The Walrus and the Warwolf coaaod-4

by Hugh Cook

  'Drake,' said Yot, in a pale voice, 'I can … I can be of use to you.'

  'Can you now?' said Drake. 'I don't really think so. I've got more taste than to want to bugger you. And I'd never let you suck anything you might just possibly bite off. But I can use you for fish bait – if the fish aren't too fussy tomorrow. And that's about all that you're good for.''Drake, I can – I can tell you things.'

  'Tell me things? Like what? Like the precise and exact taste of Gouda Muck's arsehole?'

  'Drake . . . things about home. You know. Cam. Your uncle. Your parents. Drake, your brother Heth.'

  'Yes, and how hot the sun was, and how cold the rain,' said Drake, pretending news of Heth meant nothing to him.But Yot knew better.

  'Drake, I saw Heth just before I left Stokos last, and that was recent. He was come to Cam to marry.'

  Drake gave no verbal acknowledgment of interest, but the intensity went out of his knife-sharpening. Stokos! Cam! His uncle! His parents! Heth!

  'Your uncle paid for the marriage. Yes, that's why it was in Cam.'

  Drake pretended not to hear, but his sharpening strokes got slower and slower, and little tears pricked his eyes. It had been so long since he saw the Home Island last, so long since he wandered its streets of forge-hammering and coal dust.

  'Tell me then,' said Drake at last, emotion beginning to choke his voice. 'Tell me about all of it.'

  So Yot began to talk, and fear gave him eloquence. The words poured out of him, and what he didn't know he invented.

  Before he had gone too far, Drake was offering him some ale to moisten his throat. Then, after a few tales more, he insisted that Yot must eat, yes, and change into fresh sealskins which Drake would lend him. And when at last Yot had talked himself out, Drake sat rocking on his heels for a while, stroking King Tor with an absent-minded hand and brooding.

  'Well now,' said Drake, 'that was worth hearing and all. Come – there's a banquet tonight to mark the end of Slaving Day. It's a good do, or so I've heard. Will you come with me? We'll get some real food and good drink with it, then talk some more.'

  'If you don't mind,' said Yot, still in that same pale voice, 'I'd rather rest a bit if I may.'

  'For sure,' said Drake, content, and glutted with nostalgia. 'You can do what you want. We'll be together plenty in the future, as we make you into a pirate.'

  'I'm not sure I've really got what it takes to be a pirate,' said Yot.'Don't run yourself down,' said Drake. 'Be brave! Be strong! Be confident! Come now – rest, and we'll talk again tomorrow.'

  So Drake took himself off to the banquet, alone, and a great treat it was. Musicians from the kingdom of Sung played for them, so they ate to the accompaniment of the skirl of the skavamareen, and the uproar of krymbol and kloo. Naked bodies danced for their delight, and performed charades of love by flaring torchlight. There was food by the table-load, with plenty of lobster, crab, gaplax and crayfish. It was a well-organized affair, with an unending supply of good drink, and plenty of buckets to vomit into.

  Drake indulged himself, drinking cold rice wine and warm brown beer. It bolstered his ego to know the others were admiring him as he quaffed down quantities of alcohol which would have killed an ordinary man, and, what's more, would have embalmed the corpse into the bargain.

  The banquet finally reached the rowdy stage, with knife-throwing and wrist-wrestling, a brawl, and some extra-special entertainment laid on by Jon Arabin, who whipped one of his wives raw in public, having caught her out in adultery.

  Drake left shortly afterwards, staggering markedly as he quit the banquet, so his future gambling partners would register the fact that he could indeed get drunk like other mortals. Actually, he was not even slightly tipsy – but, by the time he reached his home cave, he was staggering a little for real, out of sheer fatigue.

  A low-burning whale oil lamp showed Drake that Yot was curled up in a corner. A number of things in the cave had been shifted – his bean bag, rocking chair, laundry basket, sea-chest, water cask, oil barrel, fishing tackle, harpoon rack and wardrobe. Had Yot been searching the cave? Or had some villain taken advantage of the banquet, and of Yot's deep sleep (or complaisant terror) to rummage the cave in search of Drake's fabled gambling treasure?

  Drake was too tired to care either way. He knew Yot was no danger to him, for Drake was now the nearest thing to a friend that Yot had in all the Greater Teeth. And as for the gambling treasure – why, that was safely hidden in five separate places, and even at low tide the shallowest of those places demanded a three-fathom dive.

  'We'll have to teach you to be a guard dog as well,' said Drake to King Tor, scratching that dignitary behind the ears. 'Or maybe I should start keeping geese.'

  And, with that, he laid himself down on his pallet and pulled the blankets over himself, without bothering to undress or take off his boots. King Tor nosed his way under the blankets. Drake took the dog into his arms, and they cuddled together in an indiscriminate heap, sharing each other's fleas.

  Very late at night, as Drake and dog lay snoring, Sully Datelier Yot roused his flesh to wakefulness and got to his feet. He extracted a shark-killing knife from the tangle of Drake's fishing tackle, raised the blade to his lips and kissed it. Then, shaking with fear but unshakable in his resolve, he bent over his sleeping enemy and struck with all his force.The knife went home.'Die, Demon-spawn!' screamed Yot.

  And struck again, even as Drake heaved up from the bed. Drake rolled away, pulling a blanket with him. He swore viciously and whipped the blanket at Yot's knifehand. As wool entangled steel, Drake closed the distance.

  They grappled, all knees, elbows and panting bones. Drake got a stranglehold. With hands that were wet with blood, he choked his enemy, squeezing his fingers deep and hard to the windpipe.

  Once sure that Yot was dead, Drake threw the body outside, and hurled the bloody dog-corpse after it.

  'Sleep with the man you murdered!' shouted Drake at the corpse. 'It's your one chance to sleep with your betters!'

  Then stalked around his cave, kicking things until he had exhausted his anger. Then started to shake, as the shock of his brush with death set in. Then began to cry, first for poor King Tor, and then for his own exiled condition, and then simply because he was over-tired and heavily stressed.

  Then he did the sensible thing, which his mother would have recommended had she been there, and went back to sleep for the rest of the night. Only his mother would have insisted that he take his boots off first.

  When morning came, Drake was disgusted to find that Yot was still alive. He had thick black bruises on his throat, true, but could still walk and talk and breathe, eat and drink – he was, in short, a living demonstration of the difficulties attendant on killing a properly constructed human being.

  Abject in fear, Yot knelt at Drake's feet, snivelling once more.

  'Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you,' roared Drake. 'Just one!'

  'I had to kill you,' sobbed Yot. 'I had to. I didn't want to, but it was my duty. I like you, Drake, honestly, but you're – you're a son of the Demon.'

  'By the oath I am!' said Drake. 'And proud of it! That's the way my father raised me, and that's how he'd have me be!'

  'No, not that kind of son. A true son. Flesh of the Demon's flesh. Spawn of his spawn. He came from the halls of hell to take your mother by night.'

  Drake considered this intriguing notion for a few moments.

  'I've never heard such nonsense in all my life,' said Drake. 'But supposing it was true, I'd take it as a compliment. To me, for my parentage. To my mother, for attracting such high-born attention. And to my childhood's father, for winning a woman the Demon himself would want.'

  'But it means you're evil, don't you see? The Demon's the enemy of the Flame. That's why Gouda Muck sent us.''Sent you? '

  'Yes. Fifty of us. All over the world. Looking for you. To – to – well. . .''To kill me?' asked Drake. 'Well, yes.'

  At first Drake was incredulous. Then he remembered his
last visit to Narba. Then an old face from Stokos, a past neighbour of Gouda Muck, had made a diligent attempt to knife Drake properly.

  'Fifty looking for me!' said Drake. 'How many worshippers has the Flame claimed, then?'

  'Well, half of Stokos, by now,' said Yot. 'The king himself has converted. There's talk of outlawing the temple.'

  Drake felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. AH the wind was quite taken out of him. But once he had got over the shock he started to get angry.

  'Now look here,' said Drake. 'This nonsense has to end, and here, and now. Recant! Renounce the Flame. Look, there's fire – the oil-lamp's wick. Piss on it, Yot, piss on it now, or I'll kill you!'

  But Yot would not. He wept with fear, he begged, he pleaded, but even in the face of death he would not defile the Flame.'And you still think you have to kill me?' said Drake. 'I must! I must!' wept Yot.

  Drake, seething with anger, roped Yot properly and put him on the market. Yot so disgusted him that Drake didn't want to be associated any further – not even for the time it would take to torture his captive to death.

  'Ready meat waiting!' shouted Drake. 'Best stuff for fish bait, torture, raping!'

  But interest was slack. Slaving Day had glutted most people's tastes, and the Bacchanal of the banquet had left just about the entire pirate population of Knock with a hangover.

  Drake grew hoarse with shouting. He cooled his throat with an ale, then thought to ask:'You say King Tor has converted to – to-''To the Faith,' said Yot. 'To Goudanism.''Then does Tor believe that I'm-'

  'Tor is a true believer!' said Yot. His voice was shrill with fear and hate. 'He knows you're the son of the Demon. He's ordered that you be handed over to Gouda Muck if you ever set foot on Stokos.''Then what?'

  'Then our all-sacred Muck will have you skinned alive. That's just to start with! Oh, you'll wish you were dead! You'll scream for the privilege of dying! But Muck won't let you go that easily. He'll make you suffer.'

  Drake felt all broken-up inside. This was really the end! He could never go home. Goodbye to his dreams of a place in the priesthood! Goodbye to his hopes for marriage to Tor's daughter and a claim to the throne of Stokos! Goodbye – ay yes, farewell forever! – to the high-breasted Zanya Kliedervaust.

  'This is bad news, truly,' said Drake. 'I … I thought to go back to Stokos someday. Not least to see my lady.''And who's that?' said Yot.

  'You wouldn't know her,' said Drake. 'She was red of skin and red of hair. She was aged about twenty or so. Tall, yes, mayhap a head higher than me. Breasts beautiful, high-riding like buoyant boats.'

  'Are you talking about Zanya?' said Yot. 'Zanya Kliedervaust?''You know her!'

  'Why, of course,' said Yot. 'She's one of Muck's favourite disciples.''Then she's – she's with Muck?'

  'No,' said Yot. 'She's left Stokos entirely. Gone to do missionary work. To convert the world to Goudanism!''Where has she gone?' said Drake.

  'Why should I tell you?' said Yot. 'You're the Demon-son! And a nasty stunted ugly runt!'And Yot spat in Drake's face.

  Whereupon Drake grabbed him, intending to cut his throat on the spot.

  'What's this?' said a jovial voice. 'Business or pleasure?'

  Drake relaxed his grip on Yot. He looked around and saw that a rough-smelling pirate had happened along, an evil brute with a most unlovely bearded face, with pouches under bloodshot eyes, with lice scattered like dandruff through greasy locks, and with splashes of black blood from his most recent murder still splattered across his clothes.It was, of course, Andranovory.

  'I came here intending to sell this – this thing,' said Drake. 'But it seems nobody wants to buy such rubbish. So I've decided to cut its throat to get rid of it. Would you hold it still? It's wriggling. Aye! And trying to bite!''Hold still!' barked Andranovory.And Yot ceased his struggles immediately.

  'Why, An'vory, man,' said Drake, in reluctant admiration, 'You've sure got a way with your voice.'

  Atsimo Andranovory made no immediate reply, but studied Yot carefully.

  'You meant to sell this?' he said, after a pause, idling a finger across Yot's neck while the apostle of the Flame cringed and whimpered. 'For how much?'

  'To you, he's free,' said Drake, who could think of no worse fate for Yot than sale to Andranovory.Andranovory laughed.'Done,' said Andranovory, and cut Yot's bonds. Then tossed the boy a knife.

  Startled, Yot caught it by the hilt, and stood there looking most uncertain.

  'You're my shipmate now,' said Andranovory. 'My bloodbrother true. My enemy's enemy is good enough for me. Come, man – I'll take you to meet our captain. Aye. The Walrus – Slagger Mulps himself. He'll be heartened by the sight of a fine young fellow like you.'

  'How about a drink first?' said Yot, feeling he needed something to steady his nerves.

  'Why, sure – that's an excellent idea,' said Andranovory.

  Then Andranovory laughed again at the outrage on Drake's face, and went swaggering off to the nearest beer stand to celebrate his victory.

  15

  Name: Menator.

  Birthplace: by the side of the Salt Road some seven leagues north of the Castle of Controlling Power.

  Occupation: adventurer (and, previously, Galish merchant, horse thief, outlaw, and joint ruler of the kingdom of Talajar).

  Status: warlord.

  Description: a man as bald as Jon Arabin, nose broken, blue rose tattooed on left cheek.

  Drake was sure Slagger Mulps would be too smart to want anything to do with a useless piece of wart-faced filth like Sully Yot. But, to Drake's disgust, Yot was aboard the Walrus when it set off on a raiding expedition the very next day.

  He won't last, though. No. The first time he has to fight it out for real, blade against blade, he'll run screaming. Aye. This first voyage should finish him for piracy.

  However, three days later the Walrus returned after a bloodless victory. Off the coast of Chorst, Slagger Mulps and his men had caught a trading ship. Rather than stand and fight, the crew of their quarry had set fire to their vessel and had then abandoned ship, making for the nearby shore.

  Every man from the Walrus swore they had rescued treasure from the burning ship. As they did no extra

  boozing, gambling or whoring, Drake guessed they were bluffing – but he had no way to prove it.After a two-day rest, the Walrus set sail again.One more chance for Yot to get himself killed, then.

  But Drake could not help envying Yot. He was sick and tired of the Teeth, bored with fishing, sealing, and the routines of gambling. He found himself longing to be at sea again. Which was perverse, surely, for the sea was big and wet, cold and unfriendly, daunting and merciless.

  But there's companionship there. Aye. The ship's life's one life shared. Yes.

  How long would it be before Jon Arabin took them to sea again?

  Ten days after midwinter's day in Khmar 18 – that is, soon after Drake learnt of his place in the demonology of Goudanism – Jon Arabin called a crew-conference.

  A number of Arabin's wives were pregnant, so he could face the prospect of more murder with equanimity. With the Warwolf properly overhauled, he was ready to try an audacious plan formulated during his long and bitter captivity in Lorp: to raid Cam, in Stokos, and sack the Orsay Bank.

  'It's far,' complained the faint-hearted. 'And it's winter.'

  'For sure it's far,' said Arabin. 'But Narba is further, let alone Ling. You've all at least been to Narba. As to the season, why, winter means they won't be expecting us. Anyway, it'll be warm enough down in Stokos.'

  Drake was enlisted to draw maps of Cam, and help model the harbour for the inspection of Arabin's officers.

  'We'll come as a merchant ship,' said Arabin. 'We'll fly the flag of Chi'ash-lan. We'll have silk on our backs, sheep on the deck, and a bare-breasted woman as figurehead. By night we'll raid the bank. Quick, aye, in and out. Meanwhile, our fire parties set flames amidst the city. Thus chaos while we retreat.'

  It was a cunning plan, yet simpl
e. And extremely dangerous – which was part of the reason why Drake had mixed feelings about the operation.

  Previously, a voyage to Cam would have meant an ideal opportunity to escape. But flight to Stokos was now the last thing on his mind. Gouda Muck would have him skinned alive then burnt at the stake – or worse.

  He would love to see Stokos again, if only for a day. But should he raid his own people? Even if madness had made them flame worshippers, they were still the true blood of Stokos, the meanest wight amongst them worth more than any ten uitlanders.

  'Troubled?' said Arabin, sensing his confusion. 'Worries about killing your own, is it? Well, I'll give you a choice on this venture. Will you come, or not?''I'll think about it,' said Drake.And think he did.

  The Walrus returned to Knock after a successful raid on the docks of Runcorn. This time, Slagger Mulps and his men proved their success by spending gold like water. Sully Yot made a special point of flaunting his wealth in Drake's presence, while boasting of his daring. Drake, violently jealous, thought Arabin's plans might be worth pursuing if only to win triumph equal to Yot's.

  But, while Drake was still weighing the pros and cons, all plans for the raid were interrupted by the unheralded arrival of a foreign adventurer. Menator, he was called: and he came to the Teeth with five ships, three hundred men, and half his own weight in gold.

  Almost immediately, he gained a reputation for ambition. Then came public proposals so brash and rash they made Arabin's outrageous plans seem the ultimate in conservative caution. Word went out to all the islands of the Greaters, and the pirates began to gather in to Knock.

  The pirates met in general assembly to pass judgment on Menator. Crowding a huge cavern lit by light filtering down twenty air shafts, and by half a hundred smoking torches, they gave off a communal stench which could have seriously competed with a legion of dead seals or any army of dung-soaked dogs.

  Drake, in the middle of this mob, was surprised at what a crowd they made.

  Menator spoke eloquently in the Galish Trading Tongue. He was, after all, the only person present who had Galish as his native tongue, for all that it was their lingua franca.