Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

Rice Empire: Argan's most densely populated nation; supports over a million souls on landstrip roughly three hundred leagues long and a hundred wide between Ashun Mountains and Central Ocean.

Population pressures relieved by mass marketing of slaves to Provincial Endergeneer (to the south) and wars with more lightly populated Harvest Plains (to the north). Capital: Galtras Laven Ruler: Lord Regan Language: Geltic

In winter in Alliance 4324 Sean Sarazin was again wounded in combat. His lastest injury began life as a slight scratch which threatened to heal without trace. However, by diligently rubbing it with salt, he won a scar which would mark his face for a lifetime.

He was intensely proud when girlfriends cherished his scar with delicate fingers and spoke in bated breath of the horror, the pain, the fear. The elegant Jaluba, who was somewhat more than a girlfriend, also admired it. Then made an extremely improper joke about a wound of her own.

Another thing happened that winter: Sean Kelebes Sarazin turned twenty-two. With youth now well and truly over, he wrote elegant, allusive lyrics about falling leaves, mortal flowers and death inevitable. Friends lauded his genius when he poeticised in tea shops and boulevard cafes.

In a more private place devoted to private places,

Sarazin recited his poems to Jaluba also. Whereupon she, with a giggle, damanded poetry in praise of aspects of her anatomy which, though Sarazin admired their elegance, cannot be discussed with propriety.

There was wine on Jaluba's breath when she made her demand. And wine on Sarazin's also. Therefore, let wine be blamed for the fact that he complied with her wishes. Or tried to. In truth, the task proved difficult indeed, for he had no stock of appropriate images on hand.

When writing on love, battle or mortality one drew upon a hoard of hundreds of standard phrases. Such versification was almost effortless. But when Sarazin sought to extol Jaluba's biology, only the witless obscenity of the coarser taverns came to mind. This he did not care to use. You will have to inspire me,' he said. And Jaluba did her best to comply.

Sarazin sought inspiration in wine also, which led Lord Regan to remark on the following morn: You look somewhat drawn. What ails you?'

'Nothing serious, my lord,' answered Sarazin. 'A slight touch of weltschmerz – nothing more.'

'Ah! Weltschmerzl' said Lord Regan. 'I knew it well in my youth. But sorrow for the world is an abuse of talent which maturity avoids. After all, those in pain have chosen to suffer. Concern for such is an error.'

'It was but a trifling indulgence, my lord,' said Sarazin. 'I sorrowed in a poetical sense merely, not a political sense.' 'Good, good,' said Lord Regan.

The two were strolling in the Sunrise Gardens. Green grass. Blue sky. Warm sun. Winter snow on the heights of the Ashun mountains to the east. Sage age instructing youth. Was there a poem to be won from the occasion? 'Remember,' said Lord Regan, 'that-'

A peacock screamed near at hand, and Lord Regan began again:

'Remember, we create ourselves. Always remember that. We have free will so we are entirely responsible for ourselves. Everything happens to us by our own choice. Never forget that.' 'I never will, my lord,' said Sarazin.

'In the final analysis,' said Lord Regan, 'you can have whatever you want. You can be whatever you want to be. You can win whatever you want to win.' 'I believe it, my lord,' said Sarazin.

'Some people become victims,' said Lord Regan. 'This only happens because they have a victim mentality. Feeling themselves to be victims, they behave in a way which makes them just that.'

"My lord's wisdom is all-encompassing,' said Sarazin, truly impressed by the depth of Lord Regan's philosophy.

Shortly thereafter, Lord Regan quit Voice and returned to his capital, Galtras Laven. But he left Sean Sarazin a birthday present. A sword of firelight steel forged on the island of Stokos. A blade so beautiful that Sarazin wept when he first set eyes on it.

Thereafter, he trained more fiercely than ever before. Working by candlelight deep in the night, sweating, panting, pleasurably fatigued, he admired himself in the magnificent mirrors which graced his quarters. He liked what he saw. Muscles glistening, scars menacing, blade glittering. -Lord Regan was right. -We do create ourselves.

Thus thinking, Sarazin strove to shape muscle and ability both. This he loved as much as boulevard delights or his hours of bliss with Jaluba, she of the honey-soft lips, the luxurious fur.

What he liked less was steadily mounting pressure from his tutor, Epelthin Elkin, who worked him harder than ever before, drilling him ruthlessly in the Galish of the Salt Road and the Churl of far-distant Selzirk. Dull, boring, tedious, repetitive work. Unendurable! Sarazin demanded explanations but got none.

Then his combat instructor, Thodric Jarl, announced that they would at last begin True Battle Training. Sarazin exulted, for this glamorous training would at least give him a break from scholarship's rigours. Shortly, he exulted no longer. Here is an example of what he had to endure:

Armed with a shield almost too heavy to hold and an unwieldy blade of blunt bronze, clad in armour and a helm so massive he could scarcely see or hear, Sarazin was ordered into a waist-deep bog then left to defend himself against three aggressive thugs armed with sticks and clubs.

That particular exercise had to be called off when Sarazin tripped, fell, was swallowed by the bog's oily mud, then found it impossible to surface because of the weight of armour oppressing him. He had nightmares about it for days afterwards.

Then, early in spring, Lord Regan returned to Voice to give Sarazin the most startling news of his life.

'You know' said Lord Regan, 'though you are not of my line, I look on you almost as a son.' "My lord has always been generous,' said Sarazin.

'I had… I must confess, I had plans for you. Yet it is not to be. Certain internal political pressures make it impossible for you to remain within my realm. I am returning you to Selzirk.' That news left Sarazin incapable of speech. Once he had gathered his wits he asked:

'My Lord… might I know the nature of the pressures which have forced this decision?'

'Alas!' said Lord Regan. 'That I may not speak of. Not here. Not now. But this I promise you: all will become clear to you in the fulness of time.'

When Lord Regan again departed for Galtras Laven, Sarazin's instructors drove him all the harder. He would leave for Selzirk early in summer, so had but a single season to prepare himself for the challenges awaiting in the city of his birth.

At first, Sean Sarazin despaired. He loved life in Voice, the elegant three-aqueduct city where he enjoyed popularity, prestige, luxurious quarters and (the world would be well lost for such a woman) Jaluba's charms. In

Selzirk he would be alone, lonely, totally isolated, without friends, without income, in a filthy foreign city which spoke an alien language.

'Cheer up!' said Thodric Jarl. 'Your mother rules in Selzirk.'

'Yes,' said Sarazin, "but the Constitution of the Harvest Plains says-'

'What are you?' said Jarl. 'A lawyer? Test your ability and see where it gets you.'

'Easy for you to talk!' said Sarazin bitterly. Tou're not being sent into exile.' 'No,' said Jarl. I'm not. But I'm coming regardless.'

You – you can't!' said a much-startled Sarazin. 'What could I offer? I could scarcely pay you. My mother might find you a position, but I couldn't guarantee it.'