'In truth, we scarcely spoke two words. But the way he looked at me… it bodes ill for the future.' 'You still think he means to kill you?' Think!' said Lod. 'I know it! Murder is his middle name.'
On reaching Selzirk, they rode through the streets of Wake to Kesh, walked their horses through the crush of people shuffling through that gate-tower, won their way through to Santrim then rode through that elegant quarter to Farfalla's palace.
There they returned their horses (theirs to borrow, though technically the kingmaker's property) to the stables, then walked back to Kesh and then on to Lod's favourite watering hole, a smoke-sour tavern in Jone where the rough-brawling inhabitants of the city's dockside quarter came to gamble and get drunk.
In that maze of barracks, brothels, shipyards and bars, of tenement slumlands, thieves' dens and rat- rule warehouses, Sarazin was safer than when at home. In Farfalla's palace, he was ever watched by spies from the Regency – but few such would dare to follow him into Jone, most dangerous of the Four Worlds of Selzirk.
That, at least, was the theory advanced by Lod when the rascal first tempted Sarazin into the slum streets. Later, Sarazin had realised he was watched always and every- where, regardless of the dangers of his environment. Still, he had to admit he sometimes found the atmosphere in Farfalla's palace claustrophobic, and was glad to escape to the free and easy dockside life.
These excursions were not really reckless, for Sarazin was too poor to be mugged for his money, since Farfalla gave him only a trifling allowance. He was not pretty enough to be kidnapped for the sake of his flesh. He carried weapons from habit, and knew how to use them. And, most important of all: Lod had many friends in Jone. Heavymen, bouncers and gateguards would protect Sarazin, for Lod's sake, if the going ever got rough.
For a while Lod and Sarazin sat brooding over a couple of beers, playing a desultory game of cards. Sarazin won a few dorths off Lod.
'It's getting late,' said Lod at length. 'Shall we liven the evening?' 'How so?' said Sarazin.
There's cock fighting at the Vampire's Stake tonight. Want to come along?'
'Not this evening,' said Sarazin. 'I've an appointment with a fortune teller.'
'The one to whom I introduced you?' said Lod. 'Madam Ix?' 'The same,' said Sarazin.
Idly, he wondered if Lod got a cut from the money he paid out to these palmists and shadow-thinkers. But Lod put his mind to rest by his very next words.
'You should beware,' said Lod. These people always overcharge. Never part with so much as a dorth if you're short of full satisfaction.' You're a fund of good advice,' said Sarazin. That,' said Lod, 'is the source of my pride.'
So Sarazin was certain Lod was honest. But even if Lod had been in the pay of the fortune tellers to whom he introduced Sarazin, it would still have been necessary for Sarazin to use their services. For how else could he find out why he was not succeeding in life?
There was so much he wanted so very very badly. Power. Fame. Prestige. Honour. Glory. And money money money. But none of it was coming his way. Indeed, wherever he turned his prospects seemed to be blocked by insuperable barriers. However, he knew there had to be a way to get what he wanted.
For, after all, since we have free will, all things are possible. Furthermore, possession of free will makes us entirely responsible for our lives. Everything happens to us by our own choice.
'All I want, then,' said Sarazin to himself, 'is a little advice on how to take responsibility for myself. That's not asking too much, is it now?'
Madam Ix did not dwell in the slumlands of Jone, but resided to the north, in Wake, hard up by Ol Unamon (the inner battle-wall of Selzirk). Her house was right next to the Seventh College of the Inner Circle of the Fish-Star Astrologers – just across the road from Wargol's Statue Hire and Thatcher's Slave Correction Services. When Sarazin entered her chambers, joss sticks were 66 burning, scenting the air with mysterious perfumes. Candlelight stirred shadows in dusty corners. Quarles the owl – to whom Sarazin was introduced with a consider- able degree of ceremony – sat on Madam Lx's shoulder. Blinking.
'Sit you down, young Sarazin,' said Madam Ix, patting her powdered wig, which was adorned with three dozen fishbones. Sarazin sat. What is it you wish to know?' said Madam Ix. 'The future,' said Sarazin.
Then he crossed her palm with silver in the time- approved manner. It is often averred that Money, like Music, hath Powers; what is beyond dispute is that professional powers of prognosis can seldom be made to work without it.
There was a pause while Madam Ix tossed the yarrow sticks, consulted the Book, sacrificed a pinch of salt to the Sacred Goldfish, engaged in telepathic communion with Quarles the owl, then orientated her turtle-shell knife towards north.
'Now,' she said, breathing heavily, 'now I am ready to commune with the Beyond.'
Madam Ix stared for a while at nothing. Eyes vacant. Then began twitching. Shaking. Shivering. Voices mut- tered in the corners of the room. Sarazin had the fearful impression that something without was trying to break into the room. To get at them. To To what? He dared not think, but was relieved when life returned to the eyes of Madam Ix. Now she would speak. She had seen Beyond: now she would talk and reveal.
'I see war,' she said. 'I see, too, you youfself named for war. Watashi they will call you.'
'A strange name!' said Sarazin, perplexed by this. Then, keen to know how he would fare with Amantha, he said: 'What do you see of love?'
The fortune-teller looked at his face and saw there what she took to be the hormone-hyped gleam of puppy love, though it was in fact the lust for power, fame, wealth and glamour. She told him what he wanted to hear.
You love a lady,' she said. Through love, your destiny you'll find.' 'But how?' said Sarazin, in a voice close to despair. 'The how and the why are not in my keeping,' she said.
And, lacking the money to persuade her to say more, he had to depart unsatisfied.
That night, Sarazin lay dreaming of Amantha. He dreamed in particular of the pink flesh which lined her naos, the holy of holies which he wished to penetrate. By force, if there was no other way. Force? Yesl In his dreams, at least, that much was possible. He raped her: and woke pumping. 'Shtig!' said Sarazin, giving vent to sour obscenity.
Unable to sleep, he took to his sword and trained with the blade until the moth-shy light of morning began to unshadow the world. The sword in question was not, of course, the blade of firelight steel given to him by Lord Regan. It was a workaday weapon which Farfalla bade him keep with him always for protection. At sunrise, Sarazin finally gave this sword a name.
'Onslaught be your name,' he said. Yes, you are Onslaught from now on.'
The name expressed Sarazin's own grim determination to renew his attack on Amantha, to press home the assault, to give no quarter, to strive, to win, to conquer. To make the woman his.
Sarazin, realising it was going to be difficult to persuade Amantha to yield to his charms, decided he needed to know more about her, particularly her likes and dislikes. Therefore early that morning he went looking for Lod, hoping for a long and productive talk with his friend from Chenameg.
However, Lod was not available for such a talk. The young prince was closeted in conference with his brother Tarkal. So Sarazin, impatient to bring his campaign against Amantha to a successful conclusion, took his problem to Thodric Jarl, whom he found renewing the sharkskin grip on a favourite sword.
Now Jarl was Master of Combat for the Watch, he usually only saw Sarazin during their daily combat training sessions. But, knowing his young charge well, he had no trouble divining his problem. 'A woman, is it?' said Jarl.
His hard face unsympathetic. Gnarled by the weather of half a dozen wars. 'Not just a woman!' protested Sarazin. 'I'm in love!'
'Oh, love,' said Jarl, in a dismissive tone. 'A sorry sickness! Haven't you yet got a regular whore? Believe me, these fevers pass soon enough if properly treated.'
But Sarazin knew merely slaking his lust would not cure his passion. He wanted Amantha. Not just for a night, but for life. As his true love. His wife.
'This is a special woman,' said Sarazin. 'It has to be her. Nobody else will do.'
'Then knock her over the head and have your wicked way with her,' said Jarl. 'Have you anything else on your mind? If not, I've got work to do.'
Sarazin left Jarl, mind full of plots and plans. Could he seize Amantha by force? No! The very idea was absurd! Kidnapping would scarcely serve his purposes. He wanted a legal marriage which would see him in line for
