Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

You know very well how I slept,' said Sarazin, on the verge of losing his temper. You had me strapped down for torture throughout the night.'

"Man, why so fierce with the voice?' said Douay. 'I was but searching for truth. Is that not right, that I should seek to improve myself?'

Douay's merry face and effortless bonhomie were the very last straw. Sarazin, who had fear worse than nightmare, thought Douay's merriment the worst kind of mockery.

You tortured me for fun!' said Sarazin. 'As a joke! What kind of monster are you?'

'I am no monster,' said Douay, sounding hurt. 'I am but a diligent student of the arts and philosophies. 'Twas in Selzirk that I studied in torture. Was I wrong to remember my lessons?'

'Whatever was done to you in Selzirk,' said Sarazin, 'there were grave matters of state involved.'

'Oho!' said Douay. 'Matters of state, is it? The world's excuse for everything. Well, man, get this straight – here I rule. I am the state.'

He started to blow into the funnel of the skavamareen, inflating the instrument for another onslaught on the sensibilities. If Sarazin had restrained himself, speech would shortly have become impossible. But Sarazin lost his temper entirely and spoke:

You're like every bully,' said he. 'Brave when the numbers are with you.'

Almost immediately, Sarazin regretted having spoken. Such words might well lead to instant death. But the blond- haired Douay did not order his execution. Instead, he stopped inflating the skavamareen, and said:

'Speech is easy, man. But I'd doubt you brave even with the numbers on your side.'

You doubt my courage?' said Sarazin. 'I tell you this – if I had a sword I'd prove you coward soon enough.'

You say?' said Douay. 'Truly, you are rash, for I have yet to meet the man to match my blade. In truth, I lately killed a man named Plovey, who counted himself the best swordsman in Selzirk.'

Sarazin knew he must be bluffing, for Plovey had been known in Selzirk as a master swordsman. Surely a bar- barous uitlander like Douay could never have defeated a sophisticate like Plovey. The young man was over- confident. This might be the way out I If Douay could be provoked into combat, Sarazin could surely kill him.

'Talk, talk I' said Sarazin, urging scorn into his voice. 'I know well the talk of dwarves, for I have one of my own.'

Tou called me what?' said Douay, an edge of ice in his voice.

What do you expect me to call you?' said Sarazin. T)are I name you giant when the dog which raped your mother was taller than the brat he spawned?'

Douay laid aside the skavamareen and drew his sword. The thugs holding Sarazin gripped him tighter.

'Is this the way you prove your courage?' said Sarazin. Through butchery?'

'Nay, man,' said Douay, with contempt. He selected another blade from the wall, held one in each hand and said to Sarazin: 'Choose. My left or my right.' 'The left,' said Sarazin.

'It makes no difference either way,' said Douay, laying the weapon in his left hand down on the stone floor. 'For the blades are of equal quality.' Then he said to his strong- men: 'Leave. Close the door. Stand without. Let none enter until we are finished.'

Douay stepped back from the weapon on the floor. Sarazin, edgy, heart quick-pulsing, dared himself forward, snatched up the blade and screamed his defiance: 'Scaaa!'

Douay, standing some five sword-lengths' distance, said with indifference:

'No need to hurry. We've got all day. Take your time. Test your weapon to start with. I don't want this to be too easy.'

Sarazin did not know what to think. Was this a trap? He backed off. Then, with a decent distance between himself and Douay, checked the linkage of blade to hilt, and tried the sword for balance.

'I cannot fault the weapon,' said Sarazin, trying to keep a tremor of fear from his voice.

He was beginning to think that this was not exactly fair. He had been on short rations for many days. He had not slept through the night. He was still stiff, bruised and sore from the pounding Douay had given him the day before. He was cold, hungry, tired, thirsty. But there was no time to protest for Douay was advancing. Obviously for the kill.

'Scaaa!' screamed Sarazin desperately, throwing himself on the defence.

Douay, still well out of weapon-reach, eased himself to a halt, then, amused beyond measure by Sarazin's evident desperation, threw back his head and laughed.

This is – is a joke?' said Sarazin, starting to hope that Douay would call off the fight. 'You are the joke,' said Douay softly.

Then graced closer, sword at the ready. His face had become hard, cruel, predatory. He was finished with laughter. Sarazin realised that only one of them would leave this room alive. -One chance then. One blow to kill him.

Thus thinking, Sarazin seized the initiative, putting all his strength into a blow designed to decapitate his opponent. 'Ha!' screamed Sarazin, striking.

Douay ducked. Sarazin's sword hissed through the air, missing Douay's scalp by no more than the black of a fingernail. And Sarazin was for a moment off-balance, wide open and helpless to save himself. Douay struck.

Douay slammed into Sarazin with his shoulder, hitting so hard that Sarazin was sent staggering backwards. As he flailed for balance, Douay kicked him in the chest. Down went Sarazin, his sword discarding to the air. Sklang!

Thus sang steel against steel as Sarazin's blade tumbled into cold metal racked on the walls of the armoury. It was well out of reach. And Drake Douay was already standing over him. Sword in hand. 'What sayest thou, Watashi?' said Douay. And Sarazin found courage to answer:

'I was taught to match my blade against swordsmen, not streetfighters.'

Whereupon Douay said, in a perfect imitation of the voice of Plovey of the Regency:

'Ah, darling boy! But I am a swordsman! Swordsman and streetfighter both.'

Sarazin closed his eyes. Waited for his death. And heard Douay say: Take him to the guest room.'

Almost immediately, Sarazin was seized and dragged away to the unknown horrors of the guest room, whatever that might be.

The Favoured Blood: the aristocracy which by tradition rules in Argan. The legends of Argan claim that only those of the Favoured Blood can rightfully rule, and that disaster will befall any state otherwise governed.

While in practice much power in Argan fell to other hands generations ago, concessions have always been made to popular belief. The kingmaker of the Harvest Plains, for instance, has always been consecrated in sacred cere- mony as a member of the Favoured Blood.

Even the elections which take place in Runcorn and Provincial Endergeneer are not (in theory) mere popularity contests, but are (again, in theory) an appeal to the populace to decide which of the candidates (if any) shows any trace of descent from the Blood.

The guest room proved to be a quiet bedroom painted pink. It held an enormous double bed. The linen was clean, the sheets smelling of lavender, and Sarazin was shortly sound asleep between these sheets.

He slept right through that day and through the night which followed, only waking when he was roused for breakfast the following morning. Breakfast was good, very good. Fish fresh from the Velvet River. Roast pigeon. Fried potatoes. And a draught of dandelion wine to wash it all down.

Once breakfast was over, Sarazin was led into the presence of the formidable Drake Douay. 'Do you acknowledge me as your equal?' said Douay. 'You are the greater swordsman,' conceded Sarazin.

'Greater by nature and greater by birth,' said Douay. Then he took something from his pocket, held it up and said: 'What's this?'

Douay was holding a jet-black necklace chain from which hung a cool, glossy lozenge of an identical black. The lozenge turned slowly, so Sarazin saw first a golden sun disk, then seven stars and a crescent moon on the obverse. 'What's this?' insisted Douay.