upper ones) and stretched a measured regard upon all those gathered, including the host whose name momentarily escapes me, Mister Must, Purse Snippet and the Entourage (poor Apto was yet to arrive). One presumes this was meant to establish Tulgord’s pre-eminence as the final arbiter in the matter (yes, this matter), but of course he too possessed but a single vote, and so the issue was perhaps, for him, one of moral compass. Clearly, he saw in this moment the necessity of justification, and upon ethical concerns who else but Tulgord Vise to dispense adjudication?
Well, how about the victims?
But the retort is equally quick, to be found in the puerile weaponry all within easy reach of those with nothing to lose and everything to gain. Since when do ethics triumph power? So uneven was this debate no one bothered to troop it out for trampling. Accordingly, Tulgord’s posturing was met with all the indifference it deserved, a detail entirely lost on him.
The nightly procession was thus determined, as we artists would have to sing not to be supper. Ironically, alas, the very first victim had no tale to attempt at all, for his crime at this moment was to object, with all the terror of a lifetime being picked last in every children’s game he ever played, and some memories, as we all know, stay sharp across a lifetime. “Just eat the damned horses!”
But Arpo Relent shook his head. “There is no question of any more votes,” he said. “As any one of proper worth would agree, a knight’s horse is of far greater value than any poet, bard or sculptor. It’s settled. The horses don’t get eaten.” And he glowered as was his wont following everything he said.
“But that’s just-”
It is safe to say that the word this nameless artist intended was ‘stupid’ or ‘insane’ or some other equally delectable and wholly reasonable descriptive. And as added proof when his severed head rolled almost to my feet following the savage slash of Tulgord Vise’s blessed sword, the mouth struggled to form its thoughtful completion. Ah, thus did the memory stay sharp.
The first poet, having been killed so succinctly, was butchered and eaten on the eleventh night upon the Great Dry. The sixteenth night saw another follow, as did the twentieth night. Upon the twenty-second night the vote was taken following Arpo’s raising of the notion of mid-day meals to keep up one’s strength and morale, and so a second artist was sacrificed that night. At that time the ritual of critical feasting began, instigated by a shaky Brash Phluster.
Two more hapless poets, both bards of middling talents, gave the performance of their lives on that night.
At this point, listeners among you, perhaps even you, might raise an objecting hand (not the first one you say? I wasn’t paying attention). Thirty-nine days upon the Great Dry? Surely by now, with only a few days away from the ferry landing below the plateau, the need for eating people was past? And of course you would be right, but you see, a certain level of comfort had been achieved. In for a pinch in for a pound, as some sated bastard once said. More relevantly, thirty-nine days was the optimum crossing, and we were far from optimum, at least to begin with. Does this suffice? No, of course it doesn’t, but whose tale is this?
Ordig now resided in bellies with a weighty profundity he never achieved in life, while Aurpan’s last narrative was technically disconnected and stylistically disjointed, being both raw and overdone. The critical feasting was complete and the artists numbered four, Purse Snippet being given unanimous dispensation, and by the host’s judgement sixteen nights remained upon the Great Dry.
While talent with numbers could rarely be counted among the artist’s gifts, it was nonetheless clear to all of us sad singers that our time upon this world was fast drawing to a close. Yet with the arrival of dusk this made no less desperate our contests.
Brash Phluster licked his lips and eyed Apto Canavalian for a long moment, before drawing a deep breath.
“I was saving this original dramatic oratory for the last night in Farrog, but then, could I have a more challenging audience than this one here?” And he laughed, rather badly.
Apto rubbed at his face as if needing to convince himself that this was not a fevered nightmare (as might haunt all professional critics), and I do imagine that, given the option, he would have fled into the wastes at the first opportunity, not that such an opportunity was forthcoming given Steck Marynd and his perpetually cocked crossbow which even now rested lightly on his lap (he’d done with his pacing by this time).
In turn, Brash withdrew his own weapon, a three-string lyre, which he set to tuning, head bent over the instrument and face twisted in concentration. He plucked experimentally, then with flourish, and then experimentally again. Sweat glistened in the furrows of his brow, each bead reflecting the hearth’s flames. When those seated began growing restless he nudged one wooden peg one last time, and then setded back.
“This is drawn from the Eschologos sequence of Nemil’s Redbloom Poets of the Third Century.” He licked his lips again.
“Not to say I stole anything. Inspired, is what I mean, by those famous poets.”
“Who were they again?” Apto asked.
“Famous,” Brash retorted, “that’s who they were.”
“I mean, what were their names?”
“What difference would that make? They sang famous poems!”
“Which ones?”
“It doesn’t matter! They were the Redbloom Poets of Nemil! They were famous! They were from the time when bards and poets were actually valued by everyone! Not pushed aside and forgotten!”
“But you’ve forgotten their names, haven’t you?” Apto asked.
“If you never heard of them how would you know if I knew their names or not? I could make up any old names and you’d just nod, being a scholar and all! I’m right, aren’t I?”
Calap Roud was shaking his head but there was a delighted glimmer in his eyes. “Young Brash, it serves you ill to berate one of the Mantle’s judges, don’t you think?”
Brash rounded on him. “You don’t know their names either!”
“That’s true, I don’t, but then, I’m not pretending to be inspired by them, am I?”
“Well, you’re about to hear inspiration of the finest kind!”
“What was inspiring you again?” Tiny Chanter asked.
Flea and Midge snorted.
Our host was waving his hands about, and it was finally understood that this manic gesturing was intended to capture our collective attentions. “Gentlemen, please now! The Poet wishes to begin, and each must have his or her turn-”
“What ‘her’?” demanded Brash. “All the women here got dispensations! Why is that? Is it, perhaps, because everyone eligible to vote happened to be men? Imagine how succulent-”
“Enough of that!” barked Tulgord Vise. “That’s disgusting!”
Arpo Relent added, “What it is, is proof of the immoral decrepitude of artists. Everyone knows it’s the women who do the eating.”
Moments later, in the ensuing silence, the Well Knight frowned. “What?”
“Best begin, Poet,” said Steck Marynd in a hunter’s growl (and don’t they all?).
A wayward ember spun towards Nifty Gum and all three of his Entourage fought to fling themselves heroically into its path, but it went out before it could reach any of them. They settled back, glowering at each other.
Brash strummed the three strings, and began singing in a flat falsetto.
“In ages long past
A long time ago
Before any of us were alive
Before kingdoms rose from the dust
There was a king-”
“Hang on,” said Tiny. “If it was before kingdoms, how could there be a king?”
“You can’t interrupt like that! I’m singing!”
“Why do you think I interrupted?”
“Please,” said the host whose name escapes me again, “let the Poet, er, sing.”
“There was a king
