sounded too stupid for words. Anyway, there was Oronoko to think of. If Drake went back, the purple man would probably chop off his head.Drake sulked.
Meanwhile, the Flame spoke long and hard to Gouda Muck. Until finally, on Midwinter's Day (the start of the year Tor 6, or the middle of Khmar 17, depending on one's calendar) Muck announced to the world that he was the incarnation of the Flame. And the Flame, by his account, was the High God of All Gods.'Fall down and worship me,' said Muck.
Some of his more credulous neighbours actually did. They fell to the ground, groaning. They licked his feet. They saw visions. They spoke in tongues.'Good,' said Muck. 'You see? I am God!'
And Drake, dissenting, was severely kicked and beaten. He sought refuge with his uncle.
'Man,' said Drake, 'you've got to do something! Muck's mad, I'm sure of it.'
'Endure,' said Oleg Douay, who thought a little perdition would be good for the boy.'But the man's mad, I tell you!' protested Drake.
'We're all mad,' said Oleg Douay grimly, 'or we'd have had more sense than to get ourselves born.''We don't have a choice,' said Drake.
'Of course we do!' said his uncle grimly. 'Why, only yesterday I was down by the shore in conversation with the sea gods, and they told me distinctly-'Drake turned tail and fled.
By now, financial constraints made it virtually impossible for Drake to worship at the temple brothel. What's more, Gouda Muck forbid his apprentices even to go near the place. Of course, to forbid a thing is often to encourage a taste for it. Drake had always had a love for the Demon. Now, he became a true victim of religious mania, feeling he needed to practise religion at every possible moment just to keep himself sane.But most forms of worship required money.
'What I need,' said Drake, 'is some kind of worship that will earn me money.'
Gambling was the only religious practice which seemed to meet his requirements. So he took himself off to the casinos.
From the middle of winter to the beginning of spring, Drake tried his luck and his luck tried him. After that, the casinos cut off his credit. His gambling debts were huge, and the temple's enforcers were soon pressing him for payment.
Barred from the casinos, Drake chanced his fortunes privately, hazarding ill-lit backgammon saloons and murky dice-chess parlours. To finance his ventures, he borrowed where he could, signing notes to all and sundry with his thumbprint. He wagered ever more wildly, hoping to recoup his losses. But he drank while he gambled – never a good combination. He came home drunk one night, and, feeling reckless, spat into the fire in his master's sight.
'You have defiled my living flesh,' said Gouda Muck -and began to beat him.
Drake fled. He was doing a lot of running away these days. He didn't like it. He wandered through the night, cursing, kicking cats, and working himself into a rage. This was all Zanya's fault! If that proud-faced bitchhadn't snubbed his offer, he'd never have got in this mess. That suggested a way out.
If he porked her once, surely she'd see sense. One taste of Drake Douay, and she'd be eagering for more. Yes. She'd said no, but it was common knowledge that women often said no when they meant yes. How far was it to the leper colony? Not far at all: he was almost at the edge of town already.Drake rolled up to the leper colony.
'Despatch for Zanya Kliedervaust,' he said, brandishing a wallet (which was empty). 'Urgent despatch. Immediate delivery required.''You've been drinking,' said the night porter.
'So I have,' said Drake belligerently. 'But I can still deliver a letter. If you don't want to let me through, wake your boss, and we'll talk it out with him.'
The night porter saw sense, and gave Drake directions to Zanya's quarters. It was, after all, scarcely unusual for a courier to be drunk on duty. And they did work all hours of day and night.
Shortly, Drake entered Zanya's room – a mean little hut lit by a smoky oil lamp. The woman of his desires was sitting up in bed, reading a scroll of some kind.'You!' she said.'Me,' said Drake.'Get out!' she said.
'Hey,' said Drake. 'Don't be so hard on me. I don't mean any harm. What's with that scroll?'
'This?' said Zanya, mellowing ever so slightly. 'This was lent to me by a friend. It's very interesting. It's all about Goudanism. That's the creed of Gouda Muck. I don't know if you've ever heard of him.'
'I may have,' said Drake cautiously. 'What do you think of it?'
'Great!' said Zanya, her eyes shining. 'Would you like to hear about it? Here, sit down on the floor and I'll read you some.'
That was mighty accommodating of her, under the circumstances. But Zanya, as a priestess of the Orgy God on the Ebrells, had gained a vast experience of dealing with drunks. She thought Drake was not too dangerous. If she settled him down and spoke to him nicely, likely he would go to sleep. Then she could slip out and summon Oronoko.
'Why should I listen to something about Gouda Muck?' said Drake.
'Because of who he is,' said Zanya, meaning no harm. 'He's the High God of All Gods.'
This was too much to bear. Drake had come to the woman who was the focus of all his desire – only to find Gouda Muck had come before him, in spirit if not in flesh.
With a scream of rage, Drake tore the scroll away from Zanya, and jumped on her.
She slapped a hand to his face and dug fingers into his eyes. Hard. He jerked his head back. Instantly her fingers slid to his throat and dug in. Viciously. Then she hooked an elbow into the side of his head. His world reeled. Agonizing pain exploded between his legs as she thumped him in the testicles.
Drake collapsed to the floor, a helpless heap of writhing misery. Zanya, who was indeed a well-built woman, picked him up and threw him outside.'Don't come back!' she said. 'Or I'll batter you dead!'
Drake crawled away into the darkness, groaned. But, after a while, the pain became manageable. He decided he had better go back and apologize, yes. Otherwise Zanya would be permanently soured against him. Manfully, Drake got to his feet. Someone was knocking at Zanya's door. Who? The door opened; a gleam of lamplight showed Prince Oronoko standing in the doorway.
If Drake's throat had not been so sore, he would have screamed his outrage. Instead, he stood silent as Oronoko entered. The door closed. Drake heard Zanya speak, then laugh. Well! So much for that! Drake's prospects for making his woman were – for tonight, at least – reduced to zero.
Drake was a long time getting back to the forge, since every step he took hurt him. Would the door be barred against him? It was not. Since Muck had discovered he was actually the High God of All Gods, he had lost all fear of mortal men. Everyone was asleep when Drake slipped inside, as quiet as could be.
Drake did not sleep that night. He brooded in the little attic where he was quartered, and while he brooded he drank from the crock of hard liquor he kept in his chest for emergencies.He felt humiliated.
Rape was supposed to be easy, the perfect demonstration of a man's easy mastery over a woman. But Drake had failed. Everything he tried had gone sour. His whole life was a disaster. He was ready to kill himself.
But why should he? Why should he give Gouda Muck that satisfaction? No. He shouldn't kill himself. He should do something which would really piss Muck off in a big way. But what? Burn down the forge? No good – it was insured. Let's see. Another drink, yes, that was the story. First drink, then thought. Drink was good. It eased the pain in his balls and the pain in his eyes.
Towards dawn, sore, drunk, hurt and as reckless as ever, Drake crept downstairs and stole Muck's mastersword, the prize bit of steelwork which Muck had created years before to win admission to the swordsmiths' guild.
Sunrise found Drake on the docks of Cam, determined to sell that very same sword.
At that early hour, there was little life stirring. Drake, nothing daunted, went and knocked up Theyla Slonage, a merchant from Narba who had a certain reputation. Slonage, bleary and unbeautiful in the morning light, reluctantly invited Drake into his back room.
'What have you got for me?' asked Slonage. 'And don't say yourself! You've spoilt your boyish beauty with those blacksmith's muscles. Look at your hands – Demon's grief, they're twice as tough a sharkskin. And you've been fighting. Have you looked at yourself? You've got two hideous-ugly black eyes.'
Drake, in answer, revealed the sheathed sword which had been hidden down his trouser leg. Slonage, without bothering to look at it, offered a thousandth of its value. Drake unsheathed the blade, slowly, fingerlength by fin-gerlength. Its naked beauty glimmered in the gloom. Drake, looking at it, felt almost sober.
