The Walrus and the Warwolf

and in fact nine were in port when the Warwolf tied up.One of the nine was the Walrus.

This had not always been a pirate ship. Indeed, some months earlier it had been an honest slaver, and, bearing the name Gol-sa-danjerk, had sailed from Androlmarphos with a cargo of felons – one of whom had been Drake Douay.

The green-bearded Slagger Mulps had captured the Gol-sa-danjerk, and had put a prize crew on board. Thus, after he had been rescued from the Gaunt Reefs, he had still had a ship to his name. And there, on the deck of it, he stood, arms folded.

Also on deck was Atsimo Andranovory in all his glory -grinning as he recognized Drake. He had a good head for faces.

'Hello darling!' he called. 'Like to give me a suck?' 'I'll see you suck on this first!' shouted Drake, drawing his dirk.

'Once you've taken it up the arse I'll love to,' retorted Andranovory.

And of course their dialogue did not end there, for, being who they were and where they were, they vented their spleen with all the eloquence available to them, which was considerable in both cases. And the crews of both ships jeered or cheered each sally, depending on their allegiance.

And while this was going on, a couple of workaholics who had no appreciation of theatre were busy tying up the Warwolf and lowering the gangplank.

And then the men of the Warwolf came swaggering off the ship like the heroes they were. For had they not faced storms, aye, and hurricanes, and tornadoes too? And had they not fought monsters, yes, doing battle with half a dozen Neversh for the possession of their ship? And had they not drunk five pubs in Narba stone-bone dry, a feat which fifty eminent philosophers and a panel of high-class theologians and over-paid jurists had declared to be nine-tenths impossible? And had they not been to Ling, and deflowered five thousand of the virgins of the place, yes, and pleasured the mothers of those girls as well?

But the heroes of the Warwolf failed to meet with the universal applause they deserved, for the crew of the Walrus (idle slobs, scabs and fish-fornicators that they were) jeered at them because they had been engaging in honest trade, of all things, which was surely anathema, even if it was for pearls, aye, and dangerous, and highly profitable into the bargain.

'What's lower than a merchant-trader?' cried a crewman from the Walrus.'A coward!' came the reply.And the fight was on.

In the fracas, Drake went chest to chest with Bucks Cat and sustained three broken ribs, a mild concussion, a black eye and a seven-stitch gash to his left forearm. But he thought it worth it, for he was now well and truly one of the crew.

And, indeed, Drake got a crewman's share of the voyage profits, which Arabin had withheld till then so his men would not booze away the money in Narba. By now, Drake knew that the strange coinage of the Greater Teeth was actually the common currency of Narba, the only port which would trade with them. He also learned that the more sober-minded pirates banked there, and the lucky few who survived to the age of arthritis retired there to drink away their dotage in comparative comfort.

The Warwolf would not put to sea again for some time, not least because Jon Arabin would be busy with his harem, which he was having shipped from Gufling. Jon Arabin was ascetic yet devout, and his own religion – the Creed of Anthus – enjoined each man 'to plant a tree for each you cut down, and father a man for each you kill'.

Jon Arabin, having done a lot of killing in his time, was always kept busy when he was at home. Unfortunately, his frantic exertions tended to lower his sperm count below the level at which impregnation was likely. Fortunately for the ease of his conscience, other men helped him out behind his back, and he was now three killings in credit.

Just because they were not at sea did not mean there was no work to do. Jon Arabin was true to his vow to have the Warwolf overhauled. So there was sanding, sawing, hammering and whitewashing, and there was a drydock to be pumped out, and then there was singeing and scraping to clean the hull. The garden of weed Drake had first noticed at Ling was torn from the hull in wet reeking clumps, or burnt off along with goose neck barnacles and other rubbish.

And then, since Jon Arabin had decided to experiment with mailletage (that is, covering the timber with nails) there was a blistering amount of hammering to be done.

Crewmen from the Walrus dropped by on a jegular basis to jeer at the sailors doing this slave work. Jon Arabin had gone into debt after he lost his ship on the shores of Lorp, and was taken prisoner by the most vicious people to be found in all of Argan. He had spent three miserable seasons eating sheep's guts and pigs' eyes before the laborious efforts of some trusted retainers had delivered his ransom. He was now finally out of hock, but still could not afford to buy new ship-working slaves.

Finally, after a crewman from the Walrus was found floating face-down in the Inner Sleeve with fifty-seven nails hammered into his head, the teasing stopped.

While all this work was going on, the encysted snake buried deep within Drake's gut quietly allowed its flesh to dissolve. A mob of eggs hatched in the wreckage of its body, and myriad worms began to infiltrate Drake's bloodstream. They embedded themselves in the walls of his duodenum, set up residence in the portal vein, squatted in his liver and crept up to his brain; they housed themselves in his stomach; they invaded his lymphatic system and burrowed into his bones. And multiplied.Drake became feverish.

For five days he endured high temperatures, rigors and blistering thirst. Arabin's own women took care of him. They soothed him, sang to him, sponged his forehead and fed him crab soup, fish roe, sea slugs, pulped sea anemones and other invalid food.And then the fever broke.And Drake felt fine.

He felt better than he had ever felt before in his life – and this was scarcely surprising. For the snake which had eaten its way into his flesh in Ling dated its ancestry back through the millenia to a tailored organism especially designed to complement the other defences of the Plague Sanctuary. The worms which had metastasized throughout his body were fulfilling the designs of an ancient science, normalizing his body functions, enhancing the action of his immune system, detoxifying poisons and killing off disease organisms.

The worms were rapidly finishing off an obscure low-grade viral infection distantly related to glandular fever, the start of a tubercular infection, two exotic venereal diseases which had not yet had time to debilitate their victim, a troublesome amoeba which had recently begun to cause him some intermittent diarrhoea, and a couple of wild and wonderful infections (native to the Greater Teeth) unknown to any standard classification.

So, while Drake had always been comparatively healthy, he now felt really good. So good, in fact, that he had to celebrate his recovery with a drink or three.

He did so – but even after his fifth mug, he felt scarcely more than a tingle.'What're you selling me?' he demanded. 'Water?'

'You young pups,' said his barman, shaking his head. 'You don't know your limits. But I'll help you find yours.'

And he mixed Drake a Skull Splitter, a popular cocktail consisting of equal measures of vinegar, methylated spirit, absinthe, vodka and apricot wine.'Drink this!' said the barman.

'Ah!' said Drake, as the poison went burning down his throat. 'That tastes better.'

A warm glow filled his stomach. He waited for a sense of langorous well-being to cosy his soul, for the harsh outlines of the world to soften and the burden of gravity to be at least partially nullified. But nothing so pleasant happened.

Instead, after a few moments, the warm glow was gone, and he was back where he started.

'Look, man,' said Drake, 'I don't know what fancy kind of coloured water that was, but I'm buggered if I'm paying for it.'

'It's strong enough for most folks,' said the barman, aggrieved. 'Why, three of those and Slagger Mulps was legless.'

'Sure, but I'm not a wimp like the Walrus. I'm a drinking man, the real article. So pour me something stronger. If you know how!'

'Aye,' said the barman, sensing a challenge here to his professional reputation. T can pour stronger, if that's what you want. But I won't be responsible for the consequences, mind.'

'I'm ready,' said Drake, fiercely. 'Hold back on nothing!'