functionaries of the Regency. People he had known in passing, whose faces he remembered, and whose voices. -All gone, all fallen, all dead.
What was amazing was how intensely they had all been involved in their own lives, passionately concerned with the power politics of the various milieus in which they moved, all with their own loves, hates, lusts, fears, joys, ambitions. -All now as dust.
And what was most amazing of all was to realise that the outcome would ultimately have been the same even if Drangsturm had never fallen, even if the Swarms had never come. In time, all would have died, and all their works would have become as nothing. For such is the nature of a world of mortality. Mortality. -Mosf improbable of all improbabilities.
So improbable that, even now, Sean Sarazin had diffi- culty in grasping the inevitability of his own death. He knew it was technically certain, sooner or later. But, while some things had changed, others had not: he was still the centre of his own universe, and found it near to impossible to imagine the universe carrying on without him. - Yet it will happen. -Or so theory says.
Sarazin was much occupied with such thoughts, for Glambrax offered him nothing in the way of conversation. The dwarf had taken an almighty blow on the head, and was fit for very little except sleeping and sunbathing. Fortunately, the skins of both travellers were already suntempered – otherwise they would have been badly burnt on that downriver journey. For there was no shade, no shelter. But, of course, limitless water.
Sarazin drank freely. Drinking of the Velvet River had almost killed him when he first arrived in Selzirk, but he had no choice. Besides, the river was much, much cleaner than it had been when people in their tens of thousands lived on the Harvest Plains.
At length, the raft drifted past the walls and towers of Selzirk the Fair. Sarazin was tempted to land – then saw a single uncouth monster standing where there was a hundred-pace gap in the outer battle-wall of Selzirk.
The river gate – that was what Lod had called that gap. Then Sarazin had called it a military obscenity. Or had Lod said that too? Sarazin could not remember. That conversation had taken place on the day of his return from exile, and he could not sort out the details in memory.
But what he could remember was his high excitement, his enthusiasm, his confidence. He had been so certain that life was truly beginning, that power and glory awaited him. -Fool!
That was the judgment Sean Sarazin passed on his youthful self as the raft floated on downstream, leaving Selzirk behind in the distance.
He had been such a fool! So young, so feckless! He had not been destroyed by gambling, boozing, fighting or whores. But a callow pride had nearly seen to his destruc- tion regardless. If it had not been for the advent of the Swarms, he would still have been in the forests of Chenameg, fighting a futile guerrilla war against Tarkal of Lod. - But what could I have had if I had been wise? He could have had a career in the army. Going out every night to get pissed as a newt (to use Jarnel's death- less phrase). But what kind of life would that have been? -No life for me, that's for sure. -So I was doomed whatever I did.
So thought Sean Sarazin, then forced himself to admit that it was not true. Nobody had compelled him to stay in Selzirk. He could have taken to the Salt Road and could have fled north or south. To Drangsturm. To Chi'ash-lan. Anywhere. He could read and write, he could speak Galish – he could have made some sort of life for himself wherever he went. -But that's in the past. Let's think of the future.
So Sarazin did think of the future. But could see nothing for himself or his dwarf but bare survival. Downstream lay the delta of the Velvet River, a marshy place of tidal beaches, of islands and estuaries. The Neversh might overfly the delta, but it would be difficult for heavyweight monsters to operate in such terrain. There, no doubt, he could grub a living, surviving by eating raw fish, raw shrimp, raw marshbird.
– Crow old and die, doubtless webfooted before I die.
So thought Sean Sarazin, then fell asleep to dream of rain, grey and endless, rain spindling down through fog, of his hands old and withered, his spine curving. Old man Sean Sarazin, a living ghost in the marshlands, a dying dwarf croaking at his feet…
He woke with the certainty that the dream was pro- phetic, that his future was known and could not be escaped. And he became so depressed that thereafter he roused himself only to drink and to void wastes. His depression persisted until the day he woke to find the raft adrift in Lake Ouija, a tidal bulge in the river just south of Androlmarphos – and realised there were people on the shore.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
When Sarazin and Glambrax were taken from the raft, they were so weak that they were consigned to an infir- mary in Androlmarphos, and there they were fed for days upon broiled fish and the flesh of seabirds. As Sarazin's strength recovered, what he craved was not food but information. However, his keepers gently declined all requests for a briefing, saying it would tire him too greatly.
After three days, however, Sarazin was judged strong enough to see visitors, and was asked if he wished to receive any.
'An academic question,' Sarazin said. 'Surely nobody knows I'm here. And who in 'Marphos would know me?'
'On the contrary,' he was told. 'Everyone in the city knows of your arrival. As for those who wish to see you…' He was given a list. A long list.
There were people who had known him in Voice, Selzirk and Chenameg. Soldiers who had served under him in Tyte and Hok. Friends of friends and friends of the friends of friends. Servants and tavern keepers, poetasters and minor functionaries of the Regency. The very people whose demise he had so sincerely lamented as he drifted down the Velvet River on his raft.
Now that he knew so many to be alive and kicking, his desire to see them was zero. Though he did want a long talk with someone – anyone! – so he could bring his knowledge of current affairs up to date, he had no wish to be a tourist attraction, which was what he obviously was.
However, two names on the list of would-be visitors demanded his attention: Lord Regan and Jaluba. 'Those two,' he said. 'I'll see those two.' 'When?' 'Now!'
As it happened, Lord Regan and Jaluba did not attend Sarazin until the next day. They came together, hand in hand – and, to Sarazin's startlement, Lord Regan introduced Jaluba as his wife.
'My dearest and nearest,' said Lord Regan, and kissed her.
Lord Regan was wearing a skyblue military uniform, whereas Jaluba was – despite the heat of summer – wearing a coat made of fitch fur.
Sarazin had to admit that Lord Regan had made an excellent choice. Jaluba was but twenty years of age – and she was delicious. Any man would have wanted her. Sarazin did not begrudge Lord Regan possession of the woman, who sat quietly, the very picture of a damsel demure.
Nevertheless, Sarazin begrudged the marriage inasmuch as it made it impossible for him to demand the answers to some of the questions he had had in mind. Such as: where the hell had Jaluba gone to after she disappeared from Selzirk? Why had she disappeared on the day Plovey of the Regency had raided Sarazin's quarters? Had she perchance had anything to do with the theft of a bard, a prophetic book and certain documents from Sarazin's quarters?
However, plenty of other questions remained. And heartfelt greetings were scarcely over before he was asking them:
'How did you come to 'Marphos? And – where is my mother? I heard she'd fled to the Rice Empire. What about Fox? My father was going to seek your help. That was back in the autumn. There was a Door in Chenameg and – oh, it's a long story, but he was coming to see you. Jarl, too. What happened to them?'
'They reached me, one and all,' said Lord Regan. Tour mother and your father both. And Jarl. When the Swarms came, I went south to Narba to seek a passage to the Scattered Islands. But Fox and Farfalla went with Jarl to Hok. Jarl persuaded them they could find refuge there.'
'It's true!' said Sarazin. 'Didn't Jarl tell you about Elkin, about X-n'dix?'
'Oh, I've heard all about that,' said Lord Regan. 'Jarl told me – and, besides, I've heard all about your war
