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.'
'He's nothing special,' said Drumbo. 'But for his robes, perhaps. Fancy with flame they were.''Flame?' said Drake.
'Like enough,' said Drumbo. 'Either that, or someone had vomited carrots and tomatoes all over his robes.'
'Where was this?' asked Drake, who was, of course, seriously interested.'Outside the Old Courthouse,' said Drumbo.'Courthouse?' said Drake.
'It's an inn, now,' said Drumbo. 'But these preacher folk have taken it over entire, use it as a temple. Platform outside, guards on the gate, and all too holy within for strangers to enter.''But you saw her,' said Drake. 'The woman, I mean.'
'The blood-coloured bitch. Oh yes, she was on the platform with his worship,' said Drumbo. 'Wonder what colour her slunt shapes, eh?'
'If she was on the platform,' said Drake, 'how come you got close enough for mating?'
'Come now!' protested Drumbo. 'What is this? You talk at lies for longer than it takes to skin a whale with a toothpick, then-'
'Did you see the woman or didn't you?' said Drake, dangerously close to losing his temper. 'I saw her!''What did she look like?' said Drake. 'Speak true!'
'Why,' said Drumbo, shaping generous curves in the air, 'like this and like this. She had two tits, if I counted right. A tall bitch, you'd look stupid beside her.'
'It's not fashion which worries me when I'm after a woman,' said Drake.
'You're hot for reds, are you?' said Drumbo. 'At the Cat's Head they've got a whole pack of women in red, would do you good, man.'
'He's been there,' said Quebec. 'We were there together the day before yesterday.'
'Aye,' said Drake. 'Now tell me where I find this Old Courthouse . . .'
45
The Old Courthouse was in Libernek Square, in Santrim, a quarter Drake had seldom visited. On arrival, he found a crowd listening to Gouda Muck preach from a platform built above the gate leading into the walled courtyard of the Old Courthouse. Drake strove toward the platform, but could not get near for the crush. He backed off, and hastened to the monumental sculpture which dominated the centre of the piazza.
The sculpture was a rococo piece of nonsense erected to celebrate heroes of Selzirk*s glorious past. Around an enormous central column formed by a coiling dragon – which had somehow become encrusted with seashells, baby mermaids, strings of onions and other tomfoolery – there were arrayed equestrian heroes (lifesize), several Neversh (in miniature), gryphons, unicorns, a platypus (which had no good excuse for being there, and no bad one either), a taniwha, a moray eel, and numerous ribs, vertebrae, skulls and jawbones cast in bronze.
Drake scaled this swiftly, displacing small children where necessary. On reaching a bronze horse which lacked a rider, he supplied its lack. And sat there in state, Investigating.
'. . . doom,'said GoudaMuck.'Doom, and death, unto the fiftieth generation. . .''Boring old mother-beater,' muttered Drake.
And looked beyond Muck to the Old Courthouse. It was built round three sides of an enclosed courtyard. The outer wall of the yard sustained the platform on which stood Gouda Muck, giving a dyslogistic lecture on the manners and mores of Selzirk. Scrutiny of the killing ground complete, Drake returned his attention to Muck.
The preacher had abandoned the plain purple he wore when Drake saw him last, in Runcorn. Instead, he wore robes of the most remarkable mixture of red, orange and yellow. Muck was dressed as the Flame. And he was ranting:
'. . . beware protein! Beware eggs! Beware meat! They are evil! They lewd the flesh to fornication!'
Drake was glad to see the audience treated this as light entertainment. He suspected some would have multiplied the amusement factor by throwing things, except that in amongst the crowd were two or three dozen tough young stave-men, dressed in robes of Flame like their master.
'. . . your daughters will die of cancers of the womb,' shouted Muck. 'Their flesh will be torn by the knives of abortion! Evil is the flesh, and evil are the pleasures thereof.'He sounded hoarse.
He paused as a woman climbed onto the platform. She carried a glass of fine-cut crystal which she handed to Muck, who drank the water it contained. The woman was red in skin; her hair, piled up in a high and narrow tower held together with a multitude of pins, was also red. She wore flowing silks, and jewels which flashed in the sun.It was Zanya.'Zanya!' yelled Drake.She looked over the crowd, bewildered.
'It's me!' shouted Drake, kicking the bronze horse with his heels, waving his hands frantically. 'Arabin lol Arabin! Your lover! Your husband!''Drake!' roared Gouda Muck.'Yes, I see you too!' shouted Drake. 'Go back to
Stokos, you evil old bugger! But give me back my woman first!'
'Kill him!' screamed Muck. 'He's the Demon-son! The Evil One! Pull him down! Cut him, bash him, burn him!'
But the mob simply laughed. To them, this was all part of the day's theatre. Unlike Stokos, Selzirk had never been oppressed by compulsory debauchery, so the social tensions Muck's religion sought to exploit were lacking.
'They'll do nothing against me,' yelled Drake. 'They know what you are! A mad old bugger with a withered old cock, that's what! Lunatic, man! Zanya, get down from there! Bring me your breasts most beautiful, darling!'
After some confusion on the stage, Zanya disappeared into the courtyard. Muck gestured in Drake's direction, and his stavemen began to muscle through the crowd, determined to seize the miscreant.'Oh shit,' said Drake to Drake.
And descended to the ground rapidly, bowling a number of small children in his haste. Leaving those wailing juveniles in his wake, he fled.
A mad chase they had of it through the streets of Santrim, Drake in front and the better part of thirty Flame- robed stavemen in the rear. Drake was still leading when they got to Kesh, the gate-tower dividing the Four Worlds of Selzirk.
There was usually a traffic jam of sorts at that bottleneck, but today it was worse than ever, for a funeral procession was going through Kesh. Or, more accurately, trying to go. It was getting nowhere fast.
The demon-drivers paced up and down on the spot, blowing their horns and trumpets; the chief mourners lay cursing in their palankeens; the pall-bearers, unable to take the weight any longer, let their burden rest; the hired hands from the Weepers amp; Waiters Guild gnashed their teeth and clawed the air with less and less passion as the delay lengthened.
Then came Drake.
Between the legs of a horn-player he went. Up he bobbed, dived through the silks of a palankeen and crash- landed on the belly of Mistress Turbothot, alumnus of the Santrim Institute For Feminine Arts, wife of Troldot 'Heavy-Fist' Turbothot, and patron of the Seventh College of the Inner Circle of the Fish-Star Astrologers.'Pardon,' said Drake.'Rape!' she screamed.
He dived through the far side of the palankeen, fell heavily on top of Mistress Turbothot's pet badger-dog (and killed the poor thing, though he was too busy to notice its demise), trampled over the coffin of the deceased (to whom he never got introduced), ducked a spear, dodged a sword, was missed by a whip, went pelting over the backs of a herd of hogs (no wonder there was a traffic jam!), and gained the comparative safety of Jone.
Where he stopped, panting hard and grinning like an idiot. Man! He hadn't had so much fun since he celebrated his sixteenth birthday. And that was saying something!Then he saw a Flame-coloured robe.'How many of you, darlings?' said Drake, softly.There was just one. So far.
