The Wicked and the Witless

'Now,' she said, breathing heavily, 'now I am ready to commune with the Beyond.'

Madam Ix stared for a while at nothing. Eyes vacant. Then began twitching. Shaking. Shivering. Voices mut- tered in the corners of the room. Sarazin had the fearful impression that something without was trying to break into the room. To get at them. To To what? He dared not think, but was relieved when life returned to the eyes of Madam Ix. Now she would speak. She had seen Beyond: now she would talk and reveal.

'I see war,' she said. 'I see, too, you youfself named for war. Watashi they will call you.'

'A strange name!' said Sarazin, perplexed by this. Then, keen to know how he would fare with Amantha, he said: 'What do you see of love?'

The fortune-teller looked at his face and saw there what she took to be the hormone-hyped gleam of puppy love, though it was in fact the lust for power, fame, wealth and glamour. She told him what he wanted to hear.

You love a lady,' she said. Through love, your destiny you'll find.' 'But how?' said Sarazin, in a voice close to despair. 'The how and the why are not in my keeping,' she said.

And, lacking the money to persuade her to say more, he had to depart unsatisfied.

That night, Sarazin lay dreaming of Amantha. He dreamed in particular of the pink flesh which lined her naos, the holy of holies which he wished to penetrate. By force, if there was no other way. Force? Yesl In his dreams, at least, that much was possible. He raped her: and woke pumping. 'Shtig!' said Sarazin, giving vent to sour obscenity.

Unable to sleep, he took to his sword and trained with the blade until the moth-shy light of morning began to unshadow the world. The sword in question was not, of course, the blade of firelight steel given to him by Lord Regan. It was a workaday weapon which Farfalla bade him keep with him always for protection. At sunrise, Sarazin finally gave this sword a name.

'Onslaught be your name,' he said. Yes, you are Onslaught from now on.'

The name expressed Sarazin's own grim determination to renew his attack on Amantha, to press home the assault, to give no quarter, to strive, to win, to conquer. To make the woman his.

Sarazin, realising it was going to be difficult to persuade Amantha to yield to his charms, decided he needed to know more about her, particularly her likes and dislikes. Therefore early that morning he went looking for Lod, hoping for a long and productive talk with his friend from Chenameg.

However, Lod was not available for such a talk. The young prince was closeted in conference with his brother Tarkal. So Sarazin, impatient to bring his campaign against Amantha to a successful conclusion, took his problem to Thodric Jarl, whom he found renewing the sharkskin grip on a favourite sword.

Now Jarl was Master of Combat for the Watch, he usually only saw Sarazin during their daily combat training sessions. But, knowing his young charge well, he had no trouble divining his problem. 'A woman, is it?' said Jarl.

His hard face unsympathetic. Gnarled by the weather of half a dozen wars. 'Not just a woman!' protested Sarazin. 'I'm in love!'

'Oh, love,' said Jarl, in a dismissive tone. 'A sorry sickness! Haven't you yet got a regular whore? Believe me, these fevers pass soon enough if properly treated.'

But Sarazin knew merely slaking his lust would not cure his passion. He wanted Amantha. Not just for a night, but for life. As his true love. His wife.

'This is a special woman,' said Sarazin. 'It has to be her. Nobody else will do.'

'Then knock her over the head and have your wicked way with her,' said Jarl. 'Have you anything else on your mind? If not, I've got work to do.'

Sarazin left Jarl, mind full of plots and plans. Could he seize Amantha by force? No! The very idea was absurd! Kidnapping would scarcely serve his purposes. He wanted a legal marriage which would see him in line for the throne of Chenamag.

Again he asked after Lod. On finding his friend was still in conference with Tarkal, Sarazin took his problem to his aged tutor, the venerable Epelthin Elkin.

'In love, are you?' said Elkin. 'Ah, love! I've not learnt much of love in my life of dusty scholarship.'

'But you must have some ideal' said Sarazin. 'How can I win the woman? Not just for a night, but for life.'

You can never win a woman for life,' said Elkin, 'for all liaisons are but treaties which must nightly be renewed.'

'For a night, then! A night would be a start. How can I win her for a night?'

'Jewels, boy,' said Elkin. That's the answer. The scin- tillation of diamonds. The gleam of rubies, glowing like blood amidst yellow butter.'

You suggest I give her gemstones in butter?' said Sarazin, who was always hoping to catch Elkin in open senility. 'Nay, boy. Jewels and gold.' 'But I'm broke!'

He was certainly impoverished, since whatever money came his way soon went on drink, cards and fortune tellers. And tips for Bizzie, his maid. Besides, he did not want to bribe Amantha. He wanted her to choose him out of love, lust, respect, admiration. Or any combination of those. 'So you've no gold,' said Elkin. 'None.' 'Any diamonds?' 'No.' 'Jade? Silver? Amber? Silk?' You know the answer already.'

Sarazin's one valuable possession was his blade of firelight steel. But his mother had taken away that weapon. Thodric Jarl had been given custody of it, and Sarazin only saw it during training sessions with the Rovac warrior.

Then,' said Elkin, maliciously, 'all I can suggest is that you take your problem to Amantha's brother.' 'Lod can't help me,' said Sarazin. 'I didn't mean Lod. I meant Tarkal.' 'Tarkal?' said Sarazin, incredulously.

Trust me,' said Elkin, sure that Tarkal would beat some sense into Sarazin – and sure, also, that this was the neatest way to deal with the problem.

Thus, on the advice of his tutor, Sarazin sought out Tarkal, who, having finished his business with Lod, was busy with his armourer in the guest quarters. 'I want to talk to you,' said Sarazin. 'Then wait,' said Tarkal brusquely.

Then resumed his conversation with his armourer. He wanted the aventail of his helm modified. This subject was dear to his heart, and very technical. Sarazin, listening, was embarrassed to find the niceties of the matter completely beyond his comprehension.

'What do you want?' said Tarkal, when the armourer had left. 'A private audience with your sister.' Who are you?' said Tarkal. 'I am Sean Sarazin, a prince of the Harvest Plains.' You are no prince,' said Tarkal. Tvly mother is Farfalla.'

I've seen that fat sow for myself. If such spawned you, that makes you a piglet at best.'

Sarazin declined to be insulted. Deciding boldness would serve him best, he said: 'I wish to-' 'To what?' 'To marry your sister.'

You are refused,' said Tarkal, not bothering to laugh since he had no audience to appreciate the laughter.

And, when Sarazin persisted, Tarkal booted him. Hard. Since the event happened in privacy, Sarazin chose to ignore it. He left the Chenameg princeling's presence, and went and sought out Lod.

CHAPTER NINE

Bizzie: a matronly woman who is wife of the ostler Hof- Gof, a past lover of Farfalla's sometime paramour Fox, and mother of Sarazin's half-brother Benthorn. You were with Tarkal for a long time,' said Sarazin. 'So I was,' said Lod. 'How did it go?'

'Badly,' said Lod. Tarkal claims my father demands my return to Chenamag. But he showed me no proof of this order, so I refused absolutely to obey. He then threatened me. But I've no fear of his threats, for he has no powers in Selzirk.'

'Still,' said Sarazin, 'it can't have been pleasant. Tell me – have you always been at odds with Tarkal?' 'No, not always,' said Lod. 'Only for twenty years.'

This was one of Lod's jokes, since Lod was, as Sarazin knew well, twenty years old – two years younger than Amantha and five years younger than Tarkal. But, as the joke was so weak, Sarazin did not waste time laughing. Instead he asked: 'How about Amantha?'