by Hugh Cook
'After a fashion,' said Sarazin sullenly. 'But Jaluba?'
'When Bizzie cleared out your room she cleared out your whore as well. Jaluba was held incommunicado until I could get to work on her. I put the fear of hell into her, believe you me! When I was finished with her, she was more than happy to flee to the Rice Empire. I made it possible for her, of course. Escorts, gold . . . oh, it was all taken care of.'
'What about my bottle?' said Sarazin.
'Your bottle?' said Farfalla.
'I had a magic bottle,' said Sarazin, 'a kindle of dragons within.'
You had such stolen from you?' said Farfalla, in pitying tones. 'I wouldn't worry too much about it. Much is sold in Selzirk that is not what it seems. Maps of treasure cities, magic rings, enchanted lamps and such rubbish. All trash, as you would doubtless have found out in due course.'
You're right,' said Sarazin, 'it wasn't what it was cracked up to be. But it wasn't stolen, either. At least, not permanently. I got it back. From Glambrax. How come he took it from my quarters? Was he your creature too?'
'Oh, he did the odd job for me,' said Farfalla. 'We had some interesting conversations. But he wasn't my creature, no, I'd not call him that. He's your servant if he's anyone's. What happened was this. First Bizzie hustled Jaluba away. Then Bizzie took bard, book and documents from your room. Then she got hold of Glambrax and swore him to secrecy.'
'Why?'
'I'm telling you, aren't I?' said Farfalla. 'Don't be so impatient! She got an oath of secrecy from him, oh yes, a solemn oath, a binding oath. Then she told him Plovey would be raiding your quarters. If anything was hidden within, Plovey would likely find it. So Glambrax was to uncover it first and yield it up to Bizzie. We judged your dwarf privy to most of your secrets, even those few hidden from us.'
'And he did? He gave you . . . things from my room?'
'He didn't. He refused. He said he was sworn to secrecy but not to her service or mine. But Bizzie is a formidable operator, Sean — more than you'd ever guess! She forced another oath from Glambrax. He could take anything from your room, but he was not to give it back to you unless your life depended on it.'
'And he agreed?'
'His life would have been forfeit had he refused.'
'And Bizzie? Where is she now?'
'She's gone. She sailed for the west in the same ship which took Celadon, Peguero and young Jarnel. And Benthorn. Why do you ask, Sean? Do you want proof of my tale? Look! Here's proof!'
And, from round her neck, Farfalla took a bard.
'This is the bard, Sean. The one which was taken from your room. You can have it back, now.'
Sean Sarazin took the bard into his hands, then put it round his neck. Then said, in cold anger:
'You've used me. You've manipulated me. You never played straight with me. Thanks to you, a prince of the Favoured Blood was tortured, for we thought him guilty of theft. Thanks to you, Jaluba's dead.'
'Jaluba is dead,' said Farfalla bluntly, 'because you ordered her killed.'
'But I thought—'
"You set yourself up as judge, jury and executioner,' said Farfalla. You took upon yourself such responsibility. So why blame me?'
'I was not executioner,' muttered Sarazin.
'Who was?'
'Jarl.'
'Then you might,' said Farfalla, 'find what he's done with the woman's corpse, and see that it's decently buried or burnt.'
Then she turned on her heel and departed, leaving Sean Sarazin crushed, shaken, devastated. And alone with his guilt. Which was nearly unbearable.
Sean Sarazin sought for Thodric Jarl in the environs of the Lesser Tower of X-n'dix, but he was not there. So Sarazin went back through the underground passage from X-zox to the Willow Vale, and asked after Jarl at the Eastern Passage Gate.
He was told that Jarl had taken Jaluba to the shore, swearing that he would sacrifice her to the sea gods.
Sarazin took to horse and followed. Along the way he asked after Jarl and Jaluba. Yes, they had passed this way, riding together. Then, when he reached the shores of the Willow Vale, he asked after Jarl—
And was told that the Rovac warrior had comman- deered one of the few fishing boats operating from that coast, and had sailed away in it.
'But what did he do with the woman?' said Sarazin. He described the woman he was interested in. Jaluba.
His description was a good one, and there were several witnesses who could vouch for her fate. Thodric Jarl had married her there on the shores of the Willow Vale, and she had departed with him as his wife.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
It lacked but three days to Midsummer's Day, but Sean Sarazin was sure he would never live to see his parents properly wed. He would be defeated, executed — burnt alive, perhaps. And those who remained loyal to him would die at his side. It was inevitable.
The enemy had followed up their raid with an invasion in force. The invading forces had marched up the Willow Vale to attack the Eastern Passage Gate. After brutal combat, the enemy had stormed the fortifications defend- ing the gate.
Now the enemy were in X-zox. They had won precious little so far, for Sarazin had burnt all the villages of X-zox rather than let them fall into enemy hands. All stocks of food had been brought into the Lesser Tower, or had gone with the noncombatants whom Sarazin had sent into the mountains.
If the consequent disappointment had dampened the enemy's spirit, their performance showed no sign of it.
They had assaulted the Lesser Tower three times already, and three times they had been beaten back. Epelthin Elkin had encompassed their defeat. The wizard of Ebber had thrice surpassed himself — but at a cost. Elkin now lay unconscious in bed, struck down by a stroke.
They would get no more help from him.
And, when the enemy attacked for a fourth time, Sarazin was sure that the Lesser Tower would fall.
Sarazin remembered what Lord Regan had told him so long ago in the Sunrise Gardens in Voice:
'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.'
He wondered.
—Did I choose this?
And realised that he had.
That was a bitter irony indeed. He now had everything he had once longed for, fought for, struggled for. He was ruler of his own kingdom, master of his own castle, head of his own army, liege-lord of valorous men. And this was going to prove his death.
For he lacked the strength to hold it.
Thodric Jarl must have seen as much, otherwise why would the Rovac warrior have fled? Surely not just out of love for Jaluba.
— Though I once thought the world would have been well lost for such a woman.
True, Jarl had hated Elkin bitterly. But Sarazin doubted that either love or hate could have compelled him to flee.
—It was doom, that was what drove him. —He never swore himself to my service. My error. I never demanded an oath of loyalty.
—But would he have given it had I demanded? Somehow, Sarazin doubted it.
The enemy would conquer then Sean Sarazin would die, his mother would die, his father would die, those who trusted him and honoured him would die. All dead, all slaughtered, all doomed.
What was the alternative?
There was none.
But a few could perhaps escape. Yes. A fighting retreat over the mountains might do it. Pursuit would be difficult.
—Besides, it's me the enemy want. Sarazin thought it through.
At last, he realised he had no alternative. He sought out Heth, judging Heth to be the man to lead the retreat. Sarazin himself would stay, fighting a rearguard action.
—Fox and Farfalla at least may live. If they live, then not all is lost.
So Sarazin thought, trying to be brave. But when Heth came into his presence, Heth saw his despair at once.
'What now, my lord?' said Heth.
'The end,' said Sarazin.
/> Then, to his shame, burst into tears. Heth called for a little mulled wine and a little bread, and made Sarazin settle to eat and drink.
Then Heth said:
You're tired, as are we all. For you, the fatigue must be worse, since these burdens have come upon you suddenly. Sleep, and you'll feel better on the morrow.'
'On the morrow I die,' said Sarazin. 'I'll tell you how.'
Then he told Heth his plans.
'But this is terrible!' exclaimed Heth. 'We can't do that! We can't surrender, not just like that!'
'What do you suggest, then?' said Sarazin.
But Heth had no answers. While he had been at war for a long time, Heth was no military genius. Besides, what could even genius have done in their posi- tion? They had only held against the enemy before thanks to Elkin. Surely they could not hold without him.
"My lord,' said Heth, 'sleep, and surely you'll think better of it tomorrow. Surely victory will come to you, for you are, after all, of the Favoured Blood.'
'But I'm not!' cried Sarazin, anguished. 'I'm not royal,
I'm no prince, no child of the Blood. I'm but a peasant's bastard with pretensions above my station.'
'You're man enough for me,' said Heth.
Which was a comfort, yes, good to hear, but:
'It's no good,' said Sarazin, miserably, tears again squeezing from his eyes. 'If only, oh . . . but it's no use. I only wish we had a real prince to lead us.'
'None could be better than you,' said Heth, trying to soothe him. 'What could others do that you have not?'
'No real prince would have ended up like this,' said Sarazin, in self disgust. 'Sitting bawling like a baby with the enemy without his gates.'
'What real princes have you met?' said Heth.
'Tarkal, that's one,' said Sarazin. 'Oh yes. But Douay was the greatest prince I ever met.'
'Douay?' said Heth. That's my family name.'
Tours?' said Sarazin.
'Yes. I'm Heth Douay. It's a name common on Stokos. Was it someone from Stokos you met?'
'Oh no,' said Sarazin. This Douay was from the Scattered Empire, a seapower realm of the Central Ocean. Drake was his name.'
'Drake?' said Heth, startled.
That means something to you?'
'In the language of Stokos it means pumpkin,' said Heth. 'It's short for Dreldragon.'
'Strange!' said Sarazin. This Douay I knew was also known as Lord Dreldragon. He was lord of the Gates.'
'Lord of the Gates?' said Heth. 'The gates of time? Of hell? Or what? Is this a god you speak of?'
'No,' said Sarazin. 'This is a man. The gates in ques- tion are those of Chenameg, where Drake Douay rules in grandeur,'
'This is passing strange,' said Heth, 'for I had a brother so called. I thought him dead years ago, yet perhaps . . .'
You must think your brother dead still,' said Sarazin, 'for the lord of the Gates is not of Stokos but of a seapower empire, as I have told you. I met him first through a sad dispute over a bard.'
'You quarrelled for love of a singer?' said Heth.
'No,' said Sarazin. We disputed possession of a magical amulet which possessed the power of voices.'
'An amulet?' said Heth. Was it black, mayhap? A black as shiny as sea-washed shell with stars set upon it?'
'Yes!' said Sarazin, startled.
'And it could be made to speak, in a man's voice?' -Yes.'
'And this Drake was — what? Blond like me? But short?'
'Yes. You — you know him?'
'But of course,' said Heth. 'It's my brother, as I've told you already. Cheeky, was he? A devil with his tongue? A cocky young sod in trouble as much as out of it?'
'He was a master swordsman,' said Sarazin. 'More than my match, that's for certain.'
'How else would he have survived for so long?' said Heth. 'Or has he died?'
'He was alive when I left him,' said Sarazin, 'and I expect him to be so still.'
Then Heth finally gave way to emotion, and whooped with joy, and cried:
'He livesl He lives! My brother lives!'
He grinned, whooped again, punched left hand with right fist, then jigged around on the spot slapping his thighs, then embraced Sarazin and hugged him tight. Then kissed him.
'Man, this is great news!' said Heth. T)rake lives! My drunken bum of a brother is alive, alive!'
Sarazin extricated himself from Heth's grasp then said, slowly:
'I think I may have to disappoint you yet. What makes you so sure your brother lives?'
'Name, description and bard' said Heth. 'My brother showed me such a charm when we met on the Greater
Teeth at a time when King Tor was leagued with pirates. Depending on his mood, he claimed he won the thing from the dragon Bel, or from Guardian Machines in ccmbat.'
'When was this?' said Sarazin.
'Why, it was well back in time,' said Heth. 'Before the alliance of the pirates with Elkor Alish. The bard proves all.'
The more certain Heth became, the more reluctant Sarazin was to concede him victory. Surely it could not be true. Could it? Sean Sarazin had humbled him- self before Drake Douay at the Gates of Chenameg. Surely it was a prince of the Favoured Blood he had knelt before. Not a — a bum. A lawless pirate. The brother of a thick-witted peasant from Stokos.
'Possession of a bard proves nothing,' said Sarazin firmly, 'for there are many such in the world, though some think in ignorance that there is but one.'
'The bard that Drake carried,' said Heth, 'was marked by a knife cut. That was where it saved his life in a bar brawl in Narba, if we can believe what he says.'
The final detail.
The truth could no longer be denied.
'It was him,' said Sarazin heavily. 'He lives now as I have said, ruling the Gates of Chenameg. Was he . . . was he really a pirate?'
'Oh, a pirate, yes,' said Heth. 'Pirate, drunkard, lecher, brawler, gambler, liar, thief. I love him, you understand, but such is brotherhood. As a stranger I might find him hard to bear.'
'And I wanted to swear myself to his service!' said Sarazin, shocked at the way Douay had fooled him.
You see your error, do you?' said Heth. 'Oh, he must have told you a pretty story!'
'Gahl' said Sarazin in disgust.
Then Heth started to laugh and laugh. He collapsed to the ground, writhing. He laughed so much he cried. He laughed till the sobbing pain in his chest became
unbearable. Then, slowly, he sobered himself, and asked: 'Pray, my lord, what could my fool of a brother do that
you could not?'
And Sarazin answered: 'Nothing!'
He was furious. He had been suckered by a low-bred common criminal. Drake was a pirate after all! He did deserve to be tortured to death! He had behaved like the worst of criminals, too. Had humiliated Sarazin at the Gates. Had beaten him up. Terrorised him. Lied to him.
-I'll kill him!
So swore Sarazin.
Drake was a liar, cheat, pirate, oppressor, torturer and tyrant, a criminal whoremaster, scum from the streets, the lowest of the low, a murderous delinquent, an over- grown dwarf debauched by a debased appetite for power at any price.
And he had humiliated Sean Sarazin, and, worse, under- mined his confidence in his own abilities.
—Gods. If a fool like that can master the Gates of Chenameg, then I can master X-zox.
'My lord,' said Heth, as Sarazin stormed from the room, 'where are you going?'
'To parley!' said Sarazin, for the way to save his people and his pride had already become clear to him. To parley with the enemy, now!'
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Sean Sarazin was still burning red-hot with anger when he went forth to parley with the enemy with Glambrax at his side. There was nothing original in the offer he made to the enemy, and he should have thought of it before. Would have, had he not been so depressed, so overwhelmed by thoughts of doom.
Sarazin displayed not the slightest fear as he walked among the enemy's ranks, which was only na
tural, for he felt none. He was totally consumed by his anger.
Sarazin's offer to the enemy was but a variation of the one which had been made to him by foreign marauders when he had led an army to defend the lands of the Harvest Plains round the headwaters of the Shouda Flow.
This time, however, there was somewhat more at stake.
'This offer I make to you' said Sean Sarazin when he was face to face with the enemy commander, a tall man built like a battleaxe. 'I will meet you in single combat to decide the possession of this castle. If you win, my people will surrender the castle to you, and you of course will claim my life.'
'And if you win?' said the enemy commander. 'Are you so extravagant as to expect us to surrender to you?'
'No,' said Sarazin. 'Merely to bring this campaign to an end, to march away to the Willow Vale then sail to Stokos and leave us in peace for another year.'
A year, that was all he needed. A year to fortify X-zox properly, to train men, to make alliances, to put spies ashore on Stokos.
'Let me think on it,' said the commander.
But Sarazin had already guessed his answer. For he had seen the fear in the commander's eyes.
Sean Sarazin knew himself for a bungling fool and a second-rate soldier at best. But to the enemy com- mander he was something else altogether. He was the lordly Watashi, a mighty warlord of the Harvest Plains, whose penchant for battle was proved by the scars on his face.