Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

The text was genuine. The prophecy was no forgery. Furthermore, it fitted the facts of Sarazin's life. While Lord Regan had sent it to him, surely the facts implied that Lord Regan was but a tool of destiny. Sean Sarazin was fated to have the prophecy revealed to him, and the fates had worked themselves out by means of Lord Regan. 'FoolsI' said Sarazin, hammering the table with his fist. He laughed. Exulting.

All these people thought they could control him, use him, manipulate him. Lord Regan thought as much when he sent Sarazin the prophecy by a tortuous route. But Lord Regan was not using the prophecy – no, the prophecy was using him! Jarl thought Sarazin condemned to (even- tually) pledge his allegiance to Lord Regan in return for military assistance. But Jarl was wrong, for Sarazin had the ring, the candle, the dragons.

'I am no pawn of theirs,' said Sarazin. 'They are now players in my game!'

His doubts were gone, now. He had to act as he did because it was fated. It was no use fighting against fate.

That night, before Sarazin slipped off to sleep, he remem- bered walking with Lord Regan long ago in the Sunrise Gardens in the elegant city of Voice.

'In the final analysis,' Lord Regan had said, 'you can have whatever you want. You can be whatever you want to be. You can win whatever you want to win.' That was what free will meant.

Lord Regan had spoken thus because he was manipulating Sarazin, working on Sarazin's sentiments, shaping Sarazin to be a weapon to use against the existing order in the Harvest Plains. -But what he said is true.

– I can be what I want to be. I can have what I want. The will is free so all things truly are possible. So thought Sarazin.

Later, when he was almost asleep, it finally occurred to him that such a faith in free will was in conflict with his faith in fate. He trusted Lord Regan's doctrines because he believed free will shaped the future. Yet allowed himself to be comforted by prophecy because it suggested the future was fixed already. That woke him up properly. 'Have I got it wrong?' he said.

He sat in bed thinking about it for a long, long time, his thoughts getting more and more tangled all the time. Happily, he was able to bring things to a nice conclusion:

– These are philosophical questions and I no philosopher. Who am I to say that fate and free will cannot exist in the same world? Surely it is a dichotomy, like light and dark, right and wrong, good and evil, up and down. Who can deny that such opposites exist? The one is necessary for the existence of the other.

– The contradiction, then, is not there at all. It only seems to be there. If I were a better philosopher, I would see how the one world supports the two opposites. One room supports both light and dark, does it not, when a candle burns at midnight?

– When I am older, when I am wiser, when the pro- phecy has worked itself out, then I will understand. I must live for that day. I must work for it.

With that settled, Sean Sarazin fell asleep, and slept more soundly (and with sweeter dreams) than he had ever done before in his life.

Jaluba: Sarazin's doxy, who pleasured him first during his exile in the city of Voice, and who later came to Selzirk to take employment with the fortune-teller Madam Sosostris. Circumstance suggests that it is highly probable that she is an agent in the pay of Lord Regan of the Rice Empire, though Sarazin has never seen fit to ask her about this.

Autumn brought wind and rain. The open arches of Farfalla's throne room were boarded up, as they always were in bad weather. With the views shut out, it became a dim, dull, draughty place. Sarazin went there twice that autumn – once when his mother had an audience with the king of Kelebes (who was, of course, her appointee) and once when she received Plovey of the Regency and discussed the budget for her palace for the following year. Dull stuff.

And what Sarazin was doing from day to day was equally dull. His work on the military committee preparing for an invasion by the Red Emperor Khmar had almost ground to a halt, for it was clear by now that the invasion was not going to take place. Reports from the north were contradictory.

One said the Lord Emperor Khmar had been eaten alive by the dragon Zenphos. Another said that mountains of fire had arisen in the north, blocking the salt road and drowning Khmar and his armies in molten rock. A third said the Red Emperor had been killed by wolves in the forests of Penvash. But all agreed that there would be no invasion.

The military committee was preparing its final report. The public, for its part, had almost forgotten about Khmar altogether. As for Sean Sarazin – his battles in Hok had become part of ancient history. His triumph against the evil wizard Epelthin Elkin had been but a five-day wonder.

He was bored. Even the routine work of conspiracy was just that – routine. But Jaluba – ah, she was never routine. She was not just delicious but exciting as well. Sarazin romanced her, boasting of his achieve- ments and his potential. To his delight, she believed his every word.

Unlike some people one could mention, Jaluba knew her demon lover was a strong, brave hero who was des- tined for great things. She said as much. Sarazin then became at least half-convinced he was in love with her, for her protestations of praise told him his own opinion of himself.

In daydreams of the future, Sarazin imagined marrying Jaluba and making her queen of Selzirk. He would name a month of the year in her honour, would raise statues to her praise on every street corner, would turn Libernek Square into a walled garden where she could walk naked in summer amidst butterfly sunlight, delighting in the possession of her own beauty.

Thus Sarazin dreamed: while others worked, schemed, plotted, and prepared his downfall.

One autumn morning, Bizzie admitted Jaluba to Sarazin's quarters as she was accustomed to. The morning then passed in love and games. Sarazin for the first time showed Jaluba his bard; he also almost went so far as to read to her from his prophetic book. Then, shortly before noon, the lovers were disturbed when Bizzie arrived with a message: Sarazin was wanted by Farfalla. 'How long will this take?' said Sarazin.

'I don't know,' said Bizzie. 'I've no idea what your mother wants with you this time.'

Sarazin exchanged kisses with Jaluba and told her to wait.

'Will you leave me this toy, then?' said Jaluba, dangling the bard from one of her dainty fingers. 'By all means,' said Sarazin.

Then was off, hoping he would not be away from Jaluba for long. He hurried to Farfalla's High Court where his mother was in conference with several men. To his astonishment, he found they were discussing the possibility of building a new capital to the east, near the border with Chenameg. 'How can I help?' said Sarazin.

You are our military expert,' said Farfalla. You will advise us on this project's strategic implications. You also know Voice, of which you have spoken highly. We are particularly interested in these aqueducts which you have praised so freely.' 'Well, yes,' said Sarazin.

He was no longer in a hurry to get away. Jaluba, after all, would still be available on the morrow. But to have people of importance attend seriously to his opinions, his knowledge, his expertise – well, that was a pleasure which rarely came his way.

It was late afternoon before Sarazin finally returned to his room. As he had only rented Jaluba from Sosostris for the morning, he was not surprised to find her gone. Unfor- tunately, one or two of his possessions appeared to have departed with her. His bard, for example. And his pro- phetic book. Worse, a whole armload of documents was missing.

'The minx must have hidden them,' muttered Sarazin.