'Oh, we get on all right,' said Lod. 'I don't think she's much of a sister, but then I've nothing much to compare her with, have I?'
'No,' said Sarazin, 'I meant Amantha and Tarkal. How do they get on?'
'Oh, very well,' said Lod. "Very well indeed. Friend Sarazin, you wouldn't believe how well they get on.'
Then Lod laughed aloud at some very private joke, which he declined to share with Sarazin even when asked to. 'Why do you ask anyway?' said Lod.
'I want to know as much about Amantha as I can,' said Sarazin. 'I want you to tell me everything you know about her.'
Why,' said Lod, dismissively, 'she's a woman, is she not? That tells you everything you need to know.' 'But not how to make her love me I'
'Friend Sarazin, I'm no expert on love. What say we take your questions to a fortune-teller?' We've done that.'
Ah, but so far you've only consulted the second-rate. Now it's time to seek help from the best. The woman I'm talking of is Madam Sosostris. Let me tell you about her…'
What Lod told Sarazin of the skill, power and ability of Madam Sosostris convinced him that she was worth a visit. So he allowed Lod to lead him to her premises. However, on arrival they found she was laid up with a bad cold.
'Nevertheless,' said Lod, 'she's known to be the wisest woman in Selzirk.'
'I believe you,' said Sarazin, who did. 'But, when do you think I can see her?'
'I'm no doctor,' said Lod, 'so I couldn't tell you. How about we try again tomorrow?' 'All right,' said Sarazin.
But when they called round early the next day they were told Madam Sosostris was still sick in bed. So Sarazin had to continue his campaign against Amantha without her advice.
Later that day, there was an official banquet at which Sarazin was one of the guests, Amantha another. Music tranced around them as they gorged themselves on delight. Clean napery and the sparkle of jewels. A night to remember.
Sarazin tried to catch Amantha's eye, yet her very gaze refused him.
Disgruntled, he quit the banquet early, pleading nausea, and retired to his own quarters, where he lay on his bed in something close to a sulk. Dreaming of taming Amantha with whips and chains, spurs and goads. Her pride wet- whimpering at his feet.
'What is the problem?' said Bizzie, his maid, on seeing that he was downcast. 'A woman,' he said gloomily.
He knew what she would suggest, and wanted nothing to do with it. While he had only recently begun taking advantage of her availability, he was already tired of her fat red face, her bloated body. There was something disgusting about her earthy intimacies: so different from the silken soft-voiced pleasures he had enjoyed with Jaluba in Voice. 'In lust again, ducks?' said Bizzie. 'Well, never mind.'
She laid herself down on his bed and pulled up her skirts, exposing her triangle. Hating himself for his weakness, Sarazin once again made good use of her flesh. It humi- liated him, this traffic with a member of the lower orders. But he could not deny his animal. 'Cheer up,' said Bizzie. 'It can't be that bad.'
Then she licked, tickled and told rude jokes, but got not the whisper of a smile out of him.
'You'll feel better tomorrow,' she said, taking her accustomed silver. 'Tomorrow,' said Sarazin gloomily, 'never comes.'
But Bizzie was already gone, for she had work to do. Left alone, Sarazin lay staring up at the ceiling. Brooding. Degraded by tumbling with a common servant. 'Farfalla,' he muttered, a touch of hatred in his voice.
It was her fault. She it was who had bred him to his station. And who had, shortly after his recovery from the river-fever, encouraged him to make an arrangement with Bizzie. Lust will out somehow, Farfalla had said – pointing out that Selzirk's whores were rich with venereal diseases.
'Amantha,' said Sarazin, treasuring the name of his princess.
Was he really in love? He hoped so. After all, there was no other genuine princess on the horizon. So if he was not in love with this one, then he was in trouble.
He touched his limpness. Dank thing smelling, now, of woman.
Why is it this?' he said, in a voice which was almost a moan. This which rules us?'
Love, thought Sarazin, should not be so physical. So vulgar. Smells and slurpings. Stickiness of skin against skin. Wet exudate aftermath. -Music. I wish for a love like music. Maybe he could make a poem out of that.
Attempting to do just that, Sarazin sat up late, trying to pen lines which would body forth his regret for his possession of a body, and enshrine in deathless verse his wish to be made out of music. He was still hard at it towards midnight, when Bizzie came to him again. 'Still awake?' she said. 'I thought you might be.'
'It's no use,' he said. 'Apart from anything else, I've no more silver.'
'Goodwill's got a value of its own,' she said. 'And my husband's out late again with his darts team. Come on, love, shove over.'
She did her best, as ever. And his flesh, as always, could not deny its nature.
That night, Sarazin dreamed he possessed Amantha. His dream was so real, so intense, so certain, that, on waking, he was ready to dare her scorn again. His chance came when he was sent to escort the noble guests, who were going hawking for the day.
It was the very end of summer: hot, dry and dusty. Soon, autumn rains would cool the weather. But, for the moment, the heat and dust were almost unendurable. They were favoured with very little sport, for shooting birds was a standard child's pastime in the Harvest Plains, so little was left for royal hunters.
When far from Selzirk, Sarazin again tried Amantha's temper, riding up alongside his princess so he could pro- position her. 'Sweetest charm,' he began. 'Forget it,' said Amantha. You haven't even heard me out!' 'I know what you want to talk about. About tupping.' 'About marriage!' protested Sarazin. 'The substance,' said Amantha, 'is the same.'
'What's your objection?' said Sarazin. 'Do you wish to be virgin forever?'
'You know my objection already,' said Amantha. 'You are not of the Favoured Blood, and never will be.' Meaning he was not royal.
At which point Sarazin realised Tarkal had ridden up beside him. 'Are you troubling my sister?' said Tarkal.
While Sarazin was still trying to think of a diplomatic reply, Tarkal grabbed him by the collar then raked his horse with his spurs. The horse reared. Sarazin was hauled from the saddle and flung to the dust. He landed heavily. Looking up, he saw Tarkal staring down at him from horse-height. 'Peonl' said Tarkal. 'How dare you proposition my sister?' Thus spoke Tarkal. Then spat. Accurately.
Sarazin wiped saliva from his face. Slowly. He hoisted himself from the ground. It hurt to move, but nothing was broken. 'Does it demand satisfaction?' asked Tarkal.
'I have gutted dung-eating pigs before,' said Sarazin. 'I already know the colour of their offal.'
"Now I demand satisfaction!' said Tarkal. You have the choice of weapons, of course.' Sarazin hesitated. 'Do you deny me satisfaction?' said Tarkal.
'Are you a coward?' asked Amantha, her scorn de- nouncing him as exactly that.
They began riding round and round him, their horses kicking up dust which infiltrated his nose. Sarazin tried hard not to sneeze, because that would have been undig- nified. Some dust got in his eyes, which began watering furiously. 'He's crying!' said Tarkal. 'I am not!' shouted Sarazin.
'Of course you are,' jeered Tarkal. You're scared. You're a coward. Crying like a baby!' 'There's dust in my eyes,' protested Sarazin.
'Heroes fight and cowards run,' said Tarkal. 'Heroes fight and cowards run.'
He made a chant from the words, like a big child taunt- ing a smaller. His companions joined him in the chant. 'I'll fight then!' shouted Sarazin. Amantha laughed.