his mother's expression began to change . .
When Drake realized Muck's mother had been converted to her son's cult, he almost despaired.'But,' he said, 'we can still try . . .'
And he denounced Muck to the Chamber of Commerce. That august body investigated, found the truth was worse than the report – the prophet of the Flame was starting to proselytize his neighbours – and promptly had Gouda Muck thrown into jail.
This happened on Midsummer's Day, two months after Drake's sixteenth birthday. By local reckoning, it was the middle of the year Tor 5; by the Collosnon dating which more of the world is familiar with, it was the start of Khmar 17. In any event, the date eventually became known as the Day of the Martyrdom of Muck; its anniversary was ultimately enshrined as the most sacred event of the Holy Calendar of Goudanism.
Considering what some martyrs endure, Muck got off lightly. He was not beaten, flayed, singed, starved, or exhibited in the stocks for the populace to throw stones at. His prison pallet had bedbugs, true, and his cell had rats – but his home had more of both. And, in any case, the terrible old man was soon released. All that money he had saved by never debauching himself in the temple had come in handy for bribes.'How did you get out?' asked Yot.'The Flame saved me,' said Gouda Muck.
And, once said, it was impossible not to believe.Muck spent long days brooding.So did Drake.
Muck was showing no signs of coming to his senses. All attempts at getting rid of him had failed. So what now? Endure life as a virtual slave for the rest of his apprenticeship? Try again to run away? Or what? Drake decided that, as a point of honour, he would bring his apprenticeship to a successful conclusion despite anything and everything Muck might try.'Living well is the best revenge,' said Drake.
He imagined himself presenting a mastersword for the examination of the swordsmith's guild. Oh, that would give Muck a shock!
Accordingly, Drake went to see his uncle. He found Oleg painting some of his favourite skulls in patterns of red and green.'What do you want?' said Oleg.
'I want to work at your forge in the evenings, after I finish work for Muck,' said Drake. 'I want you to teach me how swords are really made. I want you to give me all the learning so I can make my own mastersword.''Oh, I can't do that!' said Oleg. 'It wouldn't be ethical.'
'But it's the only way!' said Drake, in tones of utter despair. 'Muck still refuses to teach me!''Doubtless because you've been naughty,' said Oleg, dabbing a brushload of red paint into the nose-hole of one of his skulls. 'Go back and apologize. You'll see. Things will soon come right.'
Drake did apologize. Again. He grovelled.It did him no good whatsoever.
'At least things can't get any worse,' said Drake to himself.
He was wrong, of course. Things can always get worse.
Shortly after Midsummer's Day, Drake's sister found a lump in her mouth. A friend examined it for her, and told her it was blue. The next day another lump sprouted. It could not be doubted: she had blue leprosy.She cut her throat.
Drake mourned her for fifty days. In his grief, he no longer cared about his prospects for becoming a sword- smith. He also mourned for himself. For Miphon had made it clear that blue leprosy was spread by sex. Since Drake's sister had had the disease, it was even odds that he had it too.'So what am I to do?' he said to himself.He went and asked a priest for help.
'The answer is simple,' said the priest. 'As the wizard Miphon explained, there's no telling if you've got blue leprosy, for it may not show up for years. If you do get it, there's no cure, so don't bother looking for one. In the meantime, wear a condom every time you copulate with woman or man or dog or pig or whatever it is you fancy. That way, you won't spread the disease to anyone else.'Small comfort that was.
After another thirty days, however, Drake had got over his grief, fear and panic. Maybe he was infected. Maybe not. In any case, he was unlikely to find out for a year or two. Even if he had blue leprosy, a period of grace remained to him. He had better use that time wisely.But how?
His sixteenth birthday was 150 days in the past. The end of his apprenticeship, which had once seemed to lie far away in the infinite future, would be upon him in little more than a year and a half. Oleg Douay still refused to believe Drake's account of his plight, or to give Drake the teaching he needed. Overtures to other swordsmiths brought blunt refusals.
It was clear he would never make a masters word, or have his own forge, or have apprentices to kick around. He was getting old; his youth and hope were gone; he was finished. Sadly, Drake concluded that all that remained to him were the compensations of religion.
'I will devote what time remains to me,' said Drake, 'to the practical worship of the Gift.'
The Gift? Sex! (And, technically, alcohol and drugs as well.)
Unfortunately, Muck had taken to banking his apprentices' wages with the Orsay Bank in toto. Drake was penniless. And, since his sister was dead, he no longer had special privileges at the temple.'Right,' he said. 'I'll sell my body.'He had done it before, so he could do it again.
He cruised the docks, but found no buyers. For everyone knew why his sister had committed suicide, and none dared couple with someone who might be contaminated with blue leprosy. Thanks to the efforts of the temple of Hagon, knowledge of its etiology had spread throughout Cam. Priests boarded every incoming ship, preached doctrines of safe sex, advertised the temple prostitutes and warned against liaisons with dockside riff-raff.
'Right,' said Drake. 'I've got no sister. I've got no money. I can't sell my body. So how do I get a woman?'
Simple: he would have to make someone fall in love with him. Or at least in lust with him.
Since he might already be doomed to die of blue leprosy, the colony on the outskirts of town held little fear for him. He ventured there, and found Zanya Kliedervaust on her hands and knees scrubbing out bedpans.'Remember me?' said Drake.She looked up from her work.
'Oh yes,' she said. 'I remember you. You're the crazy fisherman we hauled out of the sea a horizon away from Stokos.'
'That's right,' said Drake. 'Only I'm a swordsmith, not a fisherman. Your body language tells me that you're looking for a relationship.'
He had rehearsed that line – and many others besides -for a long time. It came out perfectly.'What?' said Zanya, sounding both tired and puzzled.
'I'm seeking to make a treaty against the loneliness of flesh born into solitude,' said Drake. 'I aspire to harmonize our auras into one mutual faith.'
'My Galish,' said Zanya, 'is not the best, though it improves steadily. You'll have to speak plain if you wish to be understood.'
Oh! So there was a language problem! That was all right, then. For a moment, Drake had almost been afraid that his blond good looks were failing to make the right impression on the lady.
'Zanya,' said Drake, T like your looks, just as I'm sure you like mine. What say we get together tonight? We'd look right handsome together.''What have you got in mind?' said Zanya.
'Some mutual moonlight, a dash of star-hunting, then a little lick of sweet honey.'
Zanya entirely failed to recognize the import of these delicate euphemisms, which were part of the common language of courtship on Stokos.'Speak plainly,' she said. 'What do you want?'
Drake, his eloquence thwarted by her linguistic ignorance, lost patience – and gave an answer which was, unfortunately, honest, clear, direct and straightforward.'I'm in lust,' he said. T want to fornicate.'
'I'm not meat,' said Zanya coldly. 'I'm a woman. There's a difference.'And she went back to her scrubbing.
'Sorry,' said Drake. 'I meant no offence. I didn't mean to be so blunt. But-'
Later, sullen and disconsolate, he brooded over his failure with Zanya. She hadn't even bothered to ask his name.
He thought – and thought hard – about the advice the wizard Miphon had given him. All that stuff about flowers, poetry, daily visits, sincerity, pretty speaking, persistence. Should he try it? No, it couldn't possibly work. It
