more of the knights.”
“They number five in all,” did I respond, “though one was counted senior by virtue of skill and experience. Sworn were they to the execution of criminals, and criminality in this case was found in the committal of uncivil behaviour. More specifically, in behaviour that threatened the very foundations of civilization-”
“Just so!” said Arpo Relent, fist striking palm, an unfortunate gesture in that he was wearing gauntlets with studded knuckles but only kid leather upon the palms. His eyes widened in pain.
“Tender pleasures this night for you,” commented Apto Canavalian.
Of course Arpo would not permit a single utterance of agony to escape him. So he sat, cringing, jaw muscles bulging, water starting in his eyes.
“As it is known to all,” I resumed, “civilization lies at the very heart of all good things. Wealth for the chosen, privilege for the wealthy, countless choices for the privileged. The promise of food and shelter for all the rest, provided they work hard for it. And so on. To threaten to destroy it is, accordingly, the gravest betrayal of all. For, without civilization there is barbarism, and what is barbarism? Absurd delusions of equality, generous distribution of wealth, and settlements where none can hide in anonymity their most sordid selves. It is, in short, a state sure to be deemed chaotic and terrible by the sentinels of civilization, said sentinels being, by virtue of their position, guardians of property more often than not their own. To display utter disdain for civilization, as surely must be the regard of the two mad sorcerers, can only be seen as an affront and a most insistent source of indignation.
“Thus fired with zeal we see our brave knights, sworn one and all to destroy those who would threaten the society that has granted them title and privilege, and what could be more selfless than that?”
Purse Snippet, I saw in aside, was smiling, even as both Tulgord and Arpo made solemn their nods, Arpo having recovered to some extent from his foray into the melodramatic. Apto Canavalian was smirking. Brash Phluster was dozing, as were Nifty Gum’s entourage of three, whilst their erstwhile paragon was hair-twirling (one of those habitual gestures that brings to mind the measured unraveling of intelligence or at least the appearance thereof) and, at the same time, seeking to catch the eye of Relish Chanter, the last Chanter still awake this night. There are, it must be said, men of the world who, for all their virility, will at times confuse the gender of their flirtations. For it is in my mind the woman who twirls (for how wonderfully attractive is vacuousness, assuming natural affinities to knee-high morals and such), and bats lashes with coy obviousness, not the man. Nifty Gum, alas, having no doubt witnessed endless displays of said behaviour directed at him, now seemed to believe it was courting’s own language; alas, in giving back what he so commonly received, he did little more than awaken Relish’s sneer, Relish being a goodly woman and not inclined to mothering.
“I could speak now of the pilgrims,” said I, “but for the ease of narrative, let it be simply said that all who seek to catch the eyes of a god, are as empty vessels believing themselves incomplete unless filled, and that said fulfillment is, for some reason, deemed to be the gift given by some blessed hand not their own.”
“Is there no more to it, then?” so asked Mister Ambertroshin, who seemed to have recovered his momentary disquiet.
My gesture was one of submission. “Who am I to say, in truth? Even I can see the lure of utter faith, the zest of happy servitude to an unknown but infinitely presumptuous cause.”
“Presumptuous?”
“Anyone can fill silence with voices, kind driver,” I said in reply. “We are most eager inventors, are we not?”
“Ah, I understand. You suggest that religious conviction consists of elaborate self-delusion, that those who hear the words of their god telling them to do this and that, are in fact inventing their certainty as they go.”
“I would hazard it all begins,” ventured I, “with someone else, a priest or priestess, or the written words of the same, telling them first. The mission needs direction, yes? One serves a purpose, and in the god’s silence, who is it that presumes to describe that purpose? If all are lost, the first to shout that he or she has found something will be as a lodestone to others, and their desperation will become the joy of relief. But who is to say that the one who shouted first was not lying? Or mad? Or possessing ambitions of far more secular nature-to wit, how much can I bilk all these fools for?”
Mister Ambertroshin puffed on his pipe. “You do indeed walk a wasteland, sir.”
“And does yours look so different?”
“We may agree on the rocks and stones, sir,” he replied, “but not their purpose.”
“Rocks?” Tulgord said, eyes a little wild. “Stones and purpose? Aye, give me a rock, something for you to trip over, driver, but for me, something to bash in your head.”
Mister Ambertroshin blinked. “Why, Mortal Sword, why ever would you do that?”
“Because you’re confusing things, that’s why! Flicker’s telling a story, right? By all meets he must now give voice to the evil whispers seeking ill of our heroes.”
“I think he just did,” the pipe-puffing old man said.
“The knights hold to honour and purpose and the two are one and the same,” proclaimed Tulgord Vise. “While the pilgrims seek salvation. Now, who else travels with the worthy ones? Someone diabolical, no doubt. Speak on, poet, for your life!”
“I hesitate, good knight.”
“What?”
“Without the Chanters, there can be no proper vote, can there? And by their collective snores one can presume only that they are insensate to the moment. Lady Snippet, does your need devour all patience?”
She regarded me with some slyness. “Do you promise redemption, poet?”
“I do.”
Sudden doubt in her eyes, perhaps even a trembling vulnerability. “Do you?” she asked again, this time in a whisper.
I gave gentle nod.
“It would seem most honourable,” suggested Apto, studying me grave and seriously, “that your fate, Flicker, now be made to depend solely upon Purse Snippet’s judgement. Should you achieve redemption of the woman in her tale, your life is secured. Should you fail, it is forfeit. This being said, and by all the nods I see it is a notion well-met, it would not do to string her along and so assure your survival. So I pose the following provision. Should she decide, at any time in your telling, that you are simply… shall we say, padding your narrative, why, one or both of the knights shall swing their swords.”
“Wait!” cried Calap Roud. “I am not nodding and this is not well-met-not by me anyway. Can we not all see that Lady Snippet is a woman of mercy? And not such a soul as would so cruelly condemn someone? This is Flicker’s devious mind at work here! He makes a promise he cannot keep, but only to win his life upon this terrible journey! Perhaps indeed they are in cahoots!”
At that the dancer straightened in perfect haughtiness. “Bitter words from you, poet, dredged from a poor and squalid mind. I have performed before the most fickle tyrants, when it was my life that was at stake. Of harsh yet true adjudication, I have learned at the feet of masters. Do you think I would dissemble? Do you think I would not cast a most hardened eye upon this man who so boldly promises redemption? Be it understood to all, that Avas Didion Flicker chooses-if he dares-the deadliest of courses in the days ahead!”
So stark and shocking this bridling that all were humbled, and as all eyes now fixed upon me, I knew the truth of this bargain. Did my courage quiver? Did my bowels loosen more than a stomach full of human meat warranted (and yes, Ordig was indeed most sour)? Shall I take this instant to weave the woeful lie? I shall not. Indeed, I make no comment whatsoever, and before that sharp wealth of regard, I tilted head a fraction toward the venerable dancer and said, “I do accept.”
And to that she could only gasp.
Weariness soon landed on bat wings, ears twitching, flitting ghostly among us all, and this night was, by silent consensus, done. As I rose to walk watery into the darkness for a few moments of cold desert air and mocking stars, beyond all heat and light from the dying hearth, I drew close about me my threadbare cloak. It is the still moments in which doubts assail the soul. So I’m told.
The notion was untested as soft arms closed about my waist and two full and generous breasts spread across my back. A breathy voice then murmured in my ear, “You’re a clever one, aren’t you?”
Perhaps not so clever as I believed, as my right hand dropped and stole back to find the outside of her thigh. What is it with men, anyway? To see is as good as to touch when seeing is all we can manage; but to touch is as good as to explode in milky clouds in the spawning stream. “Oh,” murmured I, “sweet Relish. Is this wise?
