'Right,' said Drake. 'I've got no sister. I've got no money. I can't sell my body. So how do I get a woman?'
Simple: he would have to make someone fall in love with him. Or at least in lust with him.
Since he might already be doomed to die of blue leprosy, the colony on the outskirts of town held little fear for him. He ventured there, and found Zanya Kliedervaust on her hands and knees scrubbing out bedpans.'Remember me?' said Drake.She looked up from her work.
'Oh yes,' she said. 'I remember you. You're the crazy fisherman we hauled out of the sea a horizon away from Stokos.'
'That's right,' said Drake. 'Only I'm a swordsmith, not a fisherman. Your body language tells me that you're looking for a relationship.'
He had rehearsed that line – and many others besides -for a long time. It came out perfectly.'What?' said Zanya, sounding both tired and puzzled.
'I'm seeking to make a treaty against the loneliness of flesh born into solitude,' said Drake. 'I aspire to harmonize our auras into one mutual faith.'
'My Galish,' said Zanya, 'is not the best, though it improves steadily. You'll have to speak plain if you wish to be understood.'
Oh! So there was a language problem! That was all right, then. For a moment, Drake had almost been afraid that his blond good looks were failing to make the right impression on the lady.
'Zanya,' said Drake, T like your looks, just as I'm sure you like mine. What say we get together tonight? We'd look right handsome together.''What have you got in mind?' said Zanya.
'Some mutual moonlight, a dash of star-hunting, then a little lick of sweet honey.'
Zanya entirely failed to recognize the import of these delicate euphemisms, which were part of the common language of courtship on Stokos.'Speak plainly,' she said. 'What do you want?'
Drake, his eloquence thwarted by her linguistic ignorance, lost patience – and gave an answer which was, unfortunately, honest, clear, direct and straightforward.'I'm in lust,' he said. T want to fornicate.'
'I'm not meat,' said Zanya coldly. 'I'm a woman. There's a difference.'And she went back to her scrubbing.
'Sorry,' said Drake. 'I meant no offence. I didn't mean to be so blunt. But-'
'OronokoV bawled Zanya. 'Fana tufa n 'fa n'maufil' And out from a workshed came Prince Oronoko. The purple-skinned man was – as he had been when Drake last saw him – wearing only a loin-cloth. Perhaps he had been chopping wood: his body glistened with sweat, and he had an axe in his hands. Oronoko advanced, grinning. Drake fled.
Later, sullen and disconsolate, he brooded over his failure with Zanya. She hadn't even bothered to ask his name.
He thought – and thought hard – about the advice the wizard Miphon had given him. All that stuff about flowers, poetry, daily visits, sincerity, pretty speaking, persistence. Should he try it? No, it couldn't possibly work. It sounded too stupid for words. Anyway, there was Oronoko to think of. If Drake went back, the purple man would probably chop off his head.Drake sulked.
Meanwhile, the Flame spoke long and hard to Gouda Muck. Until finally, on Midwinter's Day (the start of the year Tor 6, or the middle of Khmar 17, depending on one's calendar) Muck announced to the world that he was the incarnation of the Flame. And the Flame, by his account, was the High God of All Gods.'Fall down and worship me,' said Muck.
Some of his more credulous neighbours actually did. They fell to the ground, groaning. They licked his feet. They saw visions. They spoke in tongues.'Good,' said Muck. 'You see? I am God!'
And Drake, dissenting, was severely kicked and beaten. He sought refuge with his uncle.
'Man,' said Drake, 'you've got to do something! Muck's mad, I'm sure of it.'
'Endure,' said Oleg Douay, who thought a little perdition would be good for the boy.'But the man's mad, I tell you!' protested Drake.
'We're all mad,' said Oleg Douay grimly, 'or we'd have had more sense than to get ourselves born.''We don't have a choice,' said Drake.
'Of course we do!' said his uncle grimly. 'Why, only yesterday I was down by the shore in conversation with the sea gods, and they told me distinctly-'Drake turned tail and fled.
By now, financial constraints made it virtually impossible for Drake to worship at the temple brothel. What's more, Gouda Muck forbid his apprentices even to go near the place. Of course, to forbid a thing is often to encourage a taste for it. Drake had always had a love for the Demon. Now, he became a true victim of religious mania, feeling he needed to practise religion at every possible moment just to keep himself sane.But most forms of worship required money.
'What I need,' said Drake, 'is some kind of worship that will earn me money.'
Gambling was the only religious practice which seemed to meet his requirements. So he took himself off to the casinos.
From the middle of winter to the beginning of spring, Drake tried his luck and his luck tried him. After that, the casinos cut off his credit. His gambling debts were huge, and the temple's enforcers were soon pressing him for payment.
Barred from the casinos, Drake chanced his fortunes privately, hazarding ill-lit backgammon saloons and murky dice-chess parlours. To finance his ventures, he borrowed where he could, signing notes to all and sundry with his thumbprint. He wagered ever more wildly, hoping to recoup his losses. But he drank while he gambled – never a good combination. He came home drunk one night, and, feeling reckless, spat into the fire in his master's sight.
'You have defiled my living flesh,' said Gouda Muck -and began to beat him.
Drake fled. He was doing a lot of running away these days. He didn't like it. He wandered through the night, cursing, kicking cats, and working himself into a rage. This was all Zanya's fault! If that proud-faced bitchhadn't snubbed his offer, he'd never have got in this mess. That suggested a way out.
If he porked her once, surely she'd see sense. One taste of Drake Douay, and she'd be eagering for more. Yes. She'd said no, but it was common knowledge that women often said no when they meant yes. How far was it to the leper colony? Not far at alclass="underline" he was almost at the edge of town already.Drake rolled up to the leper colony.
'Despatch for Zanya Kliedervaust,' he said, brandishing a wallet (which was empty). 'Urgent despatch. Immediate delivery required.''You've been drinking,' said the night porter.
'So I have,' said Drake belligerently. 'But I can still deliver a letter. If you don't want to let me through, wake your boss, and we'll talk it out with him.'
The night porter saw sense, and gave Drake directions to Zanya's quarters. It was, after all, scarcely unusual for a courier to be drunk on duty. And they did work all hours of day and night.
Shortly, Drake entered Zanya's room – a mean little hut lit by a smoky oil lamp. The woman of his desires was sitting up in bed, reading a scroll of some kind.'You!' she said.'Me,' said Drake.'Get out!' she said.
'Hey,' said Drake. 'Don't be so hard on me. I don't mean any harm. What's with that scroll?'
'This?' said Zanya, mellowing ever so slightly. 'This was lent to me by a friend. It's very interesting. It's all about Goudanism. That's the creed of Gouda Muck. I don't know if you've ever heard of him.'
'I may have,' said Drake cautiously. 'What do you think of it?'
'Great!' said Zanya, her eyes shining. 'Would you like to hear about it? Here, sit down on the floor and I'll read you some.'
That was mighty accommodating of her, under the circumstances. But Zanya, as a priestess of the Orgy God on the Ebrells, had gained a vast experience of dealing with drunks. She thought Drake was not too dangerous. If she settled him down and spoke to him nicely, likely he would go to sleep. Then she could slip out and summon Oronoko.