument of communication, his belief had been destroyed. Still…

He longed to see the ancient book in which the prophecy had been written down.

At last, unable to resist the temptation any longer, Sarazin took himself off to the premises of Madam Sosostris. He was wary, knowing the woman might (possibly) be an agent of the Regency. Yet how could it be a crime to want to look at an old book? He asked after it.

'Oh, that old thing,' said Sosostris. 'I sold that by auction months ago. But there's something on the premises which might interest you. Jaluba is her name.'

Sarazin was bitterly disappointed at the loss of the book. But gained some reward for his enterprise nevertheless, for Madam Sosostris allowed him to hire out Jaluba for half a day at a time. Thus he once again enjoyed Jaluba's delights, often smuggling her right into his quarters in Farfalla's palace – easy enough to do, for Bizzie col- laborated with him in this enterprise.

Of Sarazin's relationship with Jaluba there is little to tell. It was a repetitive and predictable affair, a matter of haunch and nipple, cock and quim, lips and tongues, pants and grunts, tensions and spasms, teasing and giggling, laughter and lies. Enjoyable, to be sure – but of no consequence whatsoever.

Physical lust is an itch most easily scratched. But

Sarazin's lust for the old book could not be so easily satisfied. He saw it in dreams and daydreams alike. He somehow felt that, if only he could read those ancient words again, all would become clear.

Eventually, he took Benthorn into his confidence. He described the book, then said:

'From its contents, I judge it to be at least in part a cookery book. However, if I recall rightly there was stuff in it about wizards, which might aid my present military research.' Benthorn undertook to seek it out and find it.

Then, in the autumn, Benthorn delivered the book to Sarazin. Who bargained hard – for he did not wish to betray the volume's true worth to his half-brother – and bought it for a reasonable price. (A reasonable price being, nevertheless, a very high price, for the workman- ship which had gone into the book was alone enough to make it a treasure of great value.) And took it back to his quarters. And opened it with trembling hands.

It was just as he remembered. Marvellous, marvellous. A glory of glowing colours, of fantastical animals and imaginary landscapes illuminated in miniature. Sunset orange, aubergine purple, dragon-flame red. Pictures of eagle-winged cats, of grouchy basilisks with smouldering eyes, of- But never mind! It was the prophecy which counted.

Swiftly, Sarazin found again the relevant passage. After all this time in the Harvest Plains, he had no trouble reading (or talking, or thinking in) Churl. Even the antiquated Spiral Style orthography gave him no prob- lems. Here again was the prophecy, with its several parts:

– That a prince of the Favoured Blood would be exiled from Selzirk in his youth, then would return to the city.

Well, that fitted the facts of the life of Sean Sarazin, no doubt about it.

– That wicked and witless men would unleash great dangers threatening Selzirk's survival, and that the prince would be scorned when he revealed the solution.

Maybe, with a little prodding and poking, the past events of Sarazin's life could be made to fit that part of the prophecy. Or perhaps that part had yet to come.

– That he would earn the name Watashi, would marry the princess of an ancient kingdom, would war against (and kill) his own father.

All true. All that had happened. His public knew him now as Watashi. He had married Amantha. And he had killed Fox in a rooftop battle in Shin – something he regretted but which was not his fault, for the ring of invisibility had made it impossible for him to recognise his father as they did battle.

– That his father's death would give him the power he needed to save Selzirk.

Did that fit? Not exactly. But maybe he had gained some power from his father's death which was not yet revealed to him.

– That he would rescue the city from danger, and would be praised with great praises, his name enduring forever in glory.

What did that mean? Doubtless it referred to the future, because so far he had saved the city from no real danger, only from the sham danger posed by Epelthin Elkin. Presumably, his moment of greatest glory lay in the future. And, while the prophecy did not specifically promise him rule of the Harvest Plains – he could see that now, though in the past he had somehow deluded himself into believing it did – surely such rule was implicit in its promises.

After all, surely he could parlay great glory into a leadership position. He was Sean Sarazin, was he not? Sarazin the bold, the brave, the valorous! So thought Sarazin. Then abruptly pushed the book away from him. 'What was I thinking of?' said he. The whole thing's a con. It was Lord Regan who sent me the book.'

Then the most marvellous thing happened. Sarazin remembered that, while Lord Regan had sent him the book, Lord Regan had not had it forged. The text was genuine – and very old.

Then…

Sarazin felt as if his consciousness was expanding. His mind was getting larger and larger. He understood every- thing, in scarcely the time it takes to swallow a mouthful of bread.