by Hugh Cook
'I've come to claim you for civilized company,' said Pigot Quebec.'What?' said Drake. 'We're leaving Selzirk, are we?'
'Hush your cheek!' said Quebec. 'Listen, man, there's a new champion down at the Eagle.'
'I'm listening,' said Drake. 'Listening hard. But I'm damned if I can hear him.'
'And damned if you can't. Man, you were born for damnation. Come, let's sweat down the street to the champion.'
'What's this fellow champion at?' asked Drake. 'Can't be shouting, can it?'
'At lying, man. Untruths of all descriptions. Tall tales. Adventures into the never-when to see the never-was.''Oh,' said Drake. 'You mean he's a priest?''Nay! A liar!'
'What's the difference?' asked Drake. 'Man,' said Quebec, 'the man himself perhaps will answer.'
'If he answers that there's none, then he's a liar in truth indeed,' said Drake. 'What's your untruth's name?'
'I know it not,' said Quebec. 'But I know he's holding forth at the Eagle, I've heard him there myself. And, man, he's something. He swears the truth unreal as smoothly as a weasel farting.'
'You have many weasels in your family then?' said Drake. 'Or you know them from the casuals of whorehouse acquaintance?'
'You were the first-I've met,' said Quebec, 'so it's of you I've made my study.'
Drake made as if to cuff him round the head. Quebec parried, and they wrestled a bit. Then, with many a jape and a pun, the two made their way to the Eagle.
Drake knew of the Eagle, but had never been there before, since this tavern was not a criminal haunt. It was, however, definitely a low-life place, attracting all kinds of riff-raff: falconers, river oars, peddlers, jesters and beggar-masters, and, no doubt, the odd questing hero in disguise.
'Man,' said Quebec, as the pair entered. 'This champion's good, but you can top his tales.'
'Aye,' said Drake. 'I could top any tale – simply by telling the truth.''Gah! I know your kind of truth.''You don't,' said Drake. 'Or you'd believe it.'
The two pushed forward. There was a crowd around the liar, some folk standing on bar benches, so it was push and shove to get near the front. Drake shoved once too often – and was picked up by a giant-sized axeman from Chenameg and thrown bodily through the air. He crashed to ground at the feet of the champion liar.'Drax!' yelled Quebec. 'You all right?'
Lord Dreldragon (also known as Drake Douay, as Arabin lol Arabin, and as Shen Shen Drax, depending what company he was keeping) lay on the ground, winded, staring up at a most unlovely sight. A rough-smelling thug with bloodshot eyes and a black-bearded face, and a shaggy swag of filthy black hair.'An'vory!' said Drake.'You!' said Atsimo Andranovory.And he grabbed Drake in a strangle.
Fortunately, a couple of Drake's fighting-comrades were in the audience, and they separated An'vory from Drake's throat. They were all for killing the man, but the publican stopped them.
'You kill my champion liar,' warned the publican, 'and my sons will rend you limb to limb.'
The publican seemed to have a small trace of ogre in his blood. And the sons in question had a very definite touch of ogre about them. Their menace enforced a peace of sorts.'So,' said Atsimo Andranovory. 'What do you here?'
'A good question,' said Pigot Quebec. 'But I've a better question. How did my good friend Shen Shen Drax come to meet this barman? Tell us your meeting, Drax. That'll make a good story to start off with.'
'Nay, man,' said Drake. 'A mood of modesty is upon me, I can't speak today.'
But his audience gave him no choice. He was ringed with arms and faces, with knives and fists. His attempts to escape were denied, with a good-humoured roughness which might turn nasty any moment.He was trapped.
He had to speak himself in public, in front of witnesses. This was fearful dangerous! Best thing would be to kill An'vory, who was dangerous through what he knew. The blackguard would blackmail Drake for blood if he knew Drake would be killed if Selzirk learnt he supported King Tor.
How much does An 'vory know? What does he know of Selzirk and Tor? How long has he been in town? Man, this is difficult!'Cat got your tongue?' said Andranovory.
'Nay, man,' said Drake. 'I'm so astonished I'm silent, that's all. Last I knew of you, why, that was in Estar. You were in service with Prince Comedo, not so?''Aye, that's true enough,' said Andranovory.'Well then,' said Drake, 'how got you here from Estar?'
'Through wild adventures with Elkor Alish and Morgan Hearst, and others that I've been telling of,' said Andranovory.
'Oh, Hearst!' said Drake, with confidence. 'That grey-haired Rovac warrior, right?''The same,' said Andranovory. 'You knowmuch!''Aye,' said Drake.
Having said enough to give listeners such as Quebec the impression that he had known Andranovory while serving under Prince Comedo in Estar, Drake skipped away from that subject, and moved on:
'I know much of you, too, don't I? I remember serving shipboard with you. Aye, on a ship called the Walrus that was. We were trading a cargo of the skins of seals to the port of Narba. Yes. And I remember you later, put ashore from another ship for bad behaviour. That was back in the days when I were known as Drake Douay – for I've gone under more than one name in this wide world, I'll not deny it.'
'Aye,' said Andranovory. 'Drake Douay! And a pretty tale I could tell about you!' 'Tell, then!' said Drake. Hoping.
'You were born in a heap of dogshit,' said Andranovory. 'I'll tell the world that for nothing. Your mother was raped by an octopus, which explains the most of your nature.'
'Aagh, An'vory, man!' said Drake. 'You've not changed! Always were a liar. But never champion, no – I was champion. Always was, always will be. Let's listen to your tales, and I'll top them.'
'I doubt you will,' said An'vory, 'not this time. For I've walked in strangeness, man, no doubting it.'
Then Andranovory, after wasting a little more breath telling lies about Drake's ancestry and upbringing, launched into his story proper.Drake concealed his relief.He had judged his man true.
He had guessed, rightly, that Andranovory, if challenged to tell the truth about Drake Douay, would take delight in insults at the expense of facts. He had gambled and won. An'vory did not guess that he had knowledge which could be the death of Drake Douay. Did not guess that Drake had to conceal his true identity – that of Lord Dreldragon, fiance of the daughter of King Tor, and thus rightful inheritor of Stokos.
An 'vory, man. You 're as stupid a shit as ever. But perhaps you 've a nice enough story to tell. Perhaps. We '11 see.
Andranovory held forth in Galish, for he spoke no Churl. A professional street hawker gave a running translation for the benefit of any ignoramus who was not bilingual. There was many such an ignoramus in the Eagle.
Andranovory claimed, perhaps with truth, to have fought alongside two Rovac warriors in the employ of Prince Comedo – Hearst and Alish. But the rest of his story was improbable, to say the least. He told a long, wild tale about a war between Collosnon warriors and the
Rovac, in which Morgan Hearst triumphed by leading a regiment of dragons against his enemies.
Other things he spoke of were wilder still – a death-stone conjuring rocks to life and turned living men into mountains; a journey down an underground river, on which three of his comrades became pregnant ('and died giving birth, for they were men for real, and lacked the proper channel'); arrival at the Araconch Waters; the delights of the Temple of Eternal Love found on the shores of that enormous inland lake.
'Now I'm parched,' concluded Andranovory. 'So let strong drink speak to my gullet while me young mate Erhed speaks of the march inland from Araconch.'
Andranovory sat, and a weak-voiced companion of his travels and travails, an insignificant fellow named Erhed, began spinning tales of the aforementioned march from Araconch.
Erhed was less successful than Andranovory. He lacked a proper voice to start with. Worse, he was scarcely concerned with telling a tale at all – instead, he wanted to air his grievances against the Rovac warriors.
'. . . so Hearst was a hard
man, you can see,' said Erhed. 'But Alish was the worst. Elkor Alish – a name of blood and terror. Man, he was hard! Smashed me over the head once. With a rock, true. Near enough to killed me.''Why did he do that?' called Drake.
'There was this dragon, see. I reckon he planned to kill me, leave me there as bait to draw the dragon away from the others. But I've a hard head, see.'
'Yes, and very little inside to get damaged,' said Andranovory.
He roared with laughter, and quaffed the last of his ale at a gulp. The barman handed him another. An'vory had been drinking hard and heavy while Erhed was weaving his way through his tale – and had drunk yet more earlier in the day.
'What happened then?' demanded Drake. 'About this dragon,I mean?''Oh, it flew away,' said Erhed lamely.'Why didn't it eat you?' said Drake.
'Because then,' said Andranovory, 'the world's ruling devil would have been put to looking for some other sludge to pox us with.'
And once more erupted into laughter. Drunk? Maybe. Drake, who had such happy memories of being drunk himself, tried not to be jealous. Tried without success.'How close was this dragon?' he asked.
'Who are you?' said Erhed. 'The Imperial Inquisitor, or what?'
Quebec seized this opportunity. He pushed a dwarf off a barstool, then stood on it.'Hey!' said the dwarf. 'Get off me!'So Quebec got onto the barstool instead.
'Gentles and toughs!' cried Quebec. 'Slow your clamour and fill your cups. We've heard enough of this Erhed fellow, who has but the single problem in life – he's no longer got his mother around to cosset his hand.'
Laughter, and generous laughter at that, from all around.
'But, seriously, folks, let me introduce my old friend Shen Shen Drax. Today I've heard he's got another name. Dway, was it? Something like that, anyhow. I'm sure there's a tale behind that name, and I'm sure he'll tell it.'
'I won it in combat on Hexagon,' said Drake, who had by then had time in plenty to devise creations suitable for the defence of his identity.
'Then we'll hear of that first,' said Quebec. 'And other things thereafter. Friend Drax, he's the champion liar of all the world, bar none. Born strange and walking in weirdness since. Kills ghosts by daylight then catches their blood in a winecup, but never gets drunk, no, for he was suckled on his mother's blood, which fortified him against liquor for a lifetime.'
'He'll not tell stories better than Andranovory,' said Erhed, speaking up loyal for his comrade.'Aagh!' said Drake. 'My wit's as ready as my cock, so I could fake a right pretty story if I needed one to win, aye, to prove myself champion liar. But I'll start with a truth. Like as not you'll think it a lie anyway, since it's nine parts incredible.
'The wizard Miphon, a green-eyed fellow I know of old, he once told me I was the most amount of trouble he'd ever seen in one package in the last ten thousand years. This proved out real enough when I got to Hexagon, which is where I won the name of Drake Douay in battle.
'Was an ogre I fought, a scum-faced thing as hateful as that mother-rapist known as Tor, the brute from Stpkos who had me thrown into the seas a horizon away from land. He hated me, for I fell foul of his law. But that's another story – An'vory may tell it, perhaps, he knows the start of it at least. Anyway, to begin with Hexagon-'And Drake was off.
Many a lie he told, and in consequence his tavern audience thought him truthful enough. The really incredible tales of the world are, without exception, those which follow the facts – and Drake's tales were wonderfully light on facts.
Andranovory told no story in reply, for he passed out while Drake was telling of his wanderings in Chi'ash-lan, and was still dead to the world when Drake finished a much longer tale about a trip to Gendormargensis in far-off Tameran (a tale, mark, replete with authentic detail remembered from stories told by his comrade of adventures past, Rolf Thelemite).
As An'vory was unconscious, Drake was declared the winner. Champion liar of all the world.'Encore!' shouted an enthusiastic audience.So Drake told one last tale.
'It happened that I once went north from Estar in company of a woodsman by name of Blackwood. North we ventured, way past Lake Armansis to the Valley of Forgotten Dreams, where we came upon the Old City, a place of legend, aye. Though legend tells not the half of the horror.'
And Drake told of adventuring through a Door with the woodsman Blackwood, of meeting the Pretender to the throne of Tameran, of daring a danger of centipedes in the terror-lands south of Drangsturm, then saving a red-skinned wench from a peril of monsters in the Great Arena of Dalar ken Halvar. Then bedding her soundly.'Aye, she was real sweet,' he concluded.'So where is she?' shouted Anonymous.
'Man, she died of delight in my arms,' said Drake. 'And she's not the first.'
'She died of delight?' cried Anonymous. 'Doubt it! Why, likely she died of blue leprosy!'
The grin on Drake's face faltered for half a heartbeat. Then he recovered himself.
'Nay, man,' he said. 'Wasdelight, for real. Delight kills instant, while this blue leprosy – it's a pox hidden for years before it shows.''An expert speaks!' jeered Anonymous.
'And an expert raised this question of blue leprosy to start with,' said Drake. 'Why, mostly only pox doctors know it for a pox of love. Most folk think it spread by sharing cups or such.'
'A pox doctor lectures!' yelled Anonymous, manic with delight.
'Brother,' said Drake, acknowledging Anonymous with a bow. 'It takes a true professional to recognize a colleague. But I think my skills higher than yours, for I'm free of the pox for the moment. But you, man – your nose is losing the battle, isn't it?'
This was true. The nose of Anonymous was being eaten away by syphilis.Curses proceeded from Anonymous.
'Aagh, the man's jealous!' said Drake. 'Jealous of my skills with pox, aye, and of my skills of love, for he knows I'm best at both. When I talk of killing women with delight, it's truth, with naught exaggeration. Why, it's got to the point where I have to stay celibate, since the trail of dead women has become larger than embarrassment.'
He bowed again, ducked a rotten tomato, accepted a complimentary skin of liquor from the barman, and joined Pigot Quebec and a few others at a corner table out of the main swill.
'Booze, boys,' said Drake, thumping the skin onto the tabletop.
'Good,' said Quebec, and topped up his mug from the skin. Then said: 'Have you heard the news?'
'Why, I've heard that the world ended yesterday,' said Drake, 'that every fish in the sea is dead, that rats will conquer and horses sing in Galish. What else is new?'
'Let the Scholar tell it. Drax – meet the Scholar. Friend Scholar – this is Shen Shen Drax, the famous.'
They touched fingertips, lightly, in a ceremony of greeting peculiar to the criminal fraternity of Selzirk. Drake had heard of the Scholar, whose speciality was forgery. Now he listened while the Scholar told of how they were being threatened by a Law of Association which would forbid convicted criminals from consorting with each other.
'A suspension of civil liberties, that's what it is,' said the Scholar.
'Yes, well,' said Drake, 'that's less painful than suspension by the neck, no doubt.'
He picked up an empty mug which was lying lonesome on the floor, filled it with liquor from his complimentary skin, drained it, burped, patted his stomach then filled it again.
'It's an unprecedented extension of state authority, you know,' continued the Scholar. 'I hear the Regency's behind it.''What's the Regency?' asked Drake.
His research had been deep in war but thin on politics. He had, after all, only the one life. He had to work for Ol Tul, amuse himself, survive – and do research in his spare moments. So he had left a study of the leadership of Selzirk to the time when he should have some positive prospect of becoming ambassador or such.
'The Regency,' said Quebec. 'Why, that's the Guild of Brothel Masters.'
Not so, protested the scholar. He began to explain the truth – but was interrupted by the arrival of Scurf Drumbo.
'Why, pickle me balls and dig
out me eyes with needles,' said Drumbo. 'I'm as buggered as a rat's arsehole.''Why,' said Drake, 'what have you been doing?'
'Drinking, man. And listening. Is that ale? No? Gah! Still. . .tastes sweet enough to me. Thanks, friend. Yes, drinking. And listening, hearing young sparrow-fart here blister the paint with untruthing.''Man, it was all true enough,' said Drake.'Oh, hearty sure, I bet,' said Drumbo.'You believe none of it?' said Drake.
'Oh, a word here, a word there,' said Drumbo. 'But Drax – I'd never believe a woman to die in your arms of delight.''She died smiling,' said Drake, deadpan.
'In your arms?' said Drumbo. 'Never! If she died, you strangled her, that's what. Man, but that story stirred me up a bit, though. I've never had a red-skinned whore.''She wasn't a whore,' said Drake.
'Red meat,' said Drumbo, pushing on regardless. T saw a red-skinned bitch today, sweet, yes, worth having.''There's plenty of red in the city,' said Quebec.
'Oh, this was no woman in her fancies,' said Drumbo. 'It was one of those Ebrell bitches. You can tell the difference. It's the nose, you see. With the Ebrell, the colour goes right up the nose.''You got that close?' said Drake.
'Drax,' said Drumbo, 'she was so hot for changing, she was near to mating with me.'
'Changing?' said Quebec. 'Changing? You mean she was a witch, to change you to pig or beast-hound?'
'How could she do that?' asked Drake. 'Friend Drumbo's been half pig and three parts beast-hound these last three thousand years or more.'
'Gah!' said Drumbo. 'She was no witch. Whore, more like it. Preacher's whore. When I speak of changing, it's faith I'm talking of.'
'You mean this woman was talking religion?' said Drake.
'Talking changing, yes, that's what I said,' declared Drumbo. 'Though this preacher fellow was talking more than her. Lucky old bugger! I vum he screws her nights.''What preacher was this?' said Drake.
'Oh, you know,' said Drumbo, helping himself to more liquor. 'A preacher's a preacher, isn't he?'
'Nay, man,' said Drake. 'They're all of them different. Some thieves, while others murder their mothers. Some heavy for opium, while others are into the booze. Boys for some, dogs for others, while the toothless taste women with fingerlength tongues. Tell of this one, man.'