The Wicked and the Witless

The Confederation of Wizards had indeed broken apart in war.

The monsters of the Swarms were indeed on the march, invading Argan North.

'My mother?' said Sarazin. 'Farfalla, the kingmaker? What of her?' 'Gone,' said a drunk. 'Dead?'

'Not dead. Fled. She ran for the Rice Empire when the Regency charged her with high treason. Flight proves the charge, does it not? Traitorous bitch!'

'A charge of high treason?' said Sarazin. 'On what excuse?'

'Do you not know?' said the drunk. 'She let Morgan Hearst flee the city with the death-stone. It should have been ours, ours, but she let him go!'

Sarazin did not break the man's jaw because he felt more shock than anger. So Morgan Hearst had not made himself ruler of the Harvest Plains. Hearst must have gone to the Confederation of Wizards, then. With the death-stone.

Then Sarazin recalled the terrible anger which Jarl had shown at mention of wizards. On Jarl's arrival in Selzirk he had spoken of a feud of long standing between wizards and Rovac. Later, Jarl had praised the Rovac warrior Elkor Alish for breaking an oath with wizards and seizing the death-stone.

And Morgan Hearst was a man very much like Jarl… Sarazin could see it now. Hearst must have taken the death-stone south to the Confederation of Wizards.

But not to hand it over to that Confederation. Oh no! Hearst must have gone to war with the wizards, pur- suing the ancient feud and dooming all Argan in the process…

What now?

What should he do?

'Come,' said Glambrax, tugging at Sarazin's sleeve. "Let's go to your mother's palace.' 'Agreed,' said Sarazin.

At least they could find shelter there. Probably.

So they set off through the streets of Selzirk, and at last reached Farfalla's palace. It had changed. The bridges which had once straddled the encircling flame-moat had been broken down. And a drawbridge sealed the gate- house keep.

'Open up!' bawled Sarazin. 'Open in the name of the law!'

But, though he shouted until he was hoarse, the lofty walls of the ancient wizard fortress remained silent. Inscrutable. Finally, someone shot at him. They missed, but, fearing more arrows, Sarazin withdrew. 'Somebody in authority, that's what I need,' he said.

'What's wrong with yourself?' said Glambrax. "You're the king of Selzirk, for all that I know.'

'Listen,' said Sarazin, grabbing the dwarf by the ear and twisting. 'I need memories of the interrogation of Drake Douay. Where should I look.'

'Why do we need such memories?' said Glambrax. To close the Door in Chenameg is the least of our problems. The Swarms will come be that Door shut or open.'

'With the world in ruin and the Swarms on the advance, that Door might one day prove our sole route of escape,' said Sarazin.

'But it goes to a place where there are Swarms already!' protested Glambrax.

'No,' said Sarazin. 'It goes to several places. If we can go to a safe place then close the Door behind us… that will preserve our lives when all else fails. So… use your brain, mannikin! Tell! Who will have memories of Douay's interrogation?'

'Plovey, of course,' said Glambrax, kicking him in the shins and twisting free.

'Right! Of course! Well, let's get moving then! Where does he live?'

'That's your problem,' said Glambrax. 'I'm a dwarf, not a street directory. What do you need his home for, anyway? Go to his offices.'

They went – but found all offices of the Regency empty, their interiors gutted by fire. So they would have to seek Plovey at home, wherever that might be.

'Well,' said Sarazin, wearily, 'I suppose we've got all day.'

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

That evening, Sarazin dined with Plovey of the Regency on carp culled from a pool in the courtyard of Plovey's house. They ate by candlelight, consumed a quantity of excellent wine, then got down to business.

'My soul delights in our renewed acquaintance,' said Plovey, dabbing his lips with a napkin. 'But, fair friend, pray tell – what seek you here?'

'Transcripts of the interrogation of Drake Douay,' said Sarazin, urgency harshening his voice as he shook off the languor which had taken possession of him during the meal. 'They're in the palace. I can't get at them. Who has seized the palace?'

'Calm yourself, calm yourself,' said Plovey, mani- festing alarm. The angers harm the digestion. Some more wine? Come, the night is yet young, and you young with it. Strong in your youth, and handsome with it. There.

Drink. No! Not so hasty. This wine has a bouquet worth savouring for its own sake, even before the liquid itself laps the lips.'

Sarazin sipped the glass which Plovey had freshened, then, with scarcely controlled impatience, said: 'The palace. Who holds it?'

'I've not been that way for several days,' said Plovey. 'I've been supervising the defence of my home against the wicked and the witless. You may have seen gangs of such in the streets – not that they'd touch an inpoverished swordsman like yourself when there's richer game more safely touched.'

Plovey was smiling. Smug with secrets. That phrase he had used: the wicked and the witless. It had come from the prophetic book. Did Plovey come by the words by chance? Or what? An interesting question – and one that Sarazin was determined to ask before the night was through. But other things took priority.

'I need the details of Douay's interrogation,' said Sarazin. 'So I need the relevant transcripts. Or, at least, to know what's in them.'

'Ah!' said Plovey. 'So you've turned archivist. My friend, it will be pure pleasure to assist you in scholarship. Yes – could you indulge your greatest admirer with your reasons for this sudden lust for knowledge? What can you get from Douay now that you didn't get before? You got back your bard, didn't you?'

Yes,' said Sarazin, who was, as always, wearing the Lost Bard of Untunchilamon around his neck. Though the thing had been damaged by Douay, it still worked: whenever he pleased he could still listen to the great poet Saba Yavendar reciting his Warsong and Winesong in the High Speech of wizards.

Well then,' said Plovey, 'why bother further with Douay or his history?' So Sarazin told his long and laborious story. Concluding thus: '… so I know Drake knew about Doors, and now I have a Door of my own to deal with in the forest of Chenameg. Hence my interest in the interrogation.'

'Why worry about a Door bringing monsters to Chenameg?' said Plovey. 'Sweet silk, the Swarms will conquer all the world soon enough, with or without such a Door.' So, once more, Sarazin had to explain:

'I see the Door now as a means of escape. If the Swarms truly do conquer, we might be glad of a quick way out of here.' 'That's a thought,' said Plovey.

And, since he had an excellent memory, he told Sarazin what he had learnt from Drake Douay about the mastery of Doors.

'Each Door has a niche in the marble supporting the arch,' said Plovey. 'Place a globe of stars in such a niche. All the Doors of that Circle will then open. Remove the globe and they close. Simple? Simple!'

'My companions who dared the Door saw no such globe,' said Sarazin.

'One sees what one looks for,' said Plovey. 'That, at least, is my experience. I tell you, Sean Sarazin – dare the Door and check the plinth at each station on the Circle. In one niche or another there must be at least one globe of stars, otherwise the Door would not have opened.' 'Describe to me this star-globe,' said Sarazin.

'Green,' said Plovey, toying with a little blue-veined cheese. 'Slippery. Like a frog. Fist-sized yet heavy. Stars glow within. Other than that, dear friend, I know nothing of it. Only that Drake and his comrades had such a globe in Penvash. Some cheese? No? Come! You only live once.'

'All right,' said Sarazin, rat-gnawing on cheese, 'what came of it? The globe, I mean. The one the pirates had.'