In truth – a truth he never trusted any pirate with – he had been educated in a convent school in Ashmolea, where he had delighted his tutors by his dedication to rhetoric, grammar, elocution and linguistic philosophy.
(The rough-talking Walrus had his own dire secret. In his youth, he had been a gardener's boy in Chenameg. All through adolescence, he had longed to win a place in King Lyra's poetry league. Hence: many lines about damsel-blushing bloom in cheeks of cherry blossom, fish-surfaced aroma of blue winds of heavenly sunlight, and so forth. Then came the day when he ran amok in drunken rage, having found the rumours that his verses were used by the King for toilet paper were – alas! – entirely true.)
'Go then,' said the Walrus, speaking roughly, as a pirate must. 'If your liver returns, I'll honour you by eating it.''I'm flattered,' said Arabin.
And went ashore, taking with him a handful of men who could play the role of courtier – i.e., could put two words together without inserting an obscenity between them. Young Drake went with him, and Sully Yot. Rolf Thelemite, who had always pretended to be more noble than the rest of them. Simp Fiche, who, for all that could be said against him, at least knew how to eat with his mouth shut. Ching Quail, who had spent his youth trying to win entry to the banker's guild.
Arabin also took – as muscle – Bucks Cat and Whale Mike. But both were under strict instructions to play the role of deaf mutes.
Ashore they went, and played their roles as best they could. But the good people of Brennan soon had their doubts. These could not possibly be ambassadors! No, just looking at the way Jon Arabin carried himself, it was obvious that he could be no less than the bold Baron Farouk himself.
'If your trade hopes come true, Baron – my apologies, I meant Ambassador,' said old Gezeldux, who ran the best bar in Brennan, 'will your ships then port in Brennan?'
'That depends how much you over-charge us by,' said Jon Arabin.
A sally which raised – for they were all relaxed – a roar of laughter.
Things went so well ashore that the venture did not end as the swift diplomatic mission Jon Arabin had planned, but became something of a party. The pirates paid good gold for better ale, heard local jokes and told their own, and were, naturally enough, asked about Hexagon.
'Let my son play geographer,' said Jon Arabin, with a nod in Drake's direction.
'Your son?' said a local, dubious about the possibility of a blood connection between the corn-haired Drake and pitch black Jon Arabin.
'Well, he's my son in a manner of speaking,' said Jon Arabin. 'His mother, after all, was my wife. She was blonde – and so was the servant I thought was a eunuch.'This claim raised a roar of drunken laughter.
'Anyway,' said Jon Arabin, 'let my son tell of Hexagon, for he knows the island true, and the seas around.'
So Drake told of the silver-horned unicorns of Hexagon; of men who fly in kites and fire-balloons; of a seamless metal pillar rising half a league skywards from the Games Court of the Baron's palace; of a shark the size of a ship and a jellyfish the size of a longboat; of a place where the sea boiled continuously and floating rock bubbled to the surface, while overhead circled a strange disc which looked to be made of gold.
These tales he told, and others equally incredible. All were disbelieved – and for a very simple reason. They were all true. And, as is well known, truth is far, far stranger than fiction.
'Methinks in truth this Hexagon's a place so boring a traveller must fiction it up to win half a hearing at all,' said old Gezeldux.
'No,' insisted Drake. 'We have strange things there, strange things. Look – this was given me by the Baron's eldest daughter. Is it not strange enough for you?'
And he showed off a cameo brooch, the only one he had ever seen. The Baron's eldest daughter, when prisoner on the
'A trinket,' said Gezeldux, with something in his voice suggesting he might have sneered had that been in his nature. 'There's nothing strange about that.'
'Ah,' said Drake, 'but I'm living proof of strangeness myself. I've matched you drink for drink, yet my hands don't shake.'And he held them out sober in front of him.
'You see,' said Drake, 'on Hexagon we worship the Flame, and as a priest of the Flame I am guarded against all intoxication.'He saw Yot looking at him, scandalized; he winked.'What's this Flame?' asked a voice.Drake told. His audience fell about laughing.
'Don't laugh,' he said. 'People have been killed for less than that.'
But he could not convince them that anyone could take such fabrications seriously.
'And,' said old Gezeldux, 'my hands aren't shaking yet either. See?'
This naturally precipitated a drinking contest, which Drake, equally naturally, won.
His tale about being a priest of the Flame, consecrated to eternal sobriety, began to win some credence. The hard drinkers of Brennan set out to test it in earnest. They fed him with ale and with rum, plied him with vodka and strawberry liqueur, topped his mug with Essence of Anemone and spiked it with Heavenly Dreams, dosed him with cider and treated him to cognac – all with no effect.
By that time, everyone in the bar (except Drake) was thoroughly drunk.
'Boy,' said Gezeldux, slurring his words, 'you've been good enough for most things, but I bet you're not good enough for this.'
And he pulled out a blue-glazed ceramic bottle and thumped it on his counter.'Firewater, boy, the Old Original from the very Ebrell
Islands themselves. I bet you've not seen firewater before.'
'No,' said Drake, just a touch of uncertainty in his voice.
He had certainly never seen firewater, but he had heard whispers of its evil reputation in sundry drinking places everywhere from Stokos to the Teeth. Until now, he had thought its threat apocryphal. But here it was. The stuff itself.
Gezeldux tipped the last of the salted sprats out of the free lunch bowl, and slowly poured the firewater. The liquid curled slowly through the air, hissing as it hit the bowl. The bowl filled. Green flames danced across the surface.
'Come now,' said Gezeldux, as Drake hesitated. 'A priest of the Flame doesn't fear a fire as small as this – does he?''No,' said Drake, still uncertain.
'Courage, son,' said Jon Arabin, just sober enough to stay upright in his chair. 'You're a hero, aren't you?''Right!'said Drake.
And picked up the bowl with all due ceremony, and drank.
The firewater was cool, it was cold, it slid down like raw fish then flashed red-hot in his stomach. His vision blurred as veils of darkness hazed the room. He felt dizzy. Then, swiftly, his head cleared again, and the fire in his belly died down.
'A good drop,' he said, seeing that the bowl was still half-full.And drank the rest.
'Holy mother of a million octopuses!' breathed Gezeldux, who had not been so awed for fifty years or more – not since the time he first saw Big Bertha's breasts.
'You see?' said Drake, with the triumphant arrogance of youth, putting down the empty bowl. 'There's nothing that can touch me!'That was too much to bear.
'Oh isn't there just,' muttered Gezeldux grimly. T tell you what, young sprig – I bet you can't stay sober on this.'
'Five bricks to a buggering says that I can,' said Drake – which was not actually a bet but simply a bit of gutter-Galish well known from Drangsturm to Chi'ash-lan. 'What is it?''This!' said Gezeldux.
And slapped a small bottle of green cut glass onto the counter. Slapped it down so hard it almost broke. It was a mess of dust and cobwebs, but, polished up quickly, it glittered. With hands that shook slightly, Gezeldux pulled the glass stopper. Then he poured the contents into a transparent drinking glass, a rarity of special manufacture that was not just transparent but was (when scrupulously clean) actually invisible.
Out of the bottle of green cut glass came an orange fluid that writhed slowly in the glass.'What is it?' asked Drake.
'I've no idea,' came the frank reply. 'My great-greatgrandfather took it from the body of a drowned wizard. Never been nobody with the nerve to try it yet.'
