“That’s your penis,” said Apto Canavalian. “And I say that advisedly.”
Arpo stared down at it. “Kind of explains everything, doesn’t it?”
Personally, I see no humour in that statement whatsoever. In any case, Arpo Relent (or whoever happened to be inhabiting his body at that time) now focused his entire attention upon his discovery, and moments later made a mess of things. His brows lifted, and then he smiled and started over again. “I could do this all day. In fact, I think I will.”
With a disgusted grunt Tulgord Vise turned to saddle his horse.
Sardic Thew clapped his hands. “Well! I think today’s the day!”
Tiny Chanter belched. “Better not be. Flicker’s got stories to finish and he ain’t getting away with not finishing them.”
“Dear sir,” said I, “we have the breadth of the sun’s passage, if our host’s assessment is correct and why would we doubt it? Fear not, resolutions abound.”
“If I don’t like what I hear you’re a dead man.”
“Yeah,” said Fl-oh, never mind.
Studiously, I avoided Purse Snippet’s piercing regard, only to be speared by Relish’s. The maddening expectations of women!
As if chilled, Apto Canavalian drew tighter his cloak. He rose to stand close to me. “Flicker, a word if you please.”
“You need fear nothing from Brash Phluster, sir.” I raised my voice. “Is that not true, Brash?”
The young poet’s face twisted. “I just want things to be fair, Flicker. Tell him that. Fair. I deserve that. We both do, you and me. Tell him that.”
“Brash, he is standing right here.”
“I’m not talking to him.”
Apto was gesturing, clearly wanting the two of us to walk off a short distance. I glanced around. Mister Must had reappeared with his tea pot. Sardic Thew held out his cup with shaky hands, whilst Purse Snippet offered the old man a frail smile as he went to her first. Our host’s visage flashed dark for a moment. Relish was now braiding a whole string of nooses together, reminding me of the winter solstice ritual of an obscure Ehrlii tribe, something to do with hanging charms upon a tree in symbolic remembrance of when they used to hang bigger things from trees. Her brothers were throwing small rocks at Sellup’s head, laughing when one struck. The deathless fan, however, gave no indication of noticing, busy as she was eating Nifty’s heart out. Steck Marynd sat staring at the ashes of the campfire, and all the knuckle bones that glowed like infernal coals.
Arpo Relent had worked his penis into exhaustion and was now slapping the limp tip back and forth with all the hopeless optimism of an unsated woman on a wedding night.
“We have a few moments yet, it seems,” I conceded. “Lead on, sir.”
“I never wanted to be a judge,” Apto said once we’d gone about twenty paces up the trail. “I shouldn’t be here at all. Do you have any idea how hard it is being a critic?”
“Why, no. Is it?”
The man shivered in the wretched heat, leading me to wonder if he was fevered. “It’s what eats at us all, you see.”
“No, I am afraid I don’t.”
His eyes flicked at mine. “If we could do what you do, don’t you think we would?”
“Ah.”
“It’s like the difference between a fumbling adolescent and a master lover. We’re brilliant in squirts, while you can enslave a woman across the span of an entire night. The truth is, we hate you. In the unlit crevices of our cracked soul, we seethe with resentment and envy-”
“I would not see it that way, Apto. There are many kinds of talent. A sharp eye and a keen intellect, why, they are rare enough to value in themselves, and their regard set upon us is our reward.”
“When you happen to like what we say.”
“Indeed. Otherwise, why, you’re an idiot and it gives us no small amount of pleasure to say so. As far as relationships go,” I added, “there is little that is unique or even at all unusual here.”
“All right, it’s like this, this here, this very conversation we’re having.”
“I’m sorry? “
“ ‘Entirely lacking profundity, touching on philosophical issues with the subtlety of a warhammer. Reiterations of the obvious’- see my brow lifting to show just how unimpressed I am? So, what do you think I’m really saying when I make such pronouncements?”
“Well, I suppose you’re saying that in fact you are smarter than me-”
“Sharper than your dull efforts to be sure. Wiser, cooler of regard, loftier, far too worldly to observe your clumsy maunderings with anything but amused condescension.”
“Surely it is your right to think so.”
“Don’t you feel a stab of hate, though?”
“Ah, but the wise artist-and indeed, some of us are wise- possesses a most perfect riposte, one that pays no regard to whatever murky motives lie behind such attacks.”
“Really? What is it?”
“Well, before I answer let me assure you that this in no way refers to you, for whom I feel affection and growing respect. That said, why, we forge a likeness in our tale and then proceed to excoriate and torture the hapless arse-hole with unmitigated and relentless contempt.”
“The ego’s defense-”
“Perhaps, but I am content enough to call it spite.”
And Apto, being a critic whom as I said I found both amiable and admirable (shock!), was grinning. “I look forward to the conclusion of your tales this day, Avas Didion Flicker, and you can be assured that I will consider them most carefully as I ponder the adjudication of the Century’s Greatest Artist.”
“Ah, yes, rewards. Apto Canavalian, do you believe that art possesses relevance in the real world?”
“Now, that is indeed a difficult question. After all, whose art?”
To that I shrugged. “Pray, don’t ask me.”
All chill had abandoned Apto upon our return to the others. Light his step and fair combed his hair. Brash Phluster bared his teeth upon seeing the transformation, and stewed to a boil of suspicion was his glare in my direction. Mister Must was already perched and waiting atop the carriage, small clouds of smoke rising from his pipe. Steck Marynd sat astride his horse, crossbow resting across one forearm. He wore his soldier’s mask once again, angled sharp with a strew of discipline and stern determination. Indeed, backlit by the morning sun, the exudation surrounding this grim figure was an aura of singular purpose, a penumbra ominous as a jilted woman’s upon the doorstep of a rival’s house.
Tulgord Vise was in turn swinging himself onto his mount in a jangle of chain and deadly weapons. Stalwart in pose, vigorous in defense of propriety, the Mortal Sword of the Sisters cast grating eyes upon the much-reduced party, and allowed himself a satisfied nod.
“Is this my horse?” Arpo Relent asked, glaring at the beast that still stood barebacked and hobbled.
“Gods below,” growled Tulgord. “You, Flicker, saddle the thing, else we linger here all day. And you, Phluster, give us a song.”
“Nobody has to die anymore!”
“That’s what you think,” retorted Tiny Chanter. “The Reaver himself is your audience, poet, as it should be. A blade hovers over your head. A sneer announces your death sentence, a yawn spells your doom. A modest drift of attention from any one of us and your empty skull rolls and bounces on the road. Hah, this is how performance should be! Life in the balance!”
“And if was you?” snarled Brash in sudden courage (or madness).
“I wouldn’t waste my time in poetry, you fool. Words-why, anyone can put them together, in any order they please. It’s not like what you’re doing is hard, is it? The rest of us just don’t bother. We got better things to do with our time.”
“I take it,” ventured Apto, “as a king you are not much of a patron to the arts.”
“Midge?”
“He arrested the lot,” said Midge.
