by Hugh Cook
Garash was so angry that sparks jumped from between the fingers of his clenched fists. His protruber-ant eyes bulged in fury.
That left only Miphon, who was showing Blackwood, Durnwold, Elkor Alish and a handful of interested fighting men how a poisonous yellow bladder-shaped fungus called cauchaumaur could be made safe to eat when brewed up with the petals of a red flower called summerfire.
'Miphon,' said Valarkin.
"What is it?' said Miphon.
He did not glance away from his simmering cauldron. He was watching for the instant when the brew would turn purple. Then he would have to add cold water immediately, cooling the brew, which would be safe to eat if eaten straight away. It was a very delicate operation.
'I need to talk to you.'
T can't leave this. What's the matter?'
'I'm sick.'
'Sick?' said Miphon.
All sorts of things occurred to him: food poisoning, typhoid, dysentry. The last would be the worst: one person with dysentry could contaminate the whole army faster than anything.
'If you're busy, I'll talk to you later.'
'No,' said Miphon, 'I'd better know straight away.' 'Well – '
'Spit it out,' said Alish.
'Yes,' said Miphon, 'We have to know.'
'Well… a leech has crawled up the eye of my penis.'
The reaction from the fighting men was instantaneous: roars of laughter, hooting, backslapping. It was the best joke they'd heard for days.
The brew in the cauldron turned purple. Miphon poured in a helmet-full of cold water. The colour changed, quick as fingers snapping, to a deep orange.
'While it stays orange you can eat it,' said Miphon.
As the men set to, tucking into the orange mixture, Durnwold glanced at Valarkin – and Valarkin saw that he had embarrassed his brother.
'Have a piss somewhere,' said Durnwold. 'Leeches don't like salt or hot water, and there's both when you piss.'
'He's right,' said Miphon, still watching the brew in the cauldron in case it had not been completely neutralised. 'It'll come out as soon as you start making things uncomfortable for it. There's nothing to worry about.'
One of the fighting men made a low-voiced remark to his neighbour, and that set them off again, laughing. Valarkin knew that he would suffer for this for a long time: jokes, winks, ribald asides. As if life hadn't been hard enough already!
Death, death, death: death was the only cure for the laughter. Each mouth to taste ashes, each eye to see char: Valarkin muttered the words of the Bitterbane Curse, but there was no god to hear them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Trest: a land bounded to the east and south by hills and mountains, to the west by marshland swamps, and to the north by the sea. The port of Skua, which is a fishing village, is on the northern coast.
Ruler: Prince Jeferies, a cousin of Prince Comedo of Estar. He governs from his High Castle, a stronghold of wizard make located, roughly speaking, in the middle of Trest.
***
Reaching Skua, Hearst and his scouting party found an invasion fleet at anchor, and the surrounding countryside alive with enemy patrols. Wearing stolen Collosnon armour, and daring much on the basis of a little of the enemy's command language, Ordhar, which he had learnt from Volaine Persaga Haveros, Hearst infiltrated Skua.
All he collected was rumours, and the news that some very important people had gone missing, including the enemy's invasion commander, Lord Pentalon Alagrace, and the spy Volaine Persaga Haveros. After pushing his luck further than he should have, Hearst left Skua unscathed.
On his way to the High Castle, his small band of men had to avoid parties of Collosnon soldiers retreating north. Hearst guessed that the High Castle had been under siege; arriving there, Comedo's men would have attacked the besiegers, triumphing with the aid of the mad-jewel, leaving small disorganised groups of survivors to flee to Skua with news of a fresh disaster for the invaders.
Hearst was, therefore, not surprised to find the countryside around the High Castle littered with dead bodies, and Comedo's men being feted as liberators.
A council of war was held, at which Hearst told the story of his adventures, and in return received the latest intelligence. Before the Collosnon invasion, the wizard Heenmor had called at the High Castle and had requisitioned four horses and some supplies; his visit had been attended by the death of three men, all of whom had died from snakebite.
Jeferies, lord of the High Castle, had sent trackers to shadow Heenmor; they had lost him in the Kikashi Hills, to the east. The council of war decided to pursue Heenmor east, and take a slap at the Collosnon in Skua on the way back.
Everything was going well. Morale, in particular, was sky-high. Few of Comedo's men had any fire in their bellies, but they revelled in the slaughter of armies of magic-disabled Collosnon soldiers – and looting the bodies afterwards. Only one warrior was unhappy -Hearst – but he waited until he was alone with Elkor Alish before voicing his discontent: 'Blackwood,' said Hearst.
'What about him?'
'You know what I'm talking about. His wife. The castle. The mad-jewel. Why wasn't I told?' 'Prince Comedo wanted it that way.' 'You could've -'
'What? Told the prince his rights over his own castle, over his own subjects, over a man guilty of a crime against his law? Since when did we lecture princes on the governance of their realms? Did we speak against Tan Siander when he ordered the child sacrifice at Tanokavoy? Did we snub the Bailiff of Chi'ash-lan when he wanted -'
'Alish, this is different!'
'Different? How?'
'I owe a debt to Blackwood, I thought -' 178 "What? That I should help you pay your debts? Believe me, I owe you nothing!'
***
A banquet was held, celebrating the start of the adventure east. Everyone was in high spirits, ready to do justice to the feast, but eventually, one by one, even the mightiest trenchermen met their measure. At last, only a few were left in the Great Hall of the High Castle, the rest having been dismissed by a surfeit of food and drink. Since Comedo's army had captured a small Collosnon baggage train when they raised the siege of the High Castle, there was no shortage of either.
Finally the only men in the hall not dead drunk were those at the High Table, including Jeferies, Comedo, Comedo's ring-bearer Valarkin, the Rovac warriors Elkor Alish and Morgan Hearst, the wizards Phyphor, Garash and Miphon, and a few favoured warriors, including Durnwold, Hearst's protege. These worthies had restrained themselves earlier in the evening, but, with their social inferiors no longer present to bear witness, they were overindulging themselves with a vengeance.
Morgan Hearst, drunken, boastful, was telling how he killed the dragon Zenphos: 'Through the eye. The eye! You should have heard the bellow. Louder than thunder, hear me true. Then it thrashed like the big sea-sunder which snaps a ship's keel. Hope was just a jest then: I knew for certain its death-agony would kill me. By the singing knives, I sang my terror then. But luck – luck was with me.'
'So you lived,' said Jeferies.
'Oh, the night is young,' said Hearst. 'We've not even started living yet.'
'Of course he lived,' said Durnwold. 'And he threw down the dragon's false eye – a ruby as big as your head. I can vouch for it: I was there when the ruby fell.'
T lived, yes,' said Hearst. 'But coming down again -that was another story. Worm holes, drop shafts, stones and darkness, oh, there was no end to it. I could find my way back up again easy enough, even in the dark. But to find the way down in the first place – why, it was almost as bad as the climb.'
'But he made it,' said Durnwold. 'He made it. A toast, I say, to Morgan Hearst, warrior of Rovac, dragon-killer!'
Goblets were lifted and the toast was drunk, except by the wizards, who could hardly toast a Rovac warrior – history could not be forgotten as easily as that.
'Truly,' said Jeferies, 'We are fortunate to sit together at one table, wizards and warriors, heroes and princes. There has never been a gathering like this i
n Trest for ten generations.'
'Twenty!'
'Thirty!'
'Ever!'.
'For certain,' said Jeferies. 'Now, I wouldn't like you to leave here without some entertainment worth remembering. Fortunately, we have here something entirely unique, the magician Lemmy Blawert. Bring in the conjurer!'
In came Lemmy Blawert, a sly, greasy, dingy little man with a horse-hair wig, a forked beard, a silver earring and a tarnished lower-lip ring. He limped forward, grinning, his body shapeless under grey and greasy robes. He bowed to Phyphor.
'Who is this individual?' said Phyphor.
'One of the world's wonders,' declared Jeferies, smiling. 'I trust he'll not disappoint you.'
'He looks a regular rat-rapist,' said Phyphor, in idiomatic Estral; since reaching Estar, the wizards' close dealings with the people had given them a fair grasp of Estral, the native language of the region, besides improving their command of the Galish Trading Tongue.
'Laugh you may," said Jeferies, 'but Lemmy Blawert will show you a thing or two."
Lemmy Blawert took out a pack of cards and fanned them out so only their backs could be seen.
'Take a card, master, any card."
Phyphor hesitated, then took one.
'It's the fool,* said Lemmy Blawert with a grin and a cackle.
Phyphor flicked the card over: it was the fool.
'Put it back, master, anywhere any,' said Lemmy Blawert, setting the pack down on the table. 'I'm not touching so there'll be no fiddling, no fooling.'
Again Phyphor hesitated, then he slid the fool into the middle of the pack. Lemmy Blawert produced a wand.
'Rowan this is this wand, rowan, sacred to the mysteries. You'll see a mystery now tonight."
He passed the wand over the cards once, twice, thrice.
'No touching so no fiddling, as you see masters, see me see, no touching, no fiddling. Now pick the top card, master.'
Phyphor turned over the top card. It was the fool. There were shouts of applause. Lemmy Blawert aped a bow then tucked the cards away inside his robes.
'I'll see those cards,' said Garash, reaching into the magician's robes. Then he swore, wrenching his hand away. Bright blood flashed where one finger had been torn open.
'It's the rat, master,' said Lemmy Blawert apologetically. 'He don't like strangers much. But here's the cards for you, master.'
He reached into his clothing and with a flourish scattered cards over the table: emperors, dragons, heroes, soldiers and a single fool. He left them where they fell.
'Dice, anyone? I've two dice to roll for your money with even odds. For me, the one-eyed one, the six-eyed six. A one wins for me, a six wins for me, and any roll where there's one and one or one and six or six and six. Even odds I'll give you. I win if one shows or six shows or both show. Whoever rolls against me has the numbers two, three, four and five. Even odds and fair dice.'
Lemmy Blawert retreated to a corner to roll dice with those prepared to wager with him. Miphon bandaged Garash's finger with a strip torn from a napkin.
'So you're off tomorrow,' said Jeferies.
'Heenmor has stolen a long march on us,' said Elkor Alish. 'We must travel fast.'
Perhaps they would find Heenmor hiding out in the Kikashi Hills, but Phyphor had already suggested that the renegade wizard might be running for Stronghold Handfast. That abandoned castle in the east, deserted by its last owners in days long forgotten by both the written word and the spoken, lay on the Central Plateau within the circle of the Ringwall Mountains. To get there, Heenmor would have to reach the Fleuve River, travel downstream to Ep Pass, cross the Spine Mountains by way of that pass, traverse the Dry Forages then climb the Ringwall Mountains themselves.
'Well then,' said Jeferies. 'If you must travel fast, why not travel a little way with a fast woman before you set out? But first: drink. More drink! Come on you dogs, drink! The night is still young, she may be a whore but she's young enough, so more drink – and minstrel, strike up a song!'
'Yes, master,' said the last minstrel left on his feet; he was very drunk.
He struck up a tune on an old and famous harp; unfortunately, a harp deteriorates with age, and is seldom any good after a century or so. Worse, this instrument had not been tuned; the minstrel fumbled the fingering and seemed to have forgotten half the words of his song.
Prince Jeferies threw a goblet of wine; inebriated, he missed, but wine spattered his harpist, who ceased playing.
'Well,' said Jeferies. 'It seems I can't offer you a song. Still, I can organise a flogging, if that would suit.' 'It would indeed,' said Garash. The minstrel blanched.
'Oh my prince,' said the minstrel. 'Oh honoured born, oh child of the Favoured Blood -' 'Silence!' roared Jeferies. 'Well, who's for a flogging?' Hearst stood.
'There's still time for a song, if you'd rather.'
Jeferies looked around and decided that none of his guards were sober enough to administer a flogging.
'A song, then! What instrument do you play, man of Rovac?'
'On Rovac we favour the drum,' said Hearst.
And Elkor Alish remembered the drums of Rovac on the night the city of Larbreth fell. He remembered Hearst striding down the halls of her palace with his fingers knotted in her hair, the weight of her head swinging free and bloody in the light of flaring torches. He remembered Hearst's face: the smile as creamy as lust. Ah yes, Alish remembered.
'We have no drums here,' said Jeferies.
'My voice will suffice then,' said Hearst.
'Yes,' said Jeferies. 'But remember your mother tongue is gibberish to us.'
'Were we on Rovac to speak in a universal language known to all the world, it would make no difference,' said Hearst. 'For few hear us without their minds being disordered by fear. But this much most men know: Ahyak Rovac!'
His shout echoed through the hall, startling some of the nodding guards.
'The song,' said Comedo impatiently.
'The song, yes,' said Hearst. 'I learnt it in Estar, so I will sing it in Estral – and let none say the Rovac are slow to learn. It is the song of the Victory of the Prince of the Favoured Blood.'
Prince Comedo clapped like a child: and indeed it was in childhood that Saba Yavendar's song of the Victory of the Prince of the Favoured Blood had become his favourite.
'On Rovac we prefer to sing with a foot on a corpse still cooling,' boasted Hearst. He looked Phyphor full in the face, then Garash, then Miphon. 'Is there any here who dares challenge Rovac?'
'None,' said Alish, as nobody else cared to open their mouths with Hearst in a mood like this. So Hearst hammered his fist on the table, once twice thrice, and began the song, which was in the Alacamp manner, half-chanted, half-sung:
By moon we come riding like tide on the flood, The stars for our guide and a prince of the Blood To lead us and speed us while night slips away To give us the blood-sky, the promise of day.
Valarkin knew that once these fighting men got their enthusiasm worked up, they could go on chanting and singing all night, for there was no shortage of battle songs and war epics.
– But it is all absurd, their mindless bull-roaring stupidity. Sweat curses sinew, bone butchers brawn, chopping away till a single hero stands gloating over pools of blood and piles of lopped-off testicles. What's the sense of it? They think they're powerful, but they're not: they're just mindless meat that labours with a sword instead of a spade. Power lies with those who command, not those who spend their lives strengthening their sword-arms.
Valarkin scarcely listened while Hearst went on and on, giving them the pedigree of the prince the song dealt with, the names of the most notable warriors who rode to the battle, and the reasons for the fight: a drunken argument, a broken vow, an insult, a theft, a rape and a kidnapping.
Ride with the whip,
With the spur let us ride,
With the horn to the lip
As steel draws pride.
And the scream! And the Scream!
It is
one throat and all:
Blood trims the sword as the dawn trims the sky:
Wheel them, heel them, fleet them along:
It is ours! It is ours!
Raise the Banner, the Song!
And hail him, hail now, prince of the blood, Our leader, our hero, our child of the sun, Prince of Dominion, his glory begun.
The horn of the victor echoes the sun,
Victory gained, his Triumph begun.
Rides he with sunlight and rides he with flame, For his is the kingdom, the power it is his, Handmaidens his to give and bestow, Gold is his bounty – Hearst broke off in mid-song. He could not go on, not with Alish watching him like that. Hearst swayed, unsteady on his feet. He picked up a goblet of wine, paused, swayed again. Then drained it and flung it away. It rattled over the stones of the floor and came to rest. He grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself, then all his control over his grief broke, and the words blurted out: 'Alish, Alish, what went wrong? Once we were friends!'
***
It was long after midnight. All those at the High Table who were still conscious were drunk, even the wizards, but they seemed determined to continue until they dropped. The kitchen servants had drunk themselves legless, so it had fallen to Gorn and Valarkin to prepare further refreshments for the High Table.
Gorn had found a clutch of eggs laid in clay compartments by a wasp; breaking away the mud, he extracted half-paralysed spiders and spread them on a slice of bread and butter. They lay fat, black, helpless; motionless but for an occasional stirring in one or two limbs.
Lemmy Blawert lay with his head on the kitchen table, snoring loudly. His rat, dead drunk, lay in his lap. Valarkin had already explored the secrets of Lemmy Blawert's robes, discovering the sources of the magician's magic: a pack of cards made up of nothing but fools.
Valarkin poured drinks, and to each he added a touch of cauchaumaur. The dose was light, and should prove just enough to tip drunken men into a long, deep sleep.
"What are you doing over there?" said Gorn.