by Hugh Cook
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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
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.
His social circle was very small. Bizzie attended him constantly, and his dwarf Glambrax was always under- foot. His mother saw him daily. Jarl and Elkin dropped by now and then. His half-brother Benthorn paid him the occasional social visit, and offered to sell him sundry treasures which he could not possibly afford to buy.
Apart from that, he saw nobody.
Glambrax twice smuggled in notes from Jaluba. So Sarazin knew his delectable whore was still in Selzirk, still working for Madam Sosostris. But Sarazin had money and appetite for neither fortune telling nor woman- chasing.
Plovey zar Plovey visited him once. The spokesman for the Regency was happy to find Sarazin subdued, depressed and — without a doubt — tamed. Plovey had not suc- ceeded in encompassing Sarazin's death as he had planned but was, nonetheless, happy with the way things had turned out. Sarazin, it seemed, was going to live out his life as an obedient, apolitical soldier, just like his three brothers.
Occasional word reached Sarazin of the doings of those brothers. Celadon was still in Shin, while Peguero and Jarnel were still campaigning against bandits.
As for the other people in his life, Tarkal — now King Tarkal — ruled the Chenameg Kingdom. Amantha still dwelt in Shin. There was no word of Lod, who was generally believed to be dead.
As summer approached, Sarazin was at last allowed to get up and about. His recovery thereafter was rapid, so the army surgeons shortly pronounced him once more fit enough for war. Before very long, he was back at the Voat Library, again seeking advice from his elderly tutor, Epelthin Elkin.
'What is the army doing to you this time?' said Elkin.
They're sending me to Hok,' said Sarazin. 'There's a marauding ogre on the loose in the province with a gang of bandits.'
What do you want from me?' said Elkin. "More tactical advice?'
"No!' said Sarazin. 'I want you to get me out of this mess! It's intolerable! Unless you can help me, I'll spend the rest of my life chasing round the provinces after assorted dog- rapists and delinquent lawyer's clerks.'
'So what can I do?' said Elkin.
'Get me out of it!' said Sarazin. You can change minds.'
'One at a time,' said Elkin, 'and with great effort. But minds do not stay changed.'
You can't — can't you change people's minds so they stay changed?'
"You can't make bricks out of jellyfish,' said Elkin, shaking his head.
'Then — would it change matters if I killed some- one? Just one or two people? Plovey of the Regency, perhaps?'
'I don't understand,' said Elkin.
'What I mean,' said Sarazin, 'is simply this: can I win rule of the Harvest Plains by a couple of murders? Killing off key people, I mean.'
You're not up against individuals,' said Elkin. You're up against a social dynamic. Kill Plovey tonight and the Regency will have another spokesman talking the same by tomorrow. You are not struggling with men but with an organisation. Unless all its members are killed at
once, the Regency is immortal.'
'So I'm doomed,' said Sarazin woefully.
'Ease up on the self-pity I' said Elkin. You're doomed to go to Hok, but that's no big deal. After all, I'll be going to Hok myself.'
You?' said Sarazin.
'I am being blackmailed,' said Elkin, quietly. 'Blackmailed?'
You know very well who I am and what I am,' said Elkin. You know all Selzirk would turn against me if it was known that I was a wizard of Ebber.'
'Very well!' said Sarazin. 'Kill your blackmailers! I'm sure you have the power. I well remember what you did to me.'
'Ah,' said Elkin, "but you are but one person. Those who now contend against me are many. This is an underworld conspiracy I'm up against. The gangsters concerned are four score in number — far more than I could handle at once.'
You underestimate yourself,' said Sarazin, 'Why, you nearly killed me when I . . . when I tried to force your will for my benefit.'
'But you were close,' said Elkin. 'It is easy to control people who are close. As distance increases, so does the
problem of control. I cannot get all four score of my enemies under one roof to control them.'
'Then turn one against the others,' said Sarazin. 'Make one a weapon of murder.'
‘I cannot do that,' said Elkin.
'But you made me ride to Smork to attack Tarkal!' said Sarazin.
'Nonsense!' said Elkin. You wanted to go. You demanded to go! Against my best advice you insisted on going.' 'True,' conceded Sarazin.
'It was very minor magic I worked that night,' said Elkin. You expected to go. So I only had to give you the illusion that you were doing what you had chosen to do.'
'But,' objected Sarazin, 'Fox came along with us. You persuaded Fox to the mission to Smork.'
'No!' said Elkin. 'I did no such thing. You yourself did the persuading when Benthorn wanted to kill his father Fox.'
'So I did,' conceded Sarazin. 'But — you had to create the illusion of my presence in the minds of all the people there.'
'Easy!' said Elkin. 'It was night, so I conjured you in their minds simply as a voice and a shadow. Both shadows and voices are trivial illusions. Fox sought to grapple with you. If he had grabbed you — why, I could not have conjured the flesh. He would have found himself holding smoke.'
'It was, still, a powerful illusion,' said Sarazin. 'For, while I lay insensible in Selzirk, my experience was that I rode with Benthorn and the others to Smork.'
'Ah!' said Elkin. 'But remember what happened before I launched you into the illusion!'
'I had that funny turn,' said Sarazin. I feared ... I feared the epilepsy.'
Yes,' said Elkin. 'A standard trick of the wizards of Ebber! Before launching someone into a world of illusions, give them cause to think themselves very sick indeed. Then they will read any flaw in the illusion as a symptom of their sickness.' 'Cunning!' said Sarazin.
'Necessary,' said Elkin, 'for this magic is exhausting to exercise and limited in its effects. You see, the night of the raid on Smork I never made you see or do any- thing contrary to your expectations. Nor did I tamper with your will. You acted that night of your own free will.'
'I see,' said Sarazin.
'So,' said Elkin, 'I cannot oppose an extensive criminal conspiracy with magic. I could not make one criminal murder his fellows. At best, I could kill a few of them — but then the survivors would betray me promptly. So I have a choice: to stay here and be blackmailed or to come with you to Hok.'
'Why not go to Drangsturm?' said Sarazin.
The southern sun is too hot for my liking,' said Elkin.
'Really!' said Sarazin.
'Well,' said Elkin, 'if you must know, I have political enemies in the Confederation of Wizards. I cannot return to the Confederation's castles at Drangsturm because those enemies would prove my death. I am an outcast. A pariah. An exile.'
'But what will you find in Hok?' said Sarazin.
The most valuable commodity in all the world,' said Elkin. 'Time! Time to plan my next move. Whatever that might be.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tor: a ferocious blood-drinking ogre whose brutal rule made Stokos a sink of iniquity, its coarse, licentious society characterised by devil worship, lawless debauchery, feuding torture and death.
Then Salvation arrived. A religion arose to free Stokos from the ogre's cruel oppression. Guided by notions of purity, chastity, Universal Benevolence and other High Thoughts equally as beautiful, the priests of the Flame overthrew Tor, and now are leading Stokos towards a radiant future under the guidance of Gouda Muck.
Unfortunately, the ogre Tor refuses to die. He dwells as a bandit in Hok, a mountainous province of the Harvest Plains just a few sea-leagues from Stokos. Moreover, he does not live quietly, but proves his unprincipled depravity by sending kamikaze squads to infiltrate Stokos, subjecting the nascent Utopia to the worst kinds of ter- rorist outrage: arson, kidnapping and assassination.
In early summer in the year Alliance 4326, Sean Sarazin — now known to the army as Watashi — marched forth from Selzirk with six hundred troops under his command. He was bound for the province of Hok, there to do battle against the dreaded Tor, a man-demolishing ogre from Stokos, the swordsmiths' island.
This time, Sarazin had good, reliable troops, so doubted he would need any military police. Nevertheless, a three- way agreement between Regency, army and Watch saw Thodric Jarl join the expedition with twenty volunteers from the Watch, all sworn to maintain discipline.
Each day, Sarazin took the place of honour right at the front of the army, ahead of the dust and stench of his trampling troops. Epelthin Elkin rode there also, and they talked idly of this and that as they made their way south- west towards Hok's distant mountains. Glambrax, mounted on a donkey, and armed as usual with a crossbow, rode to the rear, diligently memorising the army's repertoire of scatological songs.
Day by day it grew hotter and hotter until one day Sarazin finally stripped to the waist and rode on half- naked, luxuriating in the sun's heat. His amulet, catching the glitter of the sun, excited Elkin's curiosity.
'What is that?' said the wizard.
'A great treasure,' said Sarazin, passing it over. 'I bought it from Benthorn. It's an heirloom from an ancient elven kingdom.'
'I doubt it,' said Elkin. 'For no elves have dwelt in Argan for the last ten thousand years or more. If, indeed, there were ever such things as elves at all.'
You mean . . . you mean I was conned?' said Sarazin. 'I was tricked? This is worthless?'
Yes,' said Elkin. 'It's just a trinket.'
And he pocketed it. Casually.
'Give me that!' said Sarazin, suddenly furious.
Elderly wizards — and grim, ascetic elderly wizards like Epelthin Elkin in particular — do not take a childish interest in worthless baubles.
You want this?' said Elkin. 'Very well! Have it!'
And he tossed it to Sarazin, who snatched it from the sky, his hand a hawk-swift talon striking.
'All right,' said Sarazin, breathing heavily. Tell me. What does it do? Does it command minds? Rule armies? Conjure dragons? Break mountains? Raise storms? Summon the dead? Or what?'
'Nothing like that,' said Elkin dourly.
'Then what?' said Sarazin.
'If you'll trust an old man with your toy for another moment or two, I'll show you,' said Elkin.
Sarazin hesitated, then handed over his amulet. Elkin studied it with care, then nudged one of the silver stars, and a man's voice began to speak in a sonorous, long- winded language which Sarazin strongly suspected was the High Speech of wizards.
'This,' said Elkin, 'is the bard.'
'A bard?'
The bard. Scholarship knows of only one. This must be it: the lost bard of Untunchilamon.' Untunchilamon?' said Sarazin, startled.
Thus the druid Upical had named the leader of the dread of dragons which lurked within Sarazin's magic snuff bottle of leaf-green jade.
'You've heard the name, hav
e you?' said Elkin.
'Yes,' said Sarazin.
He wondered whether the wizard would pry within his brain for the details. The thought of such intrusion made his flesh crawl. But Elkin simply said:
That's not so surprising, for Untunchilamon has fame in the east, though it is little known in this part of the world.'
'Pray, then,' said Sarazin, 'tell me of Untunchilamon, and of this bard for which I paid all of fifty skilders.'
As he stressed his ownership thus, Sarazin held out his hand for the bard. Reluctantly, Elkin gave it back to him.
'This is no instrument of power,' said Elkin, 'but I lust for it, since it is of limitless value to scholarship. The lost bard of Untunchilamon holds the voice of antiquity's greatest poet, Saba Yavendar.'
'Saying what? Secrets of magic? Of treasure? Of power?'
'Reciting his Warsong and, his Winesong in their entirety,' said Elkin.
Sarazin, who knew of these famous epic poems, under- stood why a scholar like Elkin would long to own the bard.
'It is known as the bard of Untunchilamon,' said Elkin, Tjecause Untunchilamon is where it was last seen. It was lost within living memory when a time of troubles came upon that island.'
'Where is this island, Untunchilamon?' said Sarazin.
'It lies mid-ocean between Argan and Yestron,' said Elkin. 'There the magic of the east meets the power of the west. The wizards of Argan are the stronger, but the sorcerers of Yestron command effects more subtle and various. The conjugation of these—'
'Do they breed dragons on this island?'
'What? I was talking about sorcery.'