them a passage out of the place.
'Ah,' said Glambrax, with an evil little laugh, 'but we're not entirely without treasure.' 'What do you mean?' said Sarazin.
Then Glambrax showed his master the trophies he had carried away with him from the Gates of Chenameg. During the formalities of the farewell, Glambrax had succeeded in picking the pockets of the noble Douay – and had stolen not just one bard but both of them.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
'How could you?' said Sarazin furiously.
As the dwarf scrabbled to escape from his master's anger, Sarazin grabbed him by the hair. You're not going anywhere!' said Sarazin.
'So kill me then,' said Glambrax truculently. 'Where's your gratitude?' 'Gratitude?' said Sarazin. 'For what should I be grateful?' 'The bards! I thought you wanted them.'
Sarazin was ready to weep. Or to pound Glambrax to a pulp. How could he live with the shame? The noble Douay had forgiven him, after all the terrible things that had been done to him after his arrest by Sarazin's minions – and had been repaid by this outrageous act of theft.
Sean Sarazin could not even keep his dwarf in order. Yet he had once had such pretensions of grandeur that he had imagined himself as ruler of the Harvest Plains! Sarazin shook his dwarf.
Then pushed him away, sending him sprawling to the stones.
'I should kill you,' said Sarazin. 'But it wouldn't do any good.'
Glambrax made no answer, and in fact stayed stolidly silent for the rest of the afternoon.
Evening came, then night. Sarazin, depressed and exhausted, laid himself down to sleep. Though he was sleeping on stones, he was so fatigued that he slept solidly until he was woken at dawn by jubilant birdsong.
He rose and stripped himself. Took a piss. Looking at his cock as he did so. A peasant's cock. Ugly piece of animal anatomy. He had once flattered himself by thinking it intrinsically imperial. Had so deluded himself that he had thought himself worthy of a princess. Well…
He had no delusions left now. He was what he was: a homeless beggar bereft of all prospects.
Carefully, he washed himself with water from the rill. It was cold, and, shivering, he was glad to warm himself by the fire Glambrax had started. The two said nothing to each other as the sun rose, stretching early morning shadows across the landscape.
Sarazin was stiff and sore from yesterday's long hard march – and from the damage done to him by Drake Douay. But, after he had treated some of his aches and pains with a little liniment which some thoughtful person had included in his pack, he felt somewhat better, though his eyes were sore and he had a dull headache.
As he breakfasted on pemmican, he considered his options. They could always turn back, march all the way to the Gates and return the stolen bards to Douay. But what if Douay yielded to one of the black angers he had spoken of, and killed both Sarazin and Glambrax on the spot? 'We'd better go on,' said Sarazin.
Glambrax made no answer. Sulking? Or meditating? No, he was just otherwise engaged: busy grubbing dank clumps of noxious matter from the depths of his nose.
'Up!' said Sarazin. 'Up on your feet and get moving.'
By noon, both man and dwarf were footsore and thirsty. They had filled their waterbottles at their campsite before setting out but durst not drink unless they really had to – for there was no telling when they would next find water. Flies were pestering about Sarazin's face. Irritated, he slapped at them. Hard. Then, after hurting one of his ears, slapped with more care.
He started looking for somewhere cool, somewhere they could shelter to rest. After resting they could push on when it was cooler.
So thought Sarazin. But it was not until late in the afternoon that he spied a suitable place – a deep and dark- shadowed cave. Invigorated by such a welcome sight, he strode towards it gratefully.
'Have a care,' said Glambrax, who by now had decided that he once more knew how to speak. 'There might be dragon or basilisk within. Or ogre – or worse!' 'Worse?' said Sarazin. 'What's worse?' 'A lawyer, perchance,' said Glambrax, and cackled.
But Sarazin went on regardless, imagining cool depths of batstone darkness and chilled water falling drip by drop. He found the cave noisy with flies – and from it breathed a stench which made him retch. But before he could flee, he saw all. The wounds, the heads, the limbs, the corpses deliquescing. He stumbled away from the cavemouth and collapsed insensible in the sun. He was roused by a boot in the ribs.
Opened his eyes. Saw shadows, boots. Heard voices. Muttering. A harsh laugh. '… meat for the Slavemaster…'
He stumbled from the ground, reaching for his weapon. And was hit from behind, bashed, knocked senseless. He measured his length on the ground and lay still.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Sean Sarazin had been ambushed by one of the many gangs of brigands which worked the territory between the Gates of Chenameg and the Araconch Waters. If Sarazin and
Glambrax had not been taken there and then, they would inevitably have fallen victim to one gang or another before they completed their journey, for only large and well- armed parties could hope to travel unmolested.
And nobody could hope to travel unobserved.
Once captured, Sarazin's fate was to be sold to the Slavemaster. The Slavemaster was the greatest gangster of them all, a warlord who traded with the lesser gangs and, from time to time, put together convoys which went to the Araconch Waters to trade with the greater warlords who had set themselves up in business there.
Sarazin, sick and sore, asked no questions about the Slavemaster as he was driven east along a track which never strayed far from the Manaray Gorge. At last, he was brought to a walled stockade built without a formidable cave complex.
There he was given leave to rest while they awaited the arrival of the Slavemaster. Rest he did, sprawled full length on raw rock, too weary by then for curiosity, regrets or despair. Glambrax stretched out beside him, for once too wearied for mischief.
For some time Sarazin lay there, almost comatose. Then he heard someone call his name. 'Ho, Sarazin I' said Lod.
Was it Lod? It certainly sounded like Lod. So Sarazin opened his eyes, and looked up, and saw… Tarkal. 'Do you recognise me?' said Tarkal, his face inscrutable.
'You are Tarkal of Chenameg,' said Sarazin wearily. 'You are of the Favoured Blood.'
'And you are Sean Sarazin, our honoured guest,' said a familiar voice, and, yes, it was indeed Lod, as large as life and as merry. And before Sarazin knew it he was being stripped of his clothes and bundled into a hot tub. After a bath came a massage, then sleep, blessed sleep in clean linen, as unexpected as his experience in Drake Douay's guest room, and every bit as welcome.
Tarkal of Chenameg, the Slavemaster himself, gave Sarazin two days to rest and recover before he invited him to dine with him. Glambrax attended the meal, as did Lod. Amantha was nowhere to be seen, and Sarazin did not like to ask where she was.
Throughout the meal, Lod and Glambrax made most of the running, chaffing each other, joking and jesting, punning and storytelling, while Sarazin and Tarkal sat in silence, preoccupied by their own thoughts. At that dinner, Tarkal wore one of the bards which had been taken from Sarazin, while Lod wore the other. Sarazin wondered if he would ever get them back.
During the meal, Glambrax told outrageous stories about the terrible Drake Douay, who, by his account, had tried to torture Sean Sarazin to death. He gave a spirited and improbable account of their escape from Douay.
'… and just as well we escaped,' said Glambrax. 'For he'd sworn to cut up young Sean as ratbait.' 'What
