‘When she ducked through the entrance and then straightened, his arms crept round her. She gasped at his touch and arched her back, head against his lowest rib, as his huge hands reached to find her breasts. He was rough in his need, burning with haste, and they descended to the heap of furs unmindful of the cold and damp, the musty smell of the old rushes.’
‘That nastiness obsesses you!’ said Arpo Relent.
‘Nastiness, sir?’
‘Between a man and a woman, the Unspoken, the Unrevealed, the—’
‘Sex, you mean?’
Arpo glared. ‘Such tales are unseemly. They twist and poison the minds of listeners.’ He made a fist with one gauntleted hand. ‘See how Calap Roud died. All it took was a hint of something—’
‘I believe I was rather more direct,’ I said, ‘although in no way specific, as I had no chance—’
‘So you’ll do it now! Your mind is a filthy, rotted tumour of lasciviousness! Why, in the city of Quaint your skin would be stripped from your flesh, your weak parts chopped off—’
‘Weak parts?’
Arpo gestured between his legs. ‘That which Whispers Evil Temptation, sir. Chopped off and sealed in a jar. Your tongue would be cut into strips and the Royal Tongs would come out—’
‘A little late for those,’ Apto said, ‘since you already chopped off the—’
‘There is a Worm of Corruption, sir, that resides deep in the body, and if it is not removed before the poor victim dies, it will ride his soul into the Deathly Realm. Of course, the Worm knows when it is being hunted, and it is a master of disguise. The Search often takes days and days—’
‘Because the poor man talked about fornication?’
At Apto’s query the Well Knight flinched. ‘I knew you were full of worms, all of you. I’m not surprised. Truly, this is a fallen company.’
‘Are all poets filled with such corrupting worms?’ Apto pressed.
‘Of course they are and proof awaits all who succumb to their temptations! The Holy Union resides in a realm beyond words, beyond images, beyond everything!’ He gestured in my direction. ‘These … these sullied creatures, they but revel in degraded versions, fallen mockeries. Her hand grasping his this, his finger up her that. Slavering and dripping and heaving and grunting – these are the bestial escapades of pigs and goats and dogs. And woe to the wretched fool who stirs in the midst of such breathless descriptions, for the Lady of Beneficence shall surely turn her back upon They of Rotten Thoughts—’
‘Is it a pretty one?’ Apto asked.
Arpo frowned. ‘Is what pretty?’
‘The Lady’s back, sir. Curvaceous? Sweetly rounded and inviting—’
With a terrible bellow the Well Knight launched himself at Apto Canavalian. Murder was an onerous mask upon his face, his hair suddenly awry and the gold of his fittings shining with a lurid crimson sheen. Gauntleted fingers hooked as they lashed out to clutch Apto’s rather scrawny neck.
Of course, critics are notoriously difficult to snare, even with their own words. They slip and sidle, prance and dither. So elusive are they that one suspects that they are in fact incorporeal, fey conjurations gathered up like accretions of lint and twigs, ready to burst apart at the first hint of danger. But who, pray tell, would be mad enough to create such snarky homunculi? Why, none other than artists themselves, for in the manner of grubby savages in the deep woods, we slap together our gods from whatever is at hand (mostly fluff) only to eagerly grovel at its misshapen feet (or hoofs), slavering our adoration to hide our true thoughts, which are generally venal.
Sailing over the fire, then, uttering animal roars, Arpo Relent found himself clutching thin air. His hands were still grasping and flaying when his face made contact with the boulder Apto had been leaning against. With noises that would make a potter cringe at the kiln, the Well Knight’s steely visage crumpled like sheet tin. Blood sprayed out to form a delicate crescent upon the sun-bleached stone, a glittering halo until his head slid away.
Apto Canavalian had vanished into the darkness.
We who remained sat unmoving. Arpo Relent’s fine boots were nicely settled in the fire, suggesting to us that he was unconscious, dead or careless. When the man’s leggings caught flame our venerable host leapt forward to drag the limbs clear, grunting as he did so, and then hastily snuffed out the smouldering cloth.
Tiny Chanter snorted and Flea and Midge did the same. From somewhere in the darkness Sellup giggled, and then coughed something up.
Sighing, Tulgord Vise rose, stepped over and crouched beside the Unwell Knight. After a moment’s examination, he said, ‘Alive but senseless.’
‘Essentially unchanged, then,’ said Apto, reappearing from the night’s inky well. ‘Made a mess of my rock, though.’
‘Jest now,’ Tulgord said. ‘When he comes to, you’re a dead man.’
‘Who says he’ll come to at all?’ the critic retorted. ‘Look how flat his forehead is.’
‘It was that way before he hit the rock,’ the Mortal Sword replied.
‘Was it leaking snot, too? I think we’d have noticed. He’s in a coma and will probably die sometime in the night.’
‘Pray hard it’s so,’ Tulgord said, looking up with bared teeth.
Apto shrugged, but sweaty beads danced on his upper lip like happy bottle flies.
‘You, Flicker,’ said Tiny Chanter, ‘you was telling that story. Was finally starting to get interesting.’
‘Sore stretched indeed,’ said I, ‘and maiden no longer—’
‘Hold on,’ Tiny objected, all the flickering flames of the hearth mirrored in his ursine mien. ‘You can’t just skip past all that, unless you don’t want to survive the night. Disappointment’s a fatal complaint as far as I’m concerned. Disappoint me and I swear I’ll kill you, poet.’
‘I’ll kill you, too,’ said Midge.
‘And me,’ said Flea.
‘What pathetic things you Chanters are,’ said Purse Snippet.
Shocked visages numbering three.
Starting and blinking, Relish squinted at her siblings. ‘What? Someone say something?’
‘I called your brothers pathetic,’ explained the Lady.
‘Oh.’ Relish subsided once more.
Tiny jabbed a blunt finger at Purse Snippet. ‘You. Watch it.’
‘Yeah,’ said Flea. ‘Watch it.’
‘You,’ said Midge. ‘Yeah.’
‘The most enticing lure to the imagination,’ said Purse, ‘is that which suggests without revealing. This is the true art of the dance, after all. When I perform, I seduce, but that doesn’t mean I want to ruffle your sack, unless it’s the kind that jingles.’
‘Making you a tease!’ Tulgord growled. ‘And worse. Tell me, woman, how many murders have you left in your wake? How many broken hearts? Men surrendering to drink after years of abstinence. Imagined rivals knifing each other. How many loving families have you sundered with all that you promise only to then deny? We should never have excluded you from anything – you’re the worst of the lot.’
Purse Snippet had paled at the Mortal Sword’s words.
I did speak then, as proper comportment demanded. ‘A coward’s ambush – shame on you, sir.’
The knight stiffened. ‘Tread softly now, poet. Explain yourself, if you please.’
‘The tragedies whereof you speak cannot be laid at this lady’s delicate feet. They are one and all failures of the men involved, for each has crossed the fatal line between audience and performer. Art is not exclusive in its delivery, but its magic lies in creating the illusion that it has done just that. Speaking only to you. That is art’s gift, do you understand, Knight? As such it is to be revered, not sullied. The instant the observer, in appalling self-delusion, seeks to claim for himself that which in truth belongs to everyone, he has committed the greatest crime, one of selfish arrogance, one of unrighteous possession. Before Lady Snippet’s performance, this man makes the foulest presumption. Well now, how dare he? Against such a crime it falls to the rest of her adoring audience to place themselves between that man and Lady Snippet.’