‘Knight Relent, you happy with that?’
‘I am “Sir” to you.’
‘Was that a “yes”?’
‘I think it was,’ said Flea. ‘Midge?’
‘Oh aye, that was a “yes” all right.’
At this moment Tulgord Vise, Mortal Sword to the Sisters, stepped into the understandable gap between the Nehemothanai and the limpid artists (of which, at this juncture, I blithely count myself). He blew out his cheeks (his upper ones) and stretched a measured regard upon all those gathered, including the host whose name momentarily escapes me, Mister Must, Purse Snippet and the Entourage (poor Apto was yet to arrive). One presumes this was meant to establish Tulgord’s preeminence as the final arbiter in the matter (yes, this matter), but of course he too possessed but a single vote, and so the issue was perhaps, for him, one of moral compass. Clearly, he saw in this moment the necessity of justification, and upon ethical concerns who else but Tulgord Vise to dispense adjudication?
Well, how about the victims?
But the retort is equally quick, to be found in the puerile weaponry all within easy reach of those with nothing to lose and everything to gain. Since when do ethics triumph power? So uneven was this debate no one bothered to troop it out for trampling. Accordingly, Tulgord’s posturing was met with all the indifference it deserved, a detail entirely lost on him.
The nightly procession was thus determined, as we artists would have to sing not to be supper. Ironically, alas, the very first victim had no tale to attempt at all, for his crime at this moment was to object, with all the terror of a lifetime being picked last in every children’s game he ever played, and some memories, as we all know, stay sharp across a lifetime. ‘Just eat the damned horses!’
But Arpo Relent shook his head. ‘There is no question of any more votes,’ he said. ‘As anyone of proper worth would agree, a knight’s horse is of far greater value than any poet, bard or sculptor. It’s settled. The horses don’t get eaten.’ And he glowered as was his wont following everything he said.
‘But that’s just—’
It is safe to say that the word this nameless artist intended was ‘stupid’ or ‘insane’ or some other equally delectable and wholly reasonable descriptive. And as added proof when his severed head rolled almost to my feet following the savage slash of Tulgord Vise’s blessed sword, the mouth struggled to form its thoughtful completion. Ah, thus did the memory stay sharp.
The first poet, having been killed so succinctly, was butchered and eaten on the eleventh night upon the Great Dry. The sixteenth night saw another follow, as did the twentieth night. Upon the twenty-second night the vote was taken following Arpo’s raising of the notion of midday meals to keep up one’s strength and morale, and so a second artist was sacrificed that night. At that time the ritual of critical feasting began, instigated by a shaky Brash Phluster.
Two more hapless poets, both bards of middling talents, gave the performance of their lives on that night.
At this point, listeners among you, perhaps even you, might raise an objecting hand (not the first one, you say? I wasn’t paying attention). Thirty-nine days upon the Great Dry? Surely by now, with only a few days away from the ferry landing below the plateau, the need for eating people was past? And of course you would be right, but you see, a certain level of comfort had been achieved. In for a pinch, in for a pound, as some sated bastard once said. More relevantly, thirty-nine days was the optimum crossing, and we were far from optimum, at least to begin with. Does this suffice? No, of course it doesn’t, but whose tale is this?
Ordig now resided in bellies with a weighty profundity he never achieved in life, while Aurpan’s last narrative was technically disconnected and stylistically disjointed, being both raw and overdone. The critical feasting was complete and the artists numbered four, Purse Snippet being given unanimous dispensation, and by the host’s judgement sixteen nights remained upon the Great Dry.
While talent with numbers could rarely be counted among the artist’s gifts, it was nonetheless clear to all of us sad singers that our time upon this world was fast drawing to a close. Yet with the arrival of dusk this made no less desperate our contests.
Brash Phluster licked his lips and eyed Apto Canavalian for a long moment, before drawing a deep breath.
‘I was saving this original dramatic oratory for the last night in Farrog, but then, could I have a more challenging audience than this one here?’ And he laughed, rather badly.
Apto rubbed at his face as if needing to convince himself that this was not a fevered nightmare (as might haunt all professional critics), and I do imagine that, given the option, he would have fled into the wastes at the first opportunity, not that such an opportunity was forthcoming given Steck Marynd and his perpetually cocked crossbow which even now rested lightly on his lap (he’d done with his pacing by this time).
In turn, Brash withdrew his own weapon, a three-string lyre, which he set to tuning, head bent over the instrument and face twisted in concentration. He plucked experimentally, then with flourish, and then experimentally again. Sweat glistened in the furrows of his brow, each bead reflecting the hearth’s flames. When those seated began growing restless he nudged one wooden peg one last time, and then settled back.
‘This is drawn from the Eschologos sequence of Nemil’s Redbloom Poets of the Third Century.’ He licked his lips again. ‘Not to say I stole anything. Inspired, is what I mean, by those famous poets.’
‘Who were they again?’ Apto asked.
‘Famous,’ Brash retorted, ‘that’s who they were.’
‘I mean, what were their names?’
‘What difference would that make? They sang famous poems!’
‘Which ones?’
‘It doesn’t matter! They were the Redbloom Poets of Nemil! They were famous! They were from the time when bards and poets were actually valued by everyone! Not pushed aside and forgotten!’
‘But you’ve forgotten their names, haven’t you?’ Apto asked.
‘If you never heard of them how would you know if I knew their names or not? I could make up any old names and you’d just nod, being a scholar and all! I’m right, aren’t I?’
Calap Roud was shaking his head but there was a delighted glimmer in his eyes. ‘Young Brash, it serves you ill to berate one of the Mantle’s judges, don’t you think?’
Brash rounded on him. ‘You don’t know their names either!’
‘That’s true, I don’t, but then, I’m not pretending to be inspired by them, am I?’
‘Well, you’re about to hear inspiration of the finest kind!’
‘What was inspiring you again?’ Tiny Chanter asked.
Flea and Midge snorted.
Our host was waving his hands about, and it was finally understood that this manic gesturing was intended to capture our collective attentions. ‘Gentlemen, please now! The Poet wishes to begin, and each must have his or her turn—’
‘What “her”?’ demanded Brash. ‘All the women here got dispensations! Why is that? Is it, perhaps, because everyone eligible to vote happened to be men? Imagine how succulent—’
‘Enough of that!’ barked Tulgord Vise. ‘That’s disgusting!’
Arpo Relent added, ‘What it is, is proof of the immoral decrepitude of artists. Everyone knows it’s the women who do the eating.’
Moments later, in the ensuing silence, the Well Knight frowned. ‘What?’
‘Best begin, Poet,’ said Steck Marynd in a hunter’s growl (and don’t they all?).
A wayward ember spun towards Nifty Gum and all three of his Entourage fought to fling themselves heroically into its path, but it went out before it could reach any of them. They settled back, glowering at each other.
Brash strummed the three strings, and began singing in a flat falsetto.
‘In ages long past
A long time ago
Before any of us were alive
Before kingdoms rose from the dust
There was a k
ing—’
‘Hang on,’ said Tiny. ‘If it was before kingdoms, how could there be a king?’
‘You can’t interrupt like that! I’m singing!’
‘Why do you think I interrupted?’
‘Please,’ said the host whose name escapes me again, ‘let the Poet, er, sing.’
‘There was a king
Who name was … Gling
Gling of the Nine Rings
That he wore—’
‘On his bling!’ Flea sang.
‘That he wore one each day
Of the week—’
Apto broke into a coughing fit.
‘Gling of the Seven Rings
Was a king whose wife
Had died and sad was his sorrow
For his wife was beloved,
A Queen in her own right.
Her tresses were locks
Flowing down long past
Her shapely shoulders and
Long-haired she was and
Longhair was her name
She who died of grief
Upon the death of their
Daughter and so terrible her grief
She shaved her head and was
Long-haired no longer
And so furious her beloved
Gling that he gathered up
The strands and wove a rope
With which he strangled
Her – oh sorrow!’
The ‘oh sorrow’ declamation was intended to be echoed by the enraptured audience, and would mark the closure of each stanza. Alas, no one was in a ready state to participate, and isn’t it curious how laughter and weeping could be so easily confused?
Savagely, Brash Phluster plucked a string and pressed on.
‘But was the daughter truly dead?
What terrible secret did King Gling
Her father possess
There in his tower
At the very heart
Of the world’s greatest kingdom?
But no, he was a king
Without any terrible secrets,
For his daughter had been
Stolen, and lovely she was,
The princess whose name was
… Missingla
And this is her tale known to all
As Missingla’s Tale
Beloved daughter of King Gling and
Queen Longhair,
A princess in her own right
Was Missingla of the shapely shoulders
Royal her eye lashes
A jewelled crown her sweet lips’
Oh dear, I just added those two lines. I could not help it, and so I do urge their disregard.
‘Was Missingla of the shapely shoulders
Stolen by the king in the kingdom
Beyond the mountains between the lake
In the Desert of Death
Where almost nothing lived
Or could hope to live
Even should we live in hope’
Ah, and again.
‘and this king his name was … Lope
Who bore a sword twice as tall as he
And the armour of an ogre made of stone
And cruel was his face, evil his eyes,
As he swam the lake at night
To scale the tower to steal her away
Missingla – oh sorrow!’
The Entourage cried, ‘Oh sorrow!’ and even Purse Snippet smiled over her secretive cup of tea.
‘But she was waiting oh yes, for
Cruel and evil as he was, so too rich
Beyond all measure ruling the world’s
Richest kingdom beyond the mountains
And so not stolen at all, sweet daughter
No! Missingla Lope they swam away!’
In the chaos that ensued, Brash thrashed at the strings of the lyre until one broke, the taut gut snapping up to catch him in the left eye. Steck’s crossbow, cursed with a nervous trigger, accidentally released, driving the quarrel through the hunter’s right foot, pinning it to the ground. Purse sprayed a startlingly flammable mouthful of tea into the fire, and in the flare-up Apto flung himself backward with singed eyebrows, rolling off the stone he’d been perched on and slamming his head into a cactus. The host’s hands waved frantically since he could no longer breathe. The Entourage was in a groping tangle and somewhere beneath it was Nifty Gum. Tulgord Vise and Arpo Relent were scowling and frowning respectively. Of Tiny Chanter, only the soles of his boots were visible. Midge suddenly stood and said to Flea, ‘I pissed myself.’
By this extraordinary performance Brash Phluster survived the twenty-third night and so would live through the twenty-fourth night and the following day. And as he opened his mouth to announce that he wasn’t yet finished, why, I did clamp my hand over the offending utterance, stifling it in the rabbit hole. Mercy knows a thousand guises, say you not?
Madness, you say? That I should so boldly aver Brash Phluster’s suicidal desire to further skin himself? But while confidence is a strange creature, it is no stranger to me. I know well its pluck and princeps. It bears no stretch of perception to note my certain flair in the proceeding of this tale, for here I am, ancient of ways, and yet still alive. Ah, but perhaps I deceive you all with this retroactive posture of assuredness. A fair point, were it not for the fact of its error in every regard. To explain, I possessed even then the quiet man’s stake, a banner embedded deep in solid rock, the pennants ever calm no matter how savage the raging storms of worldly straits. It is this impervious nature that has served me so well. That and my natural brevity with respect to modesty.
Upon recovery, whilst in relief Brash Phluster stumbled off to vomit behind some boulders, Calap Roud made to begin his tale. His hands trembled like fish in a tree. His throat visibly tightened, forcing squeaking noises from his gaping mouth. His eyes bulged like eggs striving to flee a female sea-turtle’s egg hole. The vast injustice of Brash Phluster’s dispensation was a bright sizzling rage in his visage, a teller’s tome of twitches plucking at each and every feature so fecklessly clutched beneath his forehead. He was not holding up well to this terrible pressure, this twill or die. Unravelled his comportment, and in tumbling, climbing pursuit a lifetime of missed moments, creative collapses, blocks and heights not reached, all heaved up at this moment to drown him in a deluge of despair.
He was the cornered jump-mouse, the walls too high, the floor devoid of cracks, and all he could do was bare his tiny teeth in the pointless hope that the slayer looming so cruelly over him was composed of cotton fluff. Ah, how life defends itself! It is enough, oh yes, to shatter even a staked man’s heart. But know we all that this modern world is one without pity, that it revels in the helplessness of others. Children pluck wings and when grown hulking they crush heads and paint rude words on public walls. Decay bays on all sides, still mourning the moon’s tragic death. Pity the jump-mouse, for we are ourselves nothing other than jump-mice trapped in the corners of existence.
In his desperation, Calap Roud realized his only hope for survival would be found in the brazen theft of the words of great but obscure artists, and, fortunate for him, Calap possessed a lifetime of envy in the shadow of geniuses doomed to dissolution in some decrepit alley (said demises often carefully orchestrated by Calap himself: a word here, a raised eyebrow there, the faintest shakes of the head and so on. It is of course the task of average talents to utterly destroy their betters, but not until every strip of chewable morsel is stripped from them first). Thus lit by borrowed inspiration, Calap Roud gathered himself and found a sudden glow and calm repose in which to draw an assured breath.
‘Gather ye close, then,’ he began, in the formal fashion of fifty or so years ago, ‘to this tale of human folly, as all tales of worth do so recount, to the sorrow of men and women alike. In a great age past, when giants crouched in mountain fastnesses, fur-bedecked and gripping in hard fists the shafts of war spears; when upon the vast plains below, glaciers lay like dead things, draining their lifeblood into ever-deepening valleys; when the
land itself growled like a bear in the spring, stomach clenched in necessity, a woman of the Imass slowly died, alone, banished from her ken. She was curled in the lee of a boulder left behind by the ice. The furs covering her pale skin were worn and patched. She had gathered about herself thick mosses and wreathes of lichen to fight against the bitter wind. And though at this time none was there to cast regard upon her, she was beautiful in the way of Imass women, sibling to the earth and melt-waters, to the burst of blossoms in the short season. Her hair, maiden braided, was the colour of raw gold. Her face was broad and full-featured, and her eyes were green as the moss in which she huddled.’
The Second Collected Tales of Bauchelain & Korbal Broach: Three Short Novels of the Malazan Empire Page 17