conceited,' said Jilth, giggling.
'He amuses me,' said Amantha, fanning herself lightly. 'For the moment.' 'He has no breeding whatsoever!' said Flanny. 'Neither,' said Amantha, 'has my parrot. Yet both amuse.'
Sarazin was a novelty, hence – for the moment – fashionable. Novelty was in season, for it was Midwinter's
Day, the start of the Phoenix Festival. To the delight of all, the winter rains had taken a rest, and the day was graced with sunshine. Everyone consented to ignore the mud.
By way of preliminary entertainment, they listened to the famous Arez Stone, a wild-eyed ancient with flowing beard and glittering eye, who held that literacy was the cause of all social evils.
To prove his point. Stone had elaborated his thesis in some 5,037 cantos in 473 different languages (some dead, some living, some three-parts missing), and planned to write a further 4,761 cantos before he dropped dead. Unfortunately, Stone's wisdom would inevitably die with him, since he refused to allow his productions to be written down, and nobody but himself could master the memorising of his epic productions.
After Stone had finished (he had been restricted to a recital of a mere two of his cantos) two minor poets performed. Then all gathered in the grounds of the Phoenix Temple where they were to watch the arrival of the phoenix itself, which was due at noon.
Once the phoenix used to arrive in Chenameg on Midsummer's Day. But, thanks to a curse put upon the land during the War of the Witches, it now arrived on the coldest, shortest day of the year, which of course considerably reduced the potential of the occasion as a tourist attraction.
The audience awaiting that arrival first had to listen to a scholarly dissertation by King Lyra, who was endeavouring to prove that the phoenix is in fact a reptile (though every reputable treatise available names it as a bird).
Sarazin was troubled to find himself profoundly bored by the king's dissertation. Maybe there was some ineluct- able flaw in his character which prevented him from appreciating truly aristocratic intellectual pursuits.
At last, the king finished. Sarazin breathed a sigh of relief – then felt ashamed of himself. As it was noon, they all looked around for the phoenix. 'Why hasn't it come?' said Sarazin.
'It only does this once in every half a thousand years,' said Amantha, 'so maybe it's having trouble remembering the way.'
Sarazin wondered whether Phoenix Day was going to be another crushing disappointment – like the city of Shin, which had proved to be a dismal lumber town with unpaved streets and gloomy high-gabled wooden build- ings. However, at last the bird of wonder came flying in from the east. It looked very much like a stork, except its feathers were every colour of the rainbow. Where does it live?' asked Sarazin.
'Somewhere in the dragonlands,' said Amantha, 'Ssh! Watch!'
She had spoken too late. People were already staring at them. Sarazin realised he had made a faux pas. He was acutely embarrassed. What he really needed in this place was a reliable guide to courtly behaviour whom he could consult in private. In that respect, Thodric Jarl had proved a total disappointment.
What was the phoenix doing? Circling overhead. Was it supposed to go round in circles? Maybe it had heard him speak. Maybe he had scared it off. Then what would happen to him?
To Sarazin's relief, after another half-dozen circles the phoenix landed on the altar of the Temple. There was a glitter like water on diamonds as it burst into flames. Incandescent, it writhed in an uproarious conflagration.
To the audience came an appalling stench of burnt feathers and charred flesh. Sarazin thought for a moment that something had gone wrong. Then the phoenix started to ascend. The bird of wonder rose sheathed with incandes- cent fire, which fell away to reveal brilliant new plumage.
As the phoenix climbed in glory, everyone clapped. Wasn't that marvellous?' said Amantha. Wonderful,' agreed Sarazin, out of duty.
He felt somehow cheated. The fact that the burning bird had stunk had spoilt the whole thing.
However, he cheered up soon enough when the poetry competition began, for he had high hopes for his own com- position. The ruling fashion at the moment was the poetry of extravagance, which had lately ousted the poetry of horror – which in turn had conquered the poetry of lust.
Sarazin's competition poem was entitled 'A One-winged Treacle-Bat Dares Its Dragon's Tongue To Make Some Observations'. He had written it in the Gel tic of the Rice Empire before translating it into Churl. Since none other than Arez Stone had helped with the translation (flattery works wonders, and Sarazin knew its use well) it should be good.
When his turn came, Sarazin cleared his throat then began: The earthworms coagulate. The fish Throttles the politics of the mayfly. My love is red. Gashed. Wounded. Her vampire teeth a parrot, her nose a comb, No breadcrumbs but a nipple! Yea, leavened with lead and gold I mount (As dogs mount goats and diamonds, As fish mount quartz-dove rings) Past rhetorics of menstruating heavens, Past cloves of coal and petal-folds of cream, Then close – ah, say it, love! – with adoration. Fraught with revolutions then the moon Observes my buttermilk shock, my stirruped deed Drive to her grease and annul All pleasures in the heartlands of a rose. Her savour licks one pearl from my rampole strength, Splices with lead my gold, then sets my steel Quivering to the perfumes of her naos.'
His admiring auditors applauded his daring, for he had cunningly blended the poetries of lust and horror with the current style of extravagance, and with the poetry of nonsense which looked set to replace it. His art was a triumph of fashion.
'The winner,' said the herald, shortly, 'the winner is… Sean Kelebes Sarazin, lately of Selzirk.'
Everyone cheered. And Sarazin, flushed and triumphant, exulted. He was a leader of fashion, and intensely proud of himself on that account. His pride only increased when King Lyra handed over the poetry prize, which was an ornate porcelain chamber-pot painted with pictures of bluebirds and daffodils.
The day would not have been complete without a feast. Thus, that evening, they were indulged with precisely that. They dined upon roast dziggetai, upon mountain trout, sparrows stuffed with raspberry jam, upon pickled pigs' eyes and truffle delight, all washed down with draughts of ale, skull and dandelion wine.
After eating: dancing. Whirling music. Laughter by lantern light. Sarazin inveigled Amantha outside, and they stood for a while together in a doorway in a romantic silence. They could not wander beneath the stars because, had they attempted anything so foolish, they would swiftly have found themselves ankle-deep in mud. 'I'm cold,' said Amantha. 'I could warm you up,' said Sarazin. And kissed her.
'Really!' said Amantha. 'I think we had better go back in- side. And you, Sean Sarazin, had better remember yourself.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
King Lyra: portly widower who rules the Chenameg Kingdom from his palace in Shin. Father of Tarkal (his eldest child), Amantha (who will attain the throne if Tarkal dies) and Lod (his youngest, currently in jail awaiting trial on a charge of being a wastrel).
The next day, there was to be a royal hunt. When invited to participate, Sarazin had at first begged off, saying his pony was lame. In fact, he was too embarrassed to ride such a meagre beast in such elevated company. However, King Lyra discerned the true cause of Sarazin's discomfort, and forced Tarkal to lend him a beautiful caparisoned charger, a gallant grey looking ready to challenge the wind itself. He also ordered 'the best royal hunting garb' to be delivered to Sarazin in the morning.
Thus Sarazin went to sleep content, waking at dawn, rejoicing in his (temporary) possession of one of Tarkal's horses – not least because it was a mark of the monarch's favour. It seemed King Lyra (like Lord Regan of the Rice Empire) recognised Sarazin's princely qualities. The king, then, must truly be an excellent judge of character.
Sarazin's high spirits were, however, somewhat damp- ened when a set of hunting clothes was delivered to his quarters. He had imagined himself hunting in silks, but received instead some incredibly thick, virtually indestructible padded trousers of a very coarse wool which scratched his thighs, and a woollen jacket of similar strength and thickness, its exterior armoured by plates of lacquered wood stitched to the wool by means of threads passed through hundreds of awl-holes.
