For once, Farfalla would have real power, real influence. Of course, while she toyed with those who sought to become king of Androlmarphos, the city's administration would suffer. But – what of it? Once she appointed a king, another vacancy might not occur for twenty years. Or thirty. By which time she might be long dead. -This is not the game I would have chosen.
Thus thought Farfalla. But it was the only game in town.
Farfalla's downstream journey westward from Selzirk to Androlmarphos would be swift. But the embassy travelling east would have a slow journey, for the riders had but one horse apiece. Furthermore, three baggage wagons were going with them, heavily laden with goods usually un- obtainable in Chenameg, plus gifts from Farfalla and from the Regency.
None of the travellers condescended to notice Sarazin's existence – least of all Tarkal, who was sitting bravely in his saddle with a plump swansdown pillow between his injured buttock and the unforgiving leather.
In a few moments they would leave and Sarazin's chance would be gone. So:
'In honour of the Princess Amantha,' said Sarazin loudly, 'I wish to read a poem.' 'So it can read,' said Tarkal. 'Hush,' said Amantha. 'Let it read. That can do no harm.'
Amantha, despite herself, could not help being interested in a poem which promised to honour her. Sarazin produced his manuscript with a flourish, and cleared his throat.
He had been trained in oratory, and had read his poems in public in Voice often enough, to generous applause – but, even so, could not help but feel nervous.
Well,' said Tarkal. 'Get on with it. We haven't got all day.'
So Sarazin began to read his poem: 'Though even phoenix must in time renew-' Tarkal sneezed, and his horse suddenly began to sidestep with a clatter of hooves on cobblestones. As if by black magic, an epidemic of coughing and sneezing broke out amongst the courtiers; their horses became restless; their hound-dogs howled But Sarazin, raising his voice, continued his lines about petal-scented wonder, the worship of shadows, the adora- tion of hearts, the difficulties which must lovers sunder, and that fine renaissance of feeling which will in time splendour love anew.
Concluding, he offered his manuscript to Amantha, saying:
'Fair flower of inspiration, please accept this humble token of my esteem.'
This kind of flowery phraseology had been all the fashion in Voice (though there, of course, Sarazin had couched his phrases in the Geltic of the Rice Empire, instead of the City Churl which he spoke in Selzirk).
Amantha did not accept his offering. 'Ah, so it is in love,' said she. 'Poor thing! Like a pig- dog in lust with the moon.' And all the retinue laughed.
'You know how to brawl,' said Tarkal, 'if not how to duel, but you'll never make a poet in a million years.'
'How dare you sneer at me?' said Sarazin. 'I beat you in fair combat!'
You came armed as if for a gutter fight,' said Tarkal, 'armed with a common brawler's weapon. How was I to know you would stoop so low?' 'I came with a weapon of war!' said Sarazin.
'Oh, indeed!' said Amantha. 'A weapon of war! Do you expect me to hold you in great wish when you try for your honour with a common soldier's bludgeon?'
'My blade's no bludgeon!' protested Sarazin. 'It's a weapon-sword true, a tooth of Stokos steel, the world's most expensive bladework!' 'Money,' said Amantha, 'never yet bought class.'
And, as Sarazin stood there, dismayed, his mouth agape, she flicked the reins of her horse and rode away.
Sarazin was devastated by Amantha's rejection of his poem. He had laboured on it long and hard, first writing it in Geltic, then translating it into Churl, then trying it out on Bizzie (no other critic being available).
Still, he could survive the rejection of his art. He knew genius creates the taste by which it is appreciated; this takes time, a commodity Amantha was not prepared to afford him. But the insult to his weapon was a more serious matter. Sarazin took his woes to his swordmaster. 'What's the problem?' said Thodric Jarl. They say my blade is that of a common soldier.' 'Who says?' 'The people from Chenameg.'
'Who heeds the defeated?' said Jarl, scornfully. This much I've learnt from a lifetime's campaigning: no loser was ever outclassed or outfought. The victor always bluffed, cheated or was aided by the weather. Thus speak the defeated.' 'But they-' They play at battle as if it was a game,' said Jarl.
'Duelling,' said Sarazin, with more than a touch of pomposity, 'has ever been a feature of the noble life.'
'Games,' repeated Jarl. Well, that's not what I was hired to teach you.' What have you taught me, then?' said Sarazin, unwisely.
'Death, not dancing. Survival, not style. If princes and such wish to charade with steel and call it combat – well, that's no business of mine. But – mark well! – you'll meet with no fighting for fashion's sake in a brothel brawl or a battlefield bloodbath.'
Sarazin had the impression he had heard all this before. As indeed he had. Six or seven times at least. 'So I was right to fight with my Stokos steel?' said Sarazin.
To stay alive? Of course! Whatever weapon serves, that's the one to use. Over the years, I've defended my life with everything from a dead cat to a full-charged chamber pot.'
'But I wasn't being fair to Tarkal, was I?' said Sarazin. 'I knew he wouldn't know the tricks of shieldwork. I knew my blade would likely break his.'
'You were right to fight on your terms, not his,' said Jarl. 'After all, he started it. Anyway, that's one of the greater parts of the art of war: forcing the enemy to fight on ground of your choosing.' 'But they laughed at me!'
They laughed, you lived,' said Jarl. 'I wouldn't complain too much about that.'
'What about my poem?' said Sarazin. 'They laughed at that, too. Amantha in particular.' 'That does you no lasting harm either,' said Jarl. 'But why did she laugh at my poem?'
'Ask the sun, the moon or the fish in the sea, but don't ask me. Poems are pretty enough, if you like that kind of thing, but one sounds much like another to me.'
Then, since Sarazin was on hand, Jarl launched him upon a session of sword-training.
One sweaty training session later, Sarazin surrendered his blade of firelight steel to Thodric Jarl and went hunting for Lod. Who was nowhere to be found. It was scarcely practical to quarter Selzirk entire in the hope of finding him by chance, so, after some thought, Sarazin went to ask Madam Ix for news of Lod.
Since Sarazin sometimes had his doubts about the efficacy of fortune telling he had often wanted to test the skills of the mystery workers on some practical problem. This looked to be the ideal opportunity.
I'm hunting for Lod,' said Sarazin, when he was admitted to the presence of Ix of the Mystery.
'Does this look like a brothel?' said Madam Ix. 'Or a booze barn? Or a gambling den? You'll not find him here. But just for interest's sake – how much money does he owe you?' 'None,' said Sarazin, promptly.
On a little reflection, he was surprised to realise it was true. Jarl's lecturing must have taught Sarazin some wisdom, because he had never let Lod borrow money from him. Mind you: he had never really had money spare to lend.
Then,' said Madam Ix, 'if he owes you no money, what do you want him for? Have you decided you love him?'
'Nay,' said Sarazin. 'We exhausted love in our last incarnations when we were dogs in the street together. He's missing. I'm worried about him. If he's not here, can your Art find him?' 'Of course,' said Madam Ix, 'for the Art knows no limits.'
But the price she named was very, very high. Sarazin, entirely unable to meet such a price, asked:
'Pray tell, why is this service priced so high? Do you seek to avoid a true test of your Art by setting such a price?' 'Selzirk is a sewer,' said Madam Ix, 'and Lod a clod lost somewhere in that sewer. The price I set is the price for delving in unclean things. If you must use the Art for improper purposes you must pay the penalty.'
'What, then, is the proper purpose of the Art?' said Sarazin.
To read character,' said Madam Ix, 'to commune with the spirits, to speak with the dead, to tell the past and future both. To deal with the higher things and the greater purposes. Not to find lost boys, lost dogs or wayward debtors.' 'I tell you,' said Sarazin, 'Lod owes me no money.'
'So you have said already,' said Madam Ix. 'But he owes others. If he's missing I have no doubt he's missing from choice. I vum he's lying low while his creditors hunt him. Now tell me, young Sarazin, before you go – have you seen Madam Sosostris yet?'
