thanks,' said Drake.
And went away severely disillusioned with wizards and the world. But, since half the tablet remained, he took it. And, while that half a tablet contained no more than salt and sugar, Drake's faith in its qualities was such that he raged in lust for a week.
At this point it should probably be pointed out – in defence of the poor unicorn, which is increasingly rare these days – that there is no true aphrodisiac known to either man or woman (with the sole exception of propinquity, which does not come in tablet form).
In the end, Drake's lust diminished to normal levels (high, but not high enough to please him) and life itself returned to something close to normal.
Once more his main concern was his first sword. When was he going to get to make it? He dared not pester Gouda Muck, for fear the old man's temper would turn sour. But, in a frenzy of impatience, he watched Muck's slow but steady progress through his order list.
Just by watching, Drake began to learn a surprising amount. He was amazed at how much had escaped his notice in the last four years. Well, as the saying goes: 'One can achieve either perfection of the religious life or perfection of the practical life.'
Drake, till now, had always chosen religion over practicalities. But, if he had to go easy on religion in order to bring his apprenticeship to a successful conclusion, then he would make the necessary sacrifice.
'Come on, Muck,' muttered Drake to Drake, morning and night. 'Finish those swords! I want to get started on mine!'
5
Gouda Muck was an atheist.
He was, quite possibly, the only atheist in the city of Cam.' Most citizens enjoyed the practice of religion – indeed, for many devout souls, its consolations were all that made life worth living. But Gouda Muck was born to be a dissident. He refused to believe in the demon Hagon, far less to worship that formidable eater of souls.
He also avoided those sacred religious duties usually accepted even by unbelievers, viz:T patronizing the temple casinos;t copulating with the temple prostitutes;t playing the temple numbers game;t going to the temple cockfights;f participating in the human sacrifices.
His main objection to all the above activities was that they cost an exorbitant amount of money.'Religion,' said Muck, 'is a racket.'
He could get away with talk like that, for he was the second-best swordsmith on Stokos, where metalworkers were valued highly.
Gouda Muck lived with three boys, but slept with none of them. One was a deaf mute who shovelled coal, worked the bellows, and exorcised the minor demons of puberty by raping chickens. The other two, Drake and Yot, were older, virgins no longer though beardless still.
The fair-haired Drake had, till now, been very religious: he loved to drink, gamble, fight and swear, and relished the privileges which came with having a sister in the temple. Unfortunately, there had been times when he had overdone things somewhat – and the people of Stokos, like people elsewhere, frowned on religious mania.
'Balance,' said Drake to himself, 'that's the thing. I've got to find a balance between the pleasures of religion and the demands of the world of work.'
Yot, on the other hand, had no such problems to grapple with, for he was a spiritless fellow, a lank pale stripling with a runny nose (an allergy to coal dust made his life miserable with rhinitis) and warts.
And it was with Yot that the trouble began. It began only nine days after Drake saw the wizard Miphon – that is, just twenty days after Drake's ordeal at sea. It began when Yot, refusing to accept expense as excuse sufficient, demanded the real reason for Muck's dissent.
T only believe in the Flame,' said Muck, peering into the furnace.'The Flame?' asked Yot.
'Aye, boy,' said Muck, amused by Yot's wide-eyed attention. 'The living presence of the High God of All Gods, which purifies as it witnesses.'
Drake, who was working in the forge at the time, heard that, but kept himself from sniggering. He wanted to hear more. So did Yot.'How does it purify?' asked Yot.
'It burns, boy,' said Muck. 'Didn't your mother ever teach you that? Stick a hand in, if you doubt me – it'll do more than clean your fingernails. It burns, and I can see that it burns. Ocular proof, aye, that's the thing.'
'But what's this business about gods?' asked Yot. 'How did you find out about that?'
The Flame spoke to me,' said Gouda Muck. 'And it speaks to me still.'
And, seeing Yot's jaw drop, he continued the joke. At length.
Afterwards, Drake teased Yot for believing in fairy tales. But Yot, stubborn in belief, refused to concede that Muck's dogma was a load of tripe and codswallop, conjured up for the whim of the moment. They fought. Drake, as usual, won – but Yot still made no intellectual concessions. He went on asking for tales of the Flame, and Muck went on telling them.
Well, all was fine at first. Then, after Muck had been telling these fairy tales for three days, the Flame did speak to him. It roared up out of the furnace, hung purple in the air, and shouted in a voice of drums and cymbals:'Muck! Thou art who thou art!'Then left, even as Muck fainted.
On recovery, Muck decided he had experienced a true religious revelation. Actually, the syphilis scrambling his brain had made him hallucinate. The syphilis, by the way, was a souvenir of his riotous youth – Muck had been solemnly celibate these past thirty-five years or more.
The Flame spoke often thereafter, bringing Faith to Gouda Muck; those gnawing spirochaetes had a lot to answer for. Muck listened to the Flame as he laboured in the forge; he heard it as he ate his meals or walked by the dockside; the Flame gave him fresh revelations in his dreams.
How long does it take to create a religion? Inspired by syphilis, Gouda Muck took precisely two days to lay down the foundations of his own faith.
The revelations of the Flame elevated Muck's personal quirks to the status of divine law: no drink, no gambling, no fighting and no loose women. What's more, thrift became an absolute virtue. Muck immediately began to help his apprentices be good by banking half their paltry wages into trust accounts managed by the Orsay Bank.
Drake had till then been happy enough as a sword-smith's devil, since all his hardships had been sweetened by the compensations of religion. With these denied to him – the confiscation of half his wages made certain of that – life went sour.'Endure,' said Drake to Drake.
He must live for the day when he was a master swordsmith, yes, with his own forge and apprentices.
'Muck,' said Drake, one evening. 'How about setting a definite date for me to start making my first sword?''Why should I do that?' said Muck.
'Because it will give me something to look forward to,' said Drake.
'You've got nothing to look forward to,' said Muck. 'You're a filthy little scag-bag stuffed with iniquity. You pollute the forge by your very presence. All you're good for is slave labour.''Oh, come now!' said Drake. 'A joke's a joke, but-'
'I'm not joking!' roared Muck. 'You'll never make a sword in this forge, no.'
'But,' said Drake, 'I have to make swords. Lots of them. So I can finish my apprenticeship.'
'Time will finish your apprenticeship nicely,' said Muck. 'But you won't be a swordsmith at the end of it, oh no. When I'm finished with you, we'll kick you back to the filthy coal cliffs you came from.'
Drake was staggered by this sudden turnaround. He really thought he'd finally come to terms with Gouda Muck. Now – what was he supposed to think? He could only suppose that he had grievously offended Muck in the
