Crack’d Pot Trail

It is an undeniable truth: give evil a name and everyone’s happy. Give it two names and… why, they’re even happier.

The intrepid necromancers Bauchelain and Korbal Broach, scourges of civilization, raisers of the dead, reapers of the souls of the living, devourers of hope, betrayers of faith, slayers of the innocent and modest personifications of evil, have a lot to answer for and answer they will. Known as the Nehemoth, they are pursued by countless self-professed defenders of decency, sanity and civilization. After all, since when does evil thrive unchallenged? Well, often: but not this time.

Hot on their heels are the Nehemothanai, avowed hunters of Bauchelain and Korbal Broach. In the company of a gaggle of artists and pilgrims, stalwart Mortal Sword Tulgord Vise, pious Well Knight Arpo Relent, stern Huntsman Steck Marynd, and three of the redoubtable Chanter brothers (and their lone sister) find themselves faced with the cruelest of choices. The legendary Cracked Pot Trail, a stretch of harsh wasteland between the Gates of Nowhere and the Shrine of the Indifferent God, has become a tortured path of deprivation.

Will honour, moral probity and virtue prove champions in the face of brutal necessity? No, of course not. Don’t be silly. “There will always be innocent victims in the pursuit of evil.”

The long years are behind me now. In fact, I have never been older. It comes to a mans career when all of his cautions-all that he has held close and private for fear of damaging his reputation and his ambitions for advancement-all in a single moment lose their constraint. The moment I speak of, one might surmise, arrives the day-or more accurately, the first chime after midnight-when one realizes that further advancement is impossible. Indeed, that caution never did a thing to augment success, because success never came to pass. Resolved I may be that mine was a life gustily pursued, riches admirably attained and so forth, but the resolution is a murky one nonetheless. Failure wears many guises, and I have worn them all.

The sun’s gilded gift enlivens this airy repose, as I sit, an old man smelling of oil and ink, scratching with this worn quill whilst the garden whispers on all sides and the nightingales crouch mute on fruit-heavy branches. Oh, have I waited too long? Bones ache, twinges abound, my wives eye me from the shadows of the colonnade with black-tipped tongues poking out from painted mouth, and in the adjudicator’s office the water-clock dollops measured patience like the smacking of lips.

Well I recall the glories of the holy cities, when in disguise I knelt before veiled tyrants and god-kissed mendicants of the soul, and in the deserts beyond the crowded streets the leather-faced wanderers of the caravan tracks draw to the day’s end and the Gilk guards gather in shady oases and many a time I traveled among them, the adventurer none knew, the poet with the sharp eyes who earned his keep unraveling a thousand tales of ancient days-and days not so ancient, if only they knew.

They withheld nothing, my rapt listeners, for dwelling in a desert makes a man or woman a willing audience to all things be they natural or unnatural; while I, for all the wounds I delivered, for all the words of weeping and the joys and all the sorrows of love and death that passed my tongue, smooth as olives, sweetly grating as figs, I never let a single drop of blood. And the night would draw on, in laughter and tears and expostulations and fervent prayers for forgiveness (eyes ashine from my languid explorations of the paramour, the silk-drenched beds and the flash of full thigh and bosom) as if the spirits of the sand and the gods of the whirlwinds might flutter in shame and breathless shock-oh no, my friends, see them twist in envy!

My tales, let it be known, sweep the breadth of the world. I have sat with the Toblai in their mountain fastnesses, with the snows drifting to bury the peeks of the longhouses. I have stood on the high broken shores of the Perish, watching as a floundering ship struggled to reach shelter. I have walked the streets of Malaz City, beneath Mock’s brooding shadow, and set eyes upon the Deadhouse itself. Years alone assail a mortal wanderer, for the world is round and to witness it all is to journey without end.

But now see me in this refuge, cooled by the trickling fountain, and the tales I recount upon these crackling sheets of papyrus, they are the heavy fruits awaiting the weary traveler in yonder oasis. Feed then or perish. Life is but a search for gardens and gentle refuge, and here I sit waging the sweetest war, for I shall not die while a single tale remains to be told. Even the gods must wait spellbound.

Listen then, nightingale, and hold close and sure to your branch. Darkness abides, I am but a chronicler, occasional witness and teller of magical lies in which hide the purest truths. Heed me well, for in this particular tale I have my own memory, a garden riotous and overgrown yet, dare I be so bold, rich in its fecundity, from which I now spit these gleaming seeds. This is a story of the Nehemoth, and of their stern hunters, and too it is a tale of pilgrims and poets, and of me, Avas Didion Flicker, witness to it all.

There on the pilgrim route across the Great Dry, twenty-two days and twenty-three nights in a true season from the Gates of Nowhere to the Shrine of the Indifferent God, the pilgrim route known to all as Cracked Pot Trail. We begin with the wonder of chance that should gather in one place and at one time such a host of travelers, twenty-three days beyond the Gate. And too the curse of mischance, that the season was unruly and not at all true. Across the bleak wastes the wells were dry, the springs mired in foul mud. The camps of the Finders were abandoned, their hearth-ashes cold. Our twenty-third day, yet we still had far to go.

Chance for this gathering. Mischance for the straits these travelers now found themselves in. And the tale begins on this night, in a circle round a fire.

What is a circle but the mapping of each and every soul? The Travellers Are Described

In this circle let us meet Mister Must Ambertroshin, doctor, footman and carriage driver to the Dantoc Calmpositis. Broad of shoulder and once, perhaps, a soldier in a string of wars, but for him the knots have long since been plucked loose. His face is scarred and seamed, his beard a nest of copper and iron. He serves the elderly woman who never leaves the tall carriage, whose face is ever hidden behind the heavy curtains of the windows. As with others here, the Dantoc is on pilgrimage. Wealth yields little succour when the soul spends too freely, and now she would come bowl in hand to beg before the Indifferent God. On this night and for them both, however, benediction is so distant it could well be on the other side of the world.

Mister Must is of that amiable type, a walking satchel of small skills, quick to light his pipe in grave consideration. Each word he speaks is measured as a miser’s coin, snapping sharp upon the wooden tabletop so that one counts by sound alone even when numbers are of no interest. By his singular squint people listen to him, suspicious perhaps of his cleverness, his wise secrets. Whiskered and solid, he is everyman’s footman, and many fates shall ride upon his shoulders anon.

The second circle is a jostled one, a detail requiring some explanation. There are two knights among the Nehemothanai, the stern pursuers of the most infamous dread murderers and conjurers Bauchelain and Korbal Broach, and close upon the corpse-strewn trail of these two blackguards are these dangerous men and women, perhaps only days from their quarry. But there is more to their urgency. It is said a mysterious woman leads a vengeful army, also seeking the heads of Bauchelain and Korbal Broach. Where is she? None here know.

Tulgord Vise has announced himself the Mortal Sword of the Sisters, and he is purity in all but name. His cloak is lined in white fur downy as a maidens scented garden. The bold enameled helm covering his stentorian skull gleams like egg-white on a skillet. His coat of polished mail smiles in rippling rows of silver teeth. The pommel of his proud sword is an opal stone any woman could not help but reach out and touch-were she so brave, so bold.

His visage glows with revelation, his eyes are the nuggets of a man with a secret hoard none could hope to find. All evil he has seen has died by his hand. All nobility he has granted by his presence he has sired in nine months’ time. This is Tulgord Vise, knight and champion of truth in the holy light of the Sisters.

Wheel now to the other knight, so brash as to intrude upon the Mortal Sword’s winsome claim to singular piety. By title, Arpo Relent is a Well Knight, hailing from a distant city that once was pure and true but now, by the bone-knuckled hands of Bauchelain and Korbal Broach, a sunken travesty of all that it had once been. So does the Well Knight charge, and so too is announced the very heart of his vow of vengeance.

If blessed white bolsters the mien of Tulgord Vise, it is the gold of the sun to gilt Arpo Relent’s stolid intransigence and the concatenation of comportment between these two knights promise a most uncivil clash to come. Arpo is broad of chest. Sibling swords, long-bladed and scabbarded in black wood filigreed in gold, are mounted one upon each hip, with pommels like golden eggs that could hatch a woman’s sigh, and proud indeed of these weapons is Arpo Relent, and most unmindful of sighs is this paragon of chastity, and what might we make of that?

With the company of three brothers who might well beat up gorillas for merriment, Relish Chanter could be destined to live a life unplucked, and had not Tiny Chanter himself stared hard at the haggle of artists and said, clear as the chop of an axe, that any man who deflowered sweet Relish would get cut so clean not even a starving sparrow could find the worm?

In the middle of this stark, blood-draining pronouncement from her biggest brother; Relish had wandered off. She’d heard it a thousand times, after all. But what is known at present and what is to become known are different things. For now, let us look upon this most charmingly witless woman.

Black silk, as all know, is the mourner’s vanity, and one is reminded of such flowing tresses when looking upon Relish’s hair, and in the frame of such dangerous honey there resides a round face with cheeks blushed like slapped buttocks, and raven feathered lashes slyly offering obsidian eyes to any who would seek to claim them. Fullest of bosom and pouched below the arms, sweetly round of belly and broad-hipped, this description alas betrays a sultry confession, as I am yet to note clothing of any sort.

But such brothers! Tiny’s mother, lost in the forest of Stratem beneath a most terrible storm, found refuge in a cavern, plunging straight into the arms of a cave bear, but in the instant of crushing contact, all notions of culinary anticipation alighting fires in the bear’s brain quickly vanished and in their place a sudden expostulation of amorous possibility lifted them both heavenward. Who would knuckle brow at the audacity of such claims, when the offspring of the wrestlers’ pact stood solid and true before all witnesses? The giant man’s eyes dispensed all confusion regarding the contrariness of his name, for they were beastly small and rimmed in lurid red with all manner of leakage milking the corners. His nose was a snubbed snout glistening at the scent of blood. His teeth had the busyness of rodents. He bore the muscles of three men misaligned upon his ursine frame and hair sprouted from unlikely places to match the unlikely cunning of the words trickled out from between curling lips.

His brothers held him in much terror, but in this detail’s veracity one must roll in a bed of salt given the malice of their regards upon the turn of Tiny’s montane back. Midge Chanter was twin to Flea Chanter, both being the get of their mothers misadventures upon a sea strand where walruses warred in the mating season and she had the tusk-gouged scars to prove it. Such origins are beyond argument, lest whiskers twitch and malodorous weights heave upward and close in deadly lunge. Unlike Tiny and his beastly cloak, Midge and Flea wore with brazen pride the hides of their forbearer.

Other siblings abound, t’was said, but mercy held them at bay with a beater’s stick, elsewhere and of their grim tale we must await some other night here at the flames of poetic demise.

Among the circle of hardened hunters but one remains. Silent as a forest and professional as a yeoman, Steck Marynd is no boister of past deeds. Mysteries hide in the crooks of roots, and if eyes glitter from the holes of knots their touch is less than a whisper upon death’s own shadow. He is nothing but the man seated before us. His face is flat, his eyes are shallow, his lips thin and his mouth devoid of all depth. His beard is black but sparse, his ears small as an ape’s and muscled as a mule’s as they independently twitch at every whisper and scuff. He chews his words into leather strips that slap wetly at night and dry up like eels in the day’s sun.

Upon the back of his shaggy horse he carries a garrison’s arsenal, each weapon plain but meticulously clean and oiled. He has journeyed half the world upon the trail of the Nehemoth, yet of the crime to spur such zeal he will say nothing.

We now turn, with some relief to the true pilgrims and of these there are three distinct groups, each group seeking blessing at a different altar (though in truth and as shall be seen, they are all one and the same). Sages, priests and scholars stiffen their collars to unwelcome contradictions that nevertheless speak true, but as I am none of these worthies, uncollared as it were, that which on the surface makes no sense disturbs me not. Thus, we have a host of parallel tracks all destined to converge.

The Dantoc Calmpositis, eldest among the venerable Dantocs of Reliant City, must remain a creature unknown. Suffice it to say she was the first to set out from the Gates of Now here and her manservant Mister Must Ambertroshin, seated on the high bench of the carriage, his face shielded by a broad woven hat, uttered his welcome to the other travelers with a thick-volumed nod, and in this generous instant the conveyance and the old woman presumed within it became an island on wheels round which the others clustered like shrikes and gulls, for as everyone knows, no island truly stays in one place. As it crouches upon the sea and sand so too it floats in the mind, as a memory, a dream. We are cast out from it and we yearn to return. The world has run aground, history is a storm, and like the Dantoc Calmpositis, we would all hide in anonymity among the fragrant flowers and virtuous nuts, precious to none and a stranger to all.

Among the pilgrims seeking the shrine of the Indifferent God is a tall hawk of a man who was quick to offer his name and each time he did so an expectant look came to his vultured eyes, for did we not know him? Twitches would find his narrow face in the roaring blankness of our ignorance, and if oil glistened on and dripped from the raven feathered hair draped down the sides of his pressed-in head, well, none of us would dare comment, would we? But this man noted all and scratched and pecked his list of offenders and in the jerking bobs of his rather tiny head anyone near would hear a grackling sound commensurate with the duly irritated; and off he would march, destination certain but unknown, in the manner of a cock exploring an abandoned henhouse.

Well attired and possibly famous and so well comforted by material riches that he could discard them all (for a short time, at least), he proclaimed for himself the task of host among the travelers, taking a proprietary air in the settling of camp at day’s end beginning on that first night from the Gates of Nowhere, upon finding the oddly vacated Finder habitations past the old tumulus. He would, in the days and nights to come, grasp hold of this role even as his fine coat flew to tatters and swirling feathers waked his every step, and the cockerel eye-glint would sharpen its madness as the impossible solitude persisted.

Clearly, he was a man of sparrow fates. Yet in the interest of fairness, our host was also a man of hidden wounds. Of that I am reasonably certain, and if he knew wealth so too he had once known destitution, and if anonymity now haunted him, once there had roosted infamy. Or at least notoriety.

Oh, and his name, lest we forget, was Sardic Thew.

Seeking the shrine of an altogether different Indifferent God, we come at last to the poets and bards. Ahead, in the city of Farrog, waited the Festival of Flowers and Sunny Days, a grand fete that culminated in a contest of poetry and song to award one supremely talented artist the Mantle proclaiming him or her The Century’s Greatest Artist. That this is an annual award, one might hesitantly submit, simply underscores the fickle nature of critics and humans alike.

The world of the artist is a warrened maze of weasels, to be sure. Long bodies of black fur snake underfoot, quick to nip and snick. One must dance for fame, one must pull up skirts or wing out carrots for an instant’s shudder of validation or one more day’s respite from the gnawing world. Beneath the delighted smiles and happy nods and clasped forearms and whatnot, resides the grisly truth that there is no audience grand and vast enough to devour them all. No, goes the scurrilous conviction, the audience is in fact made up of five people, four of whom the artist knows well and in so knowing trusts not a single utterance of opinion. And who, pray tell, is that fifth person? That stranger? That arbiter of omnipotent power? No one knows. It is torture.

But one thing is certain. Too many artists for one person. Therefore, every poet and every painter and every bard and every sculptor dreams of murder. Just to snap hand downward, grasp hard the squirming snarling thing, and set it among one’s foes!

In this respect, the artists so gathered in this fell group of travelers, found in the truth to come an answer to their most fervent prayers. Pity them all.

But enough commiseration. The poet has made the nest and must squat in it whilst the vermin seethe and swarm up the crack of doubt and into fickle talent’s crotch. Look then, upon Calap Roud, the elder statesman of Reliant City’s rotundary of artists, each of whom sits perched in precarious perfection well above the guano floor of the cage (oh of course it is gilded). This is Calap’s twenty-third journey across the Great Dry of inspiration’s perdition, and he is yet to win the Mantle.

Indeed, in his wretchedly long life, he draws close upon the century himself. One might even claim that Calap Roud is the Mantle, though none might leap for joy at the prospect of taking him home, even for a fortnight. There is a miserable collection of alchemies available to the wealthy and desperate (and how often do those two thrash limbs entwined in the same rickety bed?) to beat off the three cackling crows of old age, death, and ambitions dusty bowl, and Calap Roud remains a sponge of hope, smelling of almonds and cloves and lizard gall-bladders.

And so with the miracle of elixirs and a disgustingly strong constitution, Calap Roud looks half his age, except for the bitter fury in his eyes. He waits to be discovered (for even in Reliant City his reputation was not one of discovery but of pathetic bullying, backstabbing, sordid underhand graft and of course gaggles of hangers-on of all sexes willing, at least on the surface, to suffer the wriggle of Calap’s fickler every now and then; and worse of all, poor Calap knows it’s all a fraud). Thus, whilst he has stolen a thousand sonnets, scores of epic poems and millions of clever offhanded comments uttered by talented upstarts stupidly within range of his hearing, at his very core he stares, mouth open, upon a chasm on all sides, wind howling and buffeting him as he totters on his perch. Where is the golden cage? Where are all the white-headed fools he shat upon? There’s nothing down there but more down there going so far down there is no there at all.

Calap Roud has spent his entire albeit modest fortune bribing every judge he could find in Farrog. This was his last chance. He would win the Mantle. He deserved it. Not a single one of the countless vices hunting the weakling artists of the world dragged him down-no, he had slipped free of them all on a blinding road of virtuous living. He was ninety-two years old and this year, he would be discovered!

No alchemies or potions in the world could do much about the fact that, as one grew older and yet older, so too one’s ears and nose. Calap Roud, as modestly wrinkled as a man in his late forties, had the ears of a veteran rock ape of G’danisban’s coliseum and the nose of a probiscus monkey who’d instigated too many tavern brawls. His teeth were so worn down one was reminded of catfish mouths biting at nipples. From his old man’s eyes came a leer for every woman, and from his leer came out a worm-like tongue with a head of purple veins.

Object of his lust, more often than not, was to be found in the Nemil beauty sitting languidly upon the other side of thefire (and if temptation burns where else would she be?). Purse Snippet was a dancer and orator famous across the breadth of Seven Cities. Need it be even said that such a combination of talents was sure to launch spurting enthusiasm among the heavy-breathing multitudes known to inhabit cities, towns, villages, hamlets, huts, caves and closets the world over?

Lithe was her smile, warm her midnight hair, supple of tongue her every curvaceous utterance, Purse Snippet was desired by a thousand governors and ten thousand nobles. She had been offered palaces, islands in artificial lakes, entire cities. She had been offered a hundred slaves each trained in the arts of love, to serve her pleasure until age and jealous gods took pleasure away. Lavished with jewels enough to adorn a hundred selfish queens in their dark tombs. Sculptors struggled to render her likeness in marble and bronze, and then committed suicide. Poets fell so far inside their poems of adoration and worship they forgot to eat and died at their garrets. Great warleaders tripped and impaled themselves on their own swords in pursuit of her. Priests foreswore drink and children. Married men surrendered all caution in their secret escapades. Married women delighted in exposing and then murdering their husbands with ridicule and savage exposes.

And none of it was enough to soothe the unreasoning fires crisping black her soul. Purse Snippet knew she was the Thief of Reason. She stole wisdom from the wise and made them fools, but all that she took simply slid like lead dust between her amorously perfected fingers. She was also the Thief of Desire, and lust pursued her like a tidal surge and where it passed other women were left bloodless and lifeless. But with her own desires she was lost in frantic search, unable to alight long on any branch, no matter how inviting it had at first seemed.

So she had found a grey powder that she took in draughts of wine and this powder which had so blissfully taken her away from everything now revealed its true self. It was the Thief of her Freedom.

She would enter the famous shrine of the Indifferent God, seeking the blessing that none other had ever achieved. She believed she could win this, for she intended to dance and sing as she had never before danced and sang. She would steal the indifference from a god. She would.

She could not remember when last she had felt free, but she could not think of anything she wanted more.

Each night, alas, the powder beckoned her.

Arch rival to Calap Roud was the illimitable, ambitious, inexcusably young Brash Phluster. That he delighted in the old bastard’s presence on this journey could hardly be refuted, for Brash so wanted Calap to witness youth’s triumph in Farrog. With luck, it would kill him.

Seven years Calap had been defecating on Brash, trying to keep him down on the crusty floor, but Brash was not one to let a rain of guano discourage his destiny. He knew he was brilliant in most things, and where he lacked brilliance he could fill those spaces with bold bluster and entirely unfounded arrogance. A sneer was as good as an answer. A writhe of the lip could slice throats across the room. He eyed Calap as would a wolf eye a dog, appalled at a shared pedigree and determined to tear the sad thing to pieces at the first opportunity.

True talent was found in the successful disguise of genius, and Brash accounted himself a master of disguises. His future was glory, but he would reveal not a single hint, not one that some cragged critic or presumptuous rival might close in on, stoat fangs bared. No, they could dismiss him each and every day for the time being. He would unveil himself in Farrog, and then they would all see. Calap Roud, that stunning watery-eyed dancer, Purse Snippet, and the Entourage too-

The Entourage! Whence comes such creatures so eager to abandon all pretense of the sedentary? One envisages haste of blubbering excitement, slippery gleam in the eye, a lapdog’s brainless zeal, as a canvas bag is stuffed full of slips and whatnot, with all the grace of a fakir backstage moments before performing before a gouty king. A whirlwind rush through rooms like shrines, and then out!

Pattering feet, a trio, all converging in unsightly gallop quick to feminize into a skip and prance once He Who Is Worshipped is in sight. The Entourage accompanies the Perfect Artist everywhere, gatherings great and small, public and intimate. They build the walls of the formidable, impregnable keep that is the Perfect Artist’s ego. They patrol the moat, flinging away all but the sweetest defecatory intimations of mortality. They stand sentinel in every postern gate, they gush down every sluice, they are the stained glass to paint rainbows upon their beloved’s perfectly turned profile.

But let us not snick and snack overmuch, for each life is a wonder unto itself, and neither contempt nor pity do a soul sound measures of health, lest some issue of envy squeeze free in unexpectedly public revelation. The object of this breathless admiration must wait for each sweet woman’s moment upon the stage in the bull’s eye lantern light of our examination.

To begin, we shall name all three and attach to each select obtuberances in aid of future recollection. Sellup, first for no particular reason, has seen twenty-three summers and remembers in excruciating detail four of them, from the moment she first set eyes upon her beloved Perfect Artist to the very present found in this tale. Of her first eighteen years she has no memory whatsoever. Was she born? Did she possess parents? Did they love her? She cannot recall. Brothers? Sisters? Lovers? Offspring? Did she eat? Did she sleep?

Dark brown and springy was her hair, whirling in spirals down upon her shoulders. Singular was her eyebrow yet miraculously independent in its expressions at each end. Her nose, narrow and jutting, bore all the mars of inveterate ill-considered interjection. Her mouth cannot be described for it never ceased moving long enough for an accurate appraisal, but her chin jutted with blurred assurance. Of her body beneath her flowery attire, no knowledge is at hand. Suffice it to say she sat a saddle well with nary a pinch upon the horse’s waist. Sellup of the blurred mouth, then.

Next was Pampera, linguistically challenged in all languages including her native one, hers was the art of simpering, performed in a serried host of mannerisms and transitory parades from pose to pose, each pose held, alas, both an instant too long and never long enough. In the span of one’s self settling into a chair, Pampera could promenade from crosslegged on a silk cushion with elbows upon inside knees and long fingers laced to bridge the weight of her chin (and presumably all the rest above it) to a sudden languorous stretching of one long perfectly moulded leg, flinging back her head with arms rising in rampant stretch to lift and define her savage breasts, before rising to her feet like smoke, swinging round with a pivot of her fine hips wheeling into view the barrel cask of her buttocks before pitching down on the divan, hair flowing like tentacles as she propped up her head with one hand whilst the other (hand, not head) endeavoured to reinsert her breasts into the skimpy cups the style and size of which she likely settled upon a month into puberty.

For Pampera, it must be noted, puberty was buried beneath virginity deep in a tomb long sealed by a thick mound of backfill, with the grass growing thick and high and all significance of the hump long lost to the memory of the local herders. Despite this, she was nineteen years old. Her hair, for all its tidal pool titillations, was the hue of honey though tipped with black kohl ink a finger’s width at the ends. She had the eyes of a boy’s fantasy, when eyes meant something, the two of them being overlarge and balanced just so to hint at warm scented boudoirs wherein things slid from mothering to something other with all the ease of a blinking lid (or two). Sculptors might dream of smoothing out her likeness in golden wax or creamy clay. Painters might long to lash her fineness to canvas or stuccoed wall, if not ceiling. But one could not but suspect the obsession was doomed to be short lived. Can an object of lust prove much too lust-worthy? Just how many poses are possible in the world and how did she come by them all? Why, even in sleep her repose palpitates in propitious perfection. The sculptor, looking upon this, would despair to discover that Pampera is her own sculpture and there was naught to be done to match or hope to improve upon it. Painters might fall into toxic madness seeking to match the tone of her flawless skin and it is to the toxic we will return to precipitate our reminding of dearest Pampera.

Could a poet hope to match her essence in words without an intermission of nausea? …

To return to these three, then, we at last come to Oggle Gush, innocent of all depravity not through inexperience, but through blissful imperviousness to all notions of immorality. A slip of mere sixteen years since the day in wonder her mother issued her forth, as naturally unaware of her pregnancy as she was of the innocence her daughter would so immaculately inherit, Oggle Gush deserves nothing but forgiving accolades from paladins and scoundrels alike (excepting only Great Artists). Ever quick to smile even at the most inappropriate of times, shying like a pup from a masters twitching boot one moment only to cuddle in his lap upon the next, squirming as only a thing of claws, wet nose and knobby limbs can.

Not one of her deeds was ill-meant. Not one of the numerous fatal accidents trailing her could be set upon her threshold. When she sang, as she often did, she could not find a solid key if it was glued to her tongue, but all looked on in damp-eyed adoration-and what, perchance, were all thinking? Was this an echo of personal conceits crushed and abandoned in childhood? Was it the unblinking boldness of the talentless that triggered reminiscences of childish lavishments? Or was it something in her dramatic earnestness that disengaged some critical faculty of the brain, leaving only sweet-smelling mush?

Oggle Gush, child of wonder and plaything of the Great Artist, all memory of you is sure to remain immortal and unchanging. As pure as nostalgia, and the cold cruelty with which you were misused, ah, but does this not take us to the Great Artist himself, he with the Entourage? But it does indeed.

Nifty Gum has thrice won the Mantle of the Century’s Greatest Artist. His Entourage of three as found upon the trail across the Great Dry, only a month past numbered six hundred and fifty-four; and if not for Oggle’s well-intentioned house cleaning beneath the deck of the transport barge, why, theyd all still be with him. As if Oggle knew a thing about boats and whatnot. As if she even understood the function of hull plugs and drain holes, or whatever those things were called.

He looked taller than he looked, if one can say such a thing and by the sure nods all round, it seems that one can. He wore his cloak and measured his stride as if he was a bigger man than he was, and not one of his even features could be said to be exaggerated yet neither were they refined. In gathered host they were pleasant on his face, but should one find them neatly severed and arrayed among rivals on a hawker’s bazaar table, why, none would even so much as reach for them, much less buy them-except, perhaps, as curios of mundanity.

Of talent’s measure Nifty Gum had an ample helping, nothing to overflow the brim, yet something, a fire, a wink, a perspicacity for promotion, the brazen swanning of his sweep and flurry in passage (trailed as ever by his giggling entourage), something or perhaps all these things and more, served him so well that his renown was as renowned as his songs and poems. Fame feeds itself, a serendipity glutton of the moment prescient in publicity.

For such a figure, no exaggeration can be overstated, and the glean of modesty rests in uneasily thin veneer upon a consummated self-adoration that abides the presumption of profundity with all the veracity of that which is truly profound. And to this comment my personal failure as a poet has no bearing whatsoever. Why, I have never viewed words as worthy weapons, having so many others of far more permanent efficacy at my disposal.

Indeed, as I look upon myself at this fire upon the twenty-third night, I see a young(ish) poet of modest regard, scant of pate and so casting nothing of the angelic silhouette upon yonder tent wall as Nifty Gum’s cascading curls of thick auburn hair achieve without his giving it a moment’s thought, as the gifted rarely if ever regard their gifts except in admiration, or, more deliciously, of admiration in witnessing the admiration of others for all that which is of himself be it voice or word or hair.

No, I am retracted unto myself, as was my wont in those times, the adventurer none knew, a teller of tales to defy the seam of joinings between those I spun in the Great Dry all those years ago, and this tale that I spin now.

Lives hang in the balance at every moment, in every instant, for life itself is a balance, but sometimes the sky is bright overhead and brilliant with sun and heat and sometimes the sky is darkness with the cold spark of stars dimmed by mistral winds. We see this as the wheel of the heavens, when such a belief is only our failed imagination, for it is us who wheel, like a beetle clinging to a spinning ring, and we are what mark the passing of days.

I see myself then, younger than I am, younger than I have ever been. This is my tale and it is his tale both. How can this be?

But then, what is a soul but the mapping of each and every wheel?

Upon such stately musings rests lightly, one hopes, this addendum. On the twenty-third day just past, the grim mottle of travelers came upon a stranger walking alone. Starved and parched, Apto Canavalian was perhaps in his last moments, and as such might well have met a sudden and final demise at the hands of the Nehemothanai and pilgrims, but for one salient detail. Through cracked lips that perhaps only filled out with a steady diet of wine and raw fish, Apto made it known that he was not a pilgrim of any sort. No, more an adjudicator in spirit if not profession (aspirations notwithstanding), Apto Canavalian was among the elite of elites in the spectrum of intellectualia, a shaper of paradigms, a prognosticator of popularity in the privileged spheres of passing judgement. He was, in short, one of the select judges for The Century’s Greatest Artist.

His mule had died of some dreaded pox. His servant had strangled himself in tragic mishap one night of private pleasuring and now lay buried in a bog well north of the Great Dry. Apto had made this journey at his own expense, the invitation from Farrog’s mystical organizers sadly lacking in remuneration, and had nothing left of his stores save one dusty bottle of vinegarish plonk (and, it soon became known, his dread state of dehydration had more to do with the previous nine bottles than with a dearth of water).

If artists possessed true courage (and this is doubtful) their teeth-bared defense of Apto’s life in the moments following his discovery would do well as admirable proof, but so often in life does one mistake desperation and self-interest for courage, for in mien both are raw and indeed, appalling.

Even venerable Tulgord Vise withdrew before the savage display of barely human snarls. In any case, the vote had already been concluded.

The night is younger than you might think, and the tale now lies before us, an enormous log of mysterious origins quick to drink flames from the bed of coals, and the fat sizzles and the circle is drawn tight save the Dantoc who remains, as ever, within her carriage.

Let us, for convenience, list them once more. Apto Canavalian, newly arrived and perhaps more pallid than salvation would invite. Calap Roud, an artist with a century of mediocrity lifting him to minuscule heights. Avas Didion Flicker, venerable voice of this modest retelling. Purse Snippet, demure in the sultry flare of flames, her eyes haunted as dying candles. Brash Phluster, destined as first to speak in the circle only moments away, sitting like a man on an ant hill, feverish of regard and clammy with sweat. Nifty Gum, redoubtable in his reclination, polished boots gleaming at the ends of his outstretched legs upon which are draped two of his Entourage, Oggle Gush, her lashes brushing in every slow blink the precious bulb of Nifty’s flower, and Sellup, brow awiggle like a caterpillar on a burning twig, whilst Pampera shifts to a new pose artful in breastly impression upon the side of Nifty’s auburn-flowing head and what gurgling promise does that single imprisoned ear detect?

Tiny and Flea and Midge Chanter command the bulwark upon one side of the circle, a pugnacious wall wildly bristling and smelling like a teenaged boy’s bedding, and close to Tiny’s scabbed hand sits Relish Chanter, lips smeared in grease and casting hooded wanton but unwanted glances my way. Steck Marynd paces off to her right, ghostly in the faded glow of the hearth. Growl might his stomach but damned if he will soothe it in this company of beasts. Well Knight Arpo Relent sits in the shiver of firelit gold glaring at the Chanters while Tulgord Vise picks at his (own) teeth with the point of a dagger, poised as ever for a cutting remark.

At the last seat is our host, and lest we forget his name, it is suited to muscled sartorial commentary, thus stunning the memory to recollect Sardic Thew, avian in repose, cockerel in assuredness though perhaps somewhat rattled by this point in the proceedings.

Thus, and so well chewed this introduction not a babe would choke upon it, one tremulously hopes.

The tale begins with sudden words in the light of the fire, the heat laden with watering aroma, and in the gloom beyond three horses shift and snort and the two mules eye them with envy (they look taller than they really are, and those brushed manes are an affront!). The Great Dry is a frost-sheathed wasteland beyond the fiery island, a scrabble of boulders and rocks and stunted shrubs. The carriage creaks with inner motion and perhaps one rheumy eye is pressed to a crack in the curtains, or an ear perched upon dainty hopes cocked in the folded crenellations of a peep-hole.

And of the air itself, dread is palpable and diluvean. A Recounting of the Twenty-third Night

“But listen! Whose tale is this?” So demanded Brash Phluster, a man who was of the height that made short men despise him on principle. His hair was natty and recalcitrant, but fulsome. He had teeth aligned in a mostly even row, full lips below a closely trimmed moustache and above a closely trimmed beard. It was a mouth inclined to pout, a face commissioned for self-pity, and of his nose nothing will be said.

Declamation ringing in the night air, Brash awaited a challenge but none came. We may list the reasons, as they could be of some significance. Firstly, twenty-three days of desperate deprivation and then horror had wearied us all. Secondly, the pullward weight of necessity was proving heavy indeed, at least for the more delicate among us. Thirdly, there was the matter of guilt, a most curious yoke that should probably be examined at length, but then, there is no need. Who, pray tell, is unfamiliar with guilt? In punctuated pointedness, fat snapped upon coals and almost everyone flinched.

“But I need a rest and besides, it’s time for the critical feasting.”

Ah, the critical feasting. I nodded and smiled though none noticed.

Brash wiped his hands on his thighs, shot Purse a glance and then shifted about to make himself more comfortable, before saying, “Ordig’s only claim to artistic genius amounted to a thousand mouldy scrolls and his patron’s cock in hand. Call yourself an artist and you can get away with anything. Of course, as everyone knows, shit’s fertile soil, but for what? That’s the question.”

The fire spat sparks. The smoke gusted and swung round, stinging new sets of eyes.

Brash Phluster’s face, all lit orange and flush and lively, floated like a thing disembodied in the hearth’s light; his charcoal cloak with its silver ringlets shrouded him below the neck, which was probably just as well. That head spouting all its words could just as easily be sitting on a stick, and it was still a wonder that it wasn’t.

“And Aurpan, well, imagine the audacity of his Accusations of a Guilty Man. What a heap of tripe. Guilty? Oh, aye. Guilty of being utterly talentless. It’s important-and I know this better than anyone-it’s important to bear in mind the innate denseness of the common people, and their penchant to forgive everything but genius. Aurpan was mercifully immune to such risks, which was why everyone loved him.”

Flea Chanter grunted. “Give that leg a turn, someone.”

Brash was closest to the spit but naturally he made no move. Sighing loudly, Mister Must Ambertroshin leaned forward and took hold of the cloth-wrapped handle. The crackling, sizzling haunch was weighty, inexpertly skewered, but he managed it after a few tries. He sat back, glanced round guiltily, but no one met his eyes.

Darkness, the flames’ uncertain light and the smoke were all gifts of mercy this night, but still the stomach lowered heavy and truculent. No one was hungry. This cooked meat would serve the morrow, the aching journey through a strangely emptied Great Dry, the twenty-fourth day in which we travelers felt abandoned by the world, the last left alive, and there was the fear that the Indifferent God was no longer indifferent. Were we the forgotten, the sole survivors of righteous judgement? It was possible, but not, I fair decided as I eyed the leg over the flames, likely.

“So much for Ordig and Aurpan,” said Tulgord Vise. “The question is, who do we eat tomorrow night?”

Critical feasting being what it is, sated and indeed bloated satisfaction is predicated upon the artist on the table, as it were. More precisely, the artist must be dead. Will be dead. Shall be naught else but dead. Limbs lie still and do not lash back. Mouth resides slack and rarely opens in affronted expostulation (or worse, vicious cut the razor’s wit, hapless corpses strewn all about). The body moves at the nudge only to fall still once more. Prods elicit nothing. Pokes evoke no twitch. Following all these tests, the subject is at last deemed safe to excoriate and rend, de-bone and gut, skin and sunder. Sudden discovery of adoration is permitted, respect acceptable and its proud announcement laudable. Recognition is at last accorded, as in ‘I recognise that this artist is dead and so finally deserving the accolade of ‘genius,’ knowing too that whatever value the artist achieved in life is now aspiring in worth tenfold and more.’ Critical feasting being what it is.

Well Knight Arpo Relent was the first to speak on the matter (what matter? Why, this one). There had been desultory discussion of horses and mules, satisfaction not forthcoming. Resources had been pooled and found too shallow. Stomachs were clenching.

“There are too many artists in the world as it is, and that statement is beyond challenge,” and to add veracity to the pronouncement’s sanctity (since the gaggle of artists had each and all shown signs of sudden alertness), Arpo Relent settled a gauntlet-sheathed hand upon the pommel of one of his swords. The moment in which argument was possible thus passed. “And since we among the Nehemothanai, whose cause is most just and whose need is both dire and pure, so as to speak in the one voice of honourable necessity, since we, then, require our brave and loyal mounts; whilst it is equally plain that the Dantoc’s carriage can proceed nowhere without the mules, we are at the last faced with the hard truth of survival.”

“You mean we need to eat somebody.” So said I at this juncture, not because I was especially dense, but speaking in the interest of pith (as one has no doubt already observed in the tale thus far). ‘Say it plain,’ has always been my motto.

To my crass brevity Arpo Relent frowned as if in disappointment. What artist asks such a thing? What artist lacks the intellectual subtlety to stroke the kitty of euphemism? When the game shall not be played, fun shall not be had. The nature of ‘fun’ in this particular example? Why, the ‘fun’ of sly self-justification for murder, of course, and what could be more fun than that?

Tiny Chanter was the first to play, with a tiny grin and a piggy regard for the poor artists who now stood miserable as sheep in a pen watching the axeman cometh. “But which one first, Relent? Fat to skinny? Obnoxious to useless? Ugly to pretty? We need a system of selection is what we need. Flea?”

“Aye,” Flea agreed.

“Midge?”

“Aye,” Midge agreed.

“Relish?”

“I like the one with the shaved head.”

“To eat first?”

“What?”

Tiny glared at me. “I warned you earlier, Flicker.”

At some juncture in discourse with a thug, one comes to the point where any uttered word shall obtain as sole justification for violence. It is not the word itself that matters. It is not even the speaking thereof. Indeed, nothing of the world outside the thick skull and murky matter it contains is at all relevant. There is no cause and no effect. No, what has occurred is the clicking of a gear wheel, a winding down to the moment of release. The duration is fixed. The process is irreversible.

Resigned, I waited for Tiny Chanter’s pique to detonate.

Instead, Relish said, “They should tell stories.”

Steck Marynd took this moment to snort, and it was an exquisite snort in that it clearly counted as the first vote on the matter.

Tiny blinked, and blinked again. One could see the tumult of confusion whisk clouds over his brutal visage, and then his grin broadened, frightening away all the clouds. “Flea?”

“Aye.”

“Midge?”

“Aye.”

“Knight Relent, you happy with that?”

“I am ‘Sir’ to you.”

“Was that a ‘yes’?”

“I think it was,” said Flea. “Midge?”

“Oh aye, that was a ‘yes’ all right.”

At this moment Tulgord Vise, Mortal Sword to the Sisters, stepped into the understandable gap between the Nehemothanai and the limpid artists (of which, at this juncture, I blithely count myself). He blew out his cheeks (his upper ones) and stretched a measured regard upon all those gathered, including the host whose name momentarily escapes me, Mister Must, Purse Snippet and the Entourage (poor Apto was yet to arrive). One presumes this was meant to establish Tulgord’s pre-eminence as the final arbiter in the matter (yes, this matter), but of course he too possessed but a single vote, and so the issue was perhaps, for him, one of moral compass. Clearly, he saw in this moment the necessity of justification, and upon ethical concerns who else but Tulgord Vise to dispense adjudication?

Well, how about the victims?

But the retort is equally quick, to be found in the puerile weaponry all within easy reach of those with nothing to lose and everything to gain. Since when do ethics triumph power? So uneven was this debate no one bothered to troop it out for trampling. Accordingly, Tulgord’s posturing was met with all the indifference it deserved, a detail entirely lost on him.

The nightly procession was thus determined, as we artists would have to sing not to be supper. Ironically, alas, the very first victim had no tale to attempt at all, for his crime at this moment was to object, with all the terror of a lifetime being picked last in every children’s game he ever played, and some memories, as we all know, stay sharp across a lifetime. “Just eat the damned horses!”

But Arpo Relent shook his head. “There is no question of any more votes,” he said. “As any one of proper worth would agree, a knight’s horse is of far greater value than any poet, bard or sculptor. It’s settled. The horses don’t get eaten.” And he glowered as was his wont following everything he said.

“But that’s just-”

It is safe to say that the word this nameless artist intended was ‘stupid’ or ‘insane’ or some other equally delectable and wholly reasonable descriptive. And as added proof when his severed head rolled almost to my feet following the savage slash of Tulgord Vise’s blessed sword, the mouth struggled to form its thoughtful completion. Ah, thus did the memory stay sharp.

The first poet, having been killed so succinctly, was butchered and eaten on the eleventh night upon the Great Dry. The sixteenth night saw another follow, as did the twentieth night. Upon the twenty-second night the vote was taken following Arpo’s raising of the notion of mid-day meals to keep up one’s strength and morale, and so a second artist was sacrificed that night. At that time the ritual of critical feasting began, instigated by a shaky Brash Phluster.

Two more hapless poets, both bards of middling talents, gave the performance of their lives on that night.

At this point, listeners among you, perhaps even you, might raise an objecting hand (not the first one you say? I wasn’t paying attention). Thirty-nine days upon the Great Dry? Surely by now, with only a few days away from the ferry landing below the plateau, the need for eating people was past? And of course you would be right, but you see, a certain level of comfort had been achieved. In for a pinch in for a pound, as some sated bastard once said. More relevantly, thirty-nine days was the optimum crossing, and we were far from optimum, at least to begin with. Does this suffice? No, of course it doesn’t, but whose tale is this?

Ordig now resided in bellies with a weighty profundity he never achieved in life, while Aurpan’s last narrative was technically disconnected and stylistically disjointed, being both raw and overdone. The critical feasting was complete and the artists numbered four, Purse Snippet being given unanimous dispensation, and by the host’s judgement sixteen nights remained upon the Great Dry.

While talent with numbers could rarely be counted among the artist’s gifts, it was nonetheless clear to all of us sad singers that our time upon this world was fast drawing to a close. Yet with the arrival of dusk this made no less desperate our contests.

Brash Phluster licked his lips and eyed Apto Canavalian for a long moment, before drawing a deep breath.

“I was saving this original dramatic oratory for the last night in Farrog, but then, could I have a more challenging audience than this one here?” And he laughed, rather badly.

Apto rubbed at his face as if needing to convince himself that this was not a fevered nightmare (as might haunt all professional critics), and I do imagine that, given the option, he would have fled into the wastes at the first opportunity, not that such an opportunity was forthcoming given Steck Marynd and his perpetually cocked crossbow which even now rested lightly on his lap (he’d done with his pacing by this time).

In turn, Brash withdrew his own weapon, a three-string lyre, which he set to tuning, head bent over the instrument and face twisted in concentration. He plucked experimentally, then with flourish, and then experimentally again. Sweat glistened in the furrows of his brow, each bead reflecting the hearth’s flames. When those seated began growing restless he nudged one wooden peg one last time, and then setded back.

“This is drawn from the Eschologos sequence of Nemil’s Redbloom Poets of the Third Century.” He licked his lips again.

“Not to say I stole anything. Inspired, is what I mean, by those famous poets.”

“Who were they again?” Apto asked.

“Famous,” Brash retorted, “that’s who they were.”

“I mean, what were their names?”

“What difference would that make? They sang famous poems!”

“Which ones?”

“It doesn’t matter! They were the Redbloom Poets of Nemil! They were famous! They were from the time when bards and poets were actually valued by everyone! Not pushed aside and forgotten!”

“But you’ve forgotten their names, haven’t you?” Apto asked.

“If you never heard of them how would you know if I knew their names or not? I could make up any old names and you’d just nod, being a scholar and all! I’m right, aren’t I?”

Calap Roud was shaking his head but there was a delighted glimmer in his eyes. “Young Brash, it serves you ill to berate one of the Mantle’s judges, don’t you think?”

Brash rounded on him. “You don’t know their names either!”

“That’s true, I don’t, but then, I’m not pretending to be inspired by them, am I?”

“Well, you’re about to hear inspiration of the finest kind!”

“What was inspiring you again?” Tiny Chanter asked.

Flea and Midge snorted.

Our host was waving his hands about, and it was finally understood that this manic gesturing was intended to capture our collective attentions. “Gentlemen, please now! The Poet wishes to begin, and each must have his or her turn-”

“What ‘her’?” demanded Brash. “All the women here got dispensations! Why is that? Is it, perhaps, because everyone eligible to vote happened to be men? Imagine how succulent-”

“Enough of that!” barked Tulgord Vise. “That’s disgusting!”

Arpo Relent added, “What it is, is proof of the immoral decrepitude of artists. Everyone knows it’s the women who do the eating.”

Moments later, in the ensuing silence, the Well Knight frowned. “What?”

“Best begin, Poet,” said Steck Marynd in a hunter’s growl (and don’t they all?).

A wayward ember spun towards Nifty Gum and all three of his Entourage fought to fling themselves heroically into its path, but it went out before it could reach any of them. They settled back, glowering at each other.

Brash strummed the three strings, and began singing in a flat falsetto.

“In ages long past

A long time ago

Before any of us were alive

Before kingdoms rose from the dust

There was a king-”

“Hang on,” said Tiny. “If it was before kingdoms, how could there be a king?”

“You can’t interrupt like that! I’m singing!”

“Why do you think I interrupted?”

“Please,” said the host whose name escapes me again, “let the Poet, er, sing.”

“There was a king

Who name was… Gling

Gling of the Nine Rings

That he won

“On his bling!” Flea sang.

“That he wore one each day

Of the week-”

Apto broke into a coughing fit.

“Gling of the Seven Rings

Was a king whose wife

Had died and sad was his sorrow

For his wife was beloved,

A Queen in her own right.

Her tresses were locks

Flowing down long past

Her shapely shoulders and

Long-haired she was and

Longhair was her name

She who died of grief

Upon the death of their

Daughter and so terrible her grief

She shaved her head and was

Long-haired no longer

And so furious her beloved

Gling that he gathered up

The strands and wove a rope

With which he strangled

Her-oh sorrow!”

The ‘oh sorrow’ declamation was intended to be echoed by the enraptured audience, and would mark the closure of each stanza. Alas, no one was in a ready state to participate, and isn’t it curious how laughter and weeping could be so easily confused? Savagely, Brash Phluster plucked a string and pressed on.

“But was the daughter truly dead?

What terrible secret did King Gling

Her father possess

There in his tower

At the very heart

Of the world’s greatest kingdom?

But no, he was a king

Without any terrible secrets,

For his daughter had been

Stolen, and lovely she was,

The princess whose name was…

Missingla

And this is her tale known to all

As Missingla’s Tale

Beloved daughter of King Gling and

Queen Longhair,

A princess in her own right

Was Missingla of the shapely shoulders

Royal her eye lashes

A jeweled crown her sweet lips”

Oh dear, I just added those two lines. I could not help it, and so I do urge their disregard.

“Was Missingla of the shapely shoulders

Stolen by the king in the kingdom

Beyond the mountains between the lake

In the Desert of Death

Where almost nothing lived

Or could hope to live

Even should we live in hope”

Ah, and again.

“and this king his name was…Lope

Who bore a sword twice as tall as he

And the armour of an ogre made of stone

And cruel was his face, evil his eyes,

As he swam the lake at night

To scale the tower to steal her away

Missingla-oh sorrow!”

The Entourage cried, “Oh sorrow!” and even Purse Snippet smiled over her secretive cup of tea.

But she was waiting oh yes, for

Cruel and evil as he was, so too rich

Beyond all measure ruling the world’s

Richest kingdom beyond the mountains

And so not stolen at all, sweet daughter

No! Missingla Lope they swam away!

In the chaos that ensued, Brash thrashed at the strings of the lyre until one broke, the taut gut snapping up to catch him in the left eye. Steck’s crossbow, cursed with a nervous trigger, accidentally released, driving the quarrel through the hunter’s right foot, pinning it to the ground. Purse sprayed a startlingly flammable mouthful of tea into the fire, and in the flare-up Apto flung himself backward with singed eyebrows, rolling off the stone he’d been perched on and slamming his head into a cactus. The host’s hands waved frantically since he could no longer breathe. The Entourage was in a groping tangle and somewhere beneath it was Nifty Gum. Tulgord Vise and Arpo Relent were scowling and frowning respectively. Of Tiny Chanter, only the soles of his boots were visible. Midge suddenly stood and said to Flea, “I pissed myself.”

By this extraordinary performance Brash Phluster survived the twenty-third night and so would live through the twenty-fourth night and the following day. And as he opened his mouth to announce that he wasn’t yet finished, why, I did clamp my hand over the offending utterance, stifling it in the rabbit hole. Mercy knows a thousand guises, say you not?

Madness, you say? That I should so boldly aver Brash Phluster’s suicidal desire to further skin himself? But while confidence is a strange creature, it is no stranger to me. I know well its pluck and princeps. It bears no stretch of perception to note my certain flair in the proceeding of this tale, for here I am, ancient of ways, and yet still alive. Ah, but perhaps I deceive you all with this retroactive posture of assuredness. A fair point, were it not for the fact of its error in every regard. To explain, I possessed even then the quiet man’s stake, a banner embedded deep in solid rock, the pennants ever calm no matter how savage the raging storms of worldly straits. It is this impervious nature that has served me so well. That and my natural brevity with respect to modesty.

Upon recovery, whilst in relief Brash Phluster stumbled off to vomit behind some boulders, Calap Roud made to begin his tale. His hands trembled like fish in a tree. His throat visibly tightened, forcing squeaking noises from his gaping mouth. His eyes bulged like eggs striving to flee a female sea-turtle’s egg hole. The vast injustice of Brash Phluster’s dispensation was a bright sizzling rage in his visage, a teller’s tome of twitches plucking at each and every feature so fecklessly clutched beneath his forehead. He was not holding up well to this terrible pressure, this twill or die. Unraveled his comportment, and in tumbling, climbing pursuit a lifetime of missed moments, creative collapses, blocks and heights not reached, all heaved up at this moment to drown him in a deluge of despair.

He was the cornered jump-mouse, the walls too high, the floor devoid of cracks, and all he could do was bare his tiny teeth in the pointless hope that the slayer looming so cruelly over him was composed of cotton fluff. Ah, how life defends itself! It is enough, oh yes, to shatter even a staked man’s heart. But know we all that this modern world is one without pity, that it revels in the helplessness of others. Children pluck wings and when grown hulking they crush heads and paint rude words on public walls. Decay bays on all sides, still mourning the moon’s tragic death. Pity the jump-mouse, for we are ourselves nothing other than jump-mice trapped in the corners of existence.

In his desperation, Calap Roud realized his only hope for survival would be found in the brazen theft of the words of great but obscure artists, and, fortunate for him, Calap possessed a lifetime of envy in the shadow of geniuses doomed to dissolution in some decrepit alley (said demises often carefully orchestrated by Calap himself: a word here, a raised eyebrow there, the faintest shakes of the head and so on. It is of course the task of average talents to utterly destroy their betters, but not until every strip of chewable morsel is stripped from them first). Thus lit by borrowed inspiration, Calap Roud gathered himself and found a sudden glow and calm repose in which to draw an assured breath.

“Gather ye close, then,” he began, in the formal fashion of fifty or so years ago, “to this tale of human folly, as all tales of worth do so recount, to the sorrow of men and women alike. In a great age past, when giants crouched in mountain fastnesses, fur-bedecked and gripping in hard fists the shafts of war spears; when upon the vast plains below glaciers lay like dead things, draining their lifeblood into ever-deepening valleys; when the land itself growled like a bear in the spring, stomach clenched in necessity, a woman of the Imass slowly died, alone, banished from her ken. She was curled in the lee of a boulder left behind by the ice. The furs covering her pale skin were worn and patched. She had gathered about herself thick mosses and wreathes of lichen to fight against the bitter wind. And though at this time none was there to cast regard upon her, she was beautiful in the way of Imass women, sibling to the earth and melt-waters, to the burst of blossoms in the short season. Her hair, maiden braided, was the colour of raw gold. Her face was broad and full-featured, and her eyes were green as the moss in which she huddled.”

A worthy theft to my mind, for I knew this tale. Indeed, I knew the poet whose version Calap was now recounting. Stenla Tebur of Aren managed to fashion a dozen epic poems and twenty or so hearth-tales (or garden-tales, as the Aren knew them, having long since abandoned such rustic scenes as sitting round a hearth beneath stars unmarred by city smoke and light), before his untimely death at the age of thirty-three. The altar upon which he breathed his last, I am told, was naught but grimy cobbles behind the Temple of Burn, and the breath whereof I speak was a wheezing one, thick with consumption. Alcohol and d’bayang had taken this young man’s life, for such are the lures of insensate escape to the tormented artist that rare is the one who deftly avoids such fatal traps. T’was not fame that killed him, alas (for, I would boldly state, death in the time of fame is not as tragic as it might seem, for lost potential is immortal; far greater the sorrow and depression upon hearing of a once-famous life ending in the obscurity of the obsolete). Stenla had given up his siege upon the high and solid walls of legitimacy, manned as it was by legions of jaded mediocrities and coddled luminaries. Forays of vicious rejection had crushed his spirit, until senseless oblivion was all he sought, and found.

“What terrible crime had so cruelly cast her out from her own people?” Calap went on, quoting word for word and thus impressing me with his memory. “The wind howled with the voices of a thousand spirits, each and all bemoaning this fair maiden’s fate. Tears from the sky lost the warmth of life and so drifted down as flakes of snow. The great herds in the distance had wandered down to the valley flanks to escape the wind and its dread voices of sorrow. She curled alone, dying.”

“But why?” demanded Sellup, earning venomous glares from Pampera and Oggle Gush, for in showing interest in a tale not told by Nifty Gum she was committing a gross betrayal, and even the Great Artist himself was frowning at Sellup. “Why did they leave her like that? That was evil! And she was good, wasn’t she? A good person! Pure of heart, an innocent-she had to be! Oh, this is a terrible fate!”

Calap raised a hand in which was cupped borrowed wisdom. “Soon, my dear, all will be known.”

“Don’t wait too long! I don’t like long stories. Where’s the action? You’ve already gone on too long!”

And to that criticism Pampera, Oggle and Nifty all nodded. What is it to trust so little in the worth of a tale well and carefully told? What doth haste win but breathless stupidity? Details of import? Bah! Cry these flit-flies. Measures of pace and the thickening of the mat into which the awl must weave? Who cares? Chew into rags and be on to the next, spitting as you go! I look upon the young and see a generation of such courage as to dare nothing more than the ankle-deep, and see them standing proud and arrogant upon the thin shorelines of unknown seas-and to call this living! Oh, I know, it is but an old man’s malaise, but to this very moment I still see Sellup and her wide-eyed idiocy, I still hear her impatience and the smack of her lips and the gulp of her breaths, a young woman who could pant herself unconscious in her haste to see her mind transported… elsewhere. A stutter of steps, a stagger of impetus, oh, so much she missed!

“Would she lie there unto death,” Calap asked, “nameless and unknown? Is this not the darkest tragedy of all? To die in anonymity? To pass from the world unremarked, beneath the notice of an entire world? Oh, the flies wait to lay their eggs. The capemoths flutter like leaves in nearby branches, and in the sky the tiny spots that are ice vultures slowly grow larger with their cargo of endings. But these are the mindless purveyors of mortality and nothing more than that. Their voice is the whisper of wings, the clack of beaks and the snip of insect mouths. It is fey epitaph indeed.”

Steck Marynd limped close to the fire and set down another branch collected from somewhere. Flames licked the hoary bark and found it to their liking.

“So we must turn back, outracing the cool sun of spring to the colder sun of winter, and we see before us a huddle of huts, humped upon the bones and tusks of tenag, thick bhederin hides stretched tight over the skeletal frames. The camp crouches not upon the highest hills overlooking the valley, nor upon the banks of the melt-water stream in the basin of the valley itself. No, it clings to a south-facing terrace a little more than halfway up the valley side. The wind’s fiercest force is cut in this place and the ground is dry underfoot, draining well into the soggy flats flanking the stream. The Imass were greatly skilled at such things; perhaps indeed their wisdom was a bred thing, immune to true learning, or it may instead be true that those not yet severed from the earth know full the precious secrets of harmony, of using only what is given-”

“Get on with it!” shouted Sellup, the words jumbled by the knuckle bones she was sucking clean. Spitting one out she popped another one in. Her eyes shone like candle flames awakened by a drunkard’s breath. “It was a stupid camp. That’s all. I want to know what’s going to happen! Now!”

Calap nodded. Never argue with a member of one’s audience.

Well, perhaps he believed that. For myself, and after much rumination on the matter, I would suggest the following qualifiers. If that member of the audience is obnoxious, uninformed, dim, insulting, a snob, or drunk, then as far as I am concerned, they are fair game and, by their willingness to engage the artist in said contest, should expect none other than surgical savaging by said artist. Don’t you think?

“These Imass in this camp had suffered a terrible winter. Their hunters could find little game, and the great flocks of birds were still weeks away. Many of the elders had walked off into the white to save the lives of their children and grandchildren, for winter spoke to them in a secret language only the aged understand. ‘In life’s last days, the white and the cold will lie in the bed of the old.’ So said the wise among them. Yet, even for this sacrifice, the others weakened with each day. The hunters could not range as far as once they could before exhaustion turned them back. Children had begun eating the hides that kept them warm at night, and now fevers raced among them.

“She was out, upon the high ridge overlooking the camp, collecting the last autumn’s mosses where the winds had swept the snows away, and so was the first to see the approaching stranger. He came down from the north, thickly clad in tenag furs. The long bone-grip of a greatsword rose behind his left shoulder. His head was bared to the winds at his back, and she could see that he was dark, stone-skinned and black-haired. He dragged a sled in his wake.

“In the time before he drew closer, hard thoughts rattled in her mind. They could turn no stranger away in times of need. This was a law among her kind. Yet this warrior was a big man, taller than any Imass. His hunger would be a deep pit, and weakened as her clan’s warriors now were, the stranger could take all he wanted if he so chose. And more, she was troubled by that sled, for bundled as it was, she knew it bore a body. If it lived it would need caring. If dead, the warrior was delivering a curse upon her people.”

“A curse?” Sellup asked. “What kind of curse?”

Calap blinked.

Seeing that he had no specific response to this question, I cleared my throat. “Death leaves such camps, Sellup, and that is well and as it should be. This is why the elders, when they decide it is time to die, walk out into the white. It is also why all kills are butchered well away from the camp itself, so that only meat, hide and bones intended to be made into tools-gifts to life one and all-enter the camp. Should death come into the camp, the hosts are cursed and must immediately make propitiations to the Reaver and his demon slaves, lest Death find the camp to his liking and so make it his home. When the Reaver finds a home, the living soon die, do you see?”

“No.”

Sighing, I said, “It is one of those rules couched in spiritual guise that, in truth, has a more secular purpose. To bring someone dead or dying into a small camp is to invite contagion and disease. Among such a close-knit clan, any infection is likely to claim them all. Thus, the Imass had certain rules to prevent such a thing occurring, yet those rules, alas, conflicted with that of never turning a guest away in times of need. So the woman was with troubled thoughts, yes?”

“But he’s evil-he has to be! He’s the Reaper himself!”

“Reaver,” I corrected, “or so the citizens of Aren so call the Lord of Death.”

Calap flinched and would not thereafter meet my eyes. “So she stood, trembling, as the stranger, who had clearly chosen her as his destination, now drew up to halt nine paces distant. She saw at once that he was not Imass. He was from the mountain heights. He was Fenn, a giant of Tartheno Toblakai blood. And too, she saw that he bore the marks of battle. Slash wounds that had cut through the woolly Tenag hide had encrusted the slices with the warrior’s own blood. His right hand and forearm were blackened with old gore, and so too was his face spattered in violent maps.

“He was silent for a time, his heavy eyes held upon her, and then he spoke. He said-”

“Finish this tomorrow night,” Tiny Chanter said, cracking a wide yawn.

“That’s not how it works,” Tulgord Vise said in a growl. “We can’t very well vote if one of the tales remains incomplete.”

“I want to hear more, don’t I?” Tiny retorted. “But I’m falling asleep, right? So, we get the rest tomorrow night.”

I noticed that Nifty Gum was endeavouring to catch my eye. In response I raised my brows and shrugged.

Oggle Gush said then, “But I want to hear Nifty’s story!”

Nifty made to silence the girl, if the twitching of his hands and their spasmodic clutching (miming throttling a throat) was any indication, though who but Nifty could truly say?

“Tomorrow during the day then! Same for the other one-we got time and since there ain’t nothing to see anyway and nothing to do but walk, let’s have em entertain us till sunset! No, it’s settled and all, ain’t it, Flea?”

“Aye,” said Flea. “Midge?”

“Aye,” said Midge.

“But the night is still young,” objected Arpo Relent, and one could tell from a host of details in his demeanor that the sudden dispatch of impending death-sentences had frustrated some pious repository of proper justice within his soul, and now in his face there was the blunt belligerence of a thwarted child.

Purse Snippet then surprised us all by saying, “I will tell a tale, then.”

“My lady,” gasped the host, “it was settled-there is no need-”

“I would tell a tale, Sardic Thew, and so I shall.” With this assertion muting us all she then hesitated, as if startled by her own boldness. “Words are not my talent, I admit, so forgive me if I stumble on occasion.”

Who could not but be forgiving?

“This too belongs to a woman,” she began, her eyes on the flames, her elegantly-fingered hands encircling her clay vessel. “Loved and worshiped by so many-” she sharply looked up. “No, she was no dancer, nor a poet, nor actress nor singer. Hers was a talent born to, yet not one that could be further honed. In truth, it was not a talent at all, but rather the gathering of chance-lines and curves, symmetries. She was, in short, beautiful, and from that beauty her life was shaped, her future preordained. She would marry well, above her station, and in that marriage she would be the subject of adoration, as if she was a precious object of art, until such time that age stole her beauty, whereupon her fine home would become a tomb of sorts, her bedroom rarely frequented at night by her husband, whose vision of beauty remained forever youthful.

“There would be wealth. Fine foods. Silks and fetes. There would be children, perhaps, and there would be something… something wistful, there in her eyes at the very end.”

“That’s not a story!” Oggle Gush said.

“I have but begun, child-”

“Sounds more like an end to me, and don’t call me child, I’m not a child,” and she looked to Nifty for confirmation, but he was instead frowning at Purse Snippet, as if seeking to understand something.

Purse Snippet resumed her tale, but her eyes were now bleak as she gazed into the fire. “There are quests, in a person’s life, that require no steps to be taken. No journey across strange landscapes. There are quests where the only monsters are the shadows in a bedroom, the reflection in a mirror. And one has no companions hale and brave to stand firm at one’s side. This is a thing taken in solitude. She was loved by many, yes. She was desired by all who saw the beauty of her, but of beauty within herself, she could see nothing. Of love for the woman she was inside, there was none. Can the pulp of the fruit admire the beauty of its skin? Can it even know that beauty?”

“Fruits don’t have eyes,” said Oggle Gush, rolling her own. “This is stupid. You can’t have quests without mountain passes and dangerous rivers to cross, and ogres and demons and wolves and bats. And there’s supposed to be friends of the hero who go along and fight and stuff, and get into trouble so the hero has to save them. Everyone knows that.”

“Oggle Gush,” Apto Canavalian said (now that he’d done plucking cactus spikes from the back of his head), “kindly shut that useless hole in your face. Purse Snippet, please, go on.”

Whilst Oggle gaped and mawped and blinked like an owl in a vice, Steck Marynd appeared to add more wood to the fire and it occurred to me that the stolid, grim ranger was indeed doing woodly things, which meant that all was well, though of greater tasks and higher import something must obtain with this personage, sooner or later. One hopes.

“She would stand upon a balcony overlooking the canal where the gramthal boats plied carrying people and wares. Butterflies in the warm air would lift as if on sounds to gather round her.” She faltered then, for some unknown reason, and drew a few breaths before continuing, “and though all who chanced to look up, all who set eyes upon her, saw a maiden of promise, indeed, a work of art posed thus upon that balcony, why, in her soul there was war. There was anguish and suffering, there was dying to an invisible enemy, one that could cut the feet beneath every mustered argument, every armoured affirmation. And the dark air was filled with screams and weeping, and upon no horizon did dawn make promise, for this was a night unending and a war without respite.

“A lifetime, she would tell you, is a long time to bleed. There is paint for pallor, the hue of health to hide the ashen cheeks, but the eyes cannot be disguised. There you will find, if you look closely, the tunnels to the battlefield, to that unlighted place where no beauty or love can be found.”

The fire ate wood, coughed smoke. No one spoke. The mirror was smudged, yes, but a mirror nonetheless.

“Had she said but a single word,” muttered someone (was it me?), “a thousand heroes would have rushed to her aid. A thousand paths of love to lead her out of that place.”

“That which cannot love itself cannot give love in return,” she replied. “So it was with this woman. But, she knew in her heart, the war must end. What devours within will, before long, claw its way to the surface, and the gift of beauty will falter. Dissolution rots outward. The desperation grew within her. What could she do? Where in her mind could she go? There was, of course,” and inadvertendy her eyes dropped to the cup in her hands, “sweet oblivion, and all the masks of escape as offered by wine, smoke and such, but these are no more than the paths of decay-gentle paths, to be sure, once one gets used to the stench. And before long, the body begins to fail. Weakness, illness, aching head, a certain lassitude. Death beckons, and by this alone one knows that one’s soul has died.”

“My lady,” Tulgord Vise ventured, “this tale of yours demands a knight, sworn to goodness. Tis a fair damsel in deepest distress-”

“Two knights!” cried Arpo Relent, although with a zeal that sounded, well, forced.

Tulgord grunted. “There is only one one knight in this tale. The other knight is the other knight.”

“There can be two knights! Who is to say there can’t?”

“Me. I’m to say. I will allow two knights, however. The real one, me. The other one, you.”

Arpo Relent’s face was bright red, as if swallowing flames. “I’m not the other knight! You are!”

“When I cut you in two, “Tulgord said, “you can be two knights all by yourself.”

“When you cut me in two you won’t know which way to turn!”

Silence has flavour, and this one was confused, as follow certain statements that, in essence, make no sense whatsoever, yet nonetheless possess a peculiar logic. Such was this momentary interlude composed of frowns, clouds and blinks.

Purse Snippet spoke. “She came to a belief that the gods set alight a spark in every soul, the very core of a mortal spirit, which mayhap burns eternal, or, in less forgiving eyes, but gutters out once the flesh has fallen beyond the last taken breath. To sharpen her need, she chose the latter notion. Now, then, there was haste and more: there was a true edge of possible redemption. If in our lives, we are all that we have and ever will have, then all worth lies in the mortal deed, in that single life.”

“A woman without children, then,” Apto murmured.

“What gift passing such beauty on? No, she was yet to marry, yet to take any seed. Only within her mind had she so aged, seeing an end both close and far off, ten years in a century, ten centuries in an instant. Resolved, then, she would seek to journey to find that spark. Could it be scoured clean, enlivened to such bright fire that all flaws simply burned away? She would see, if she could.

“But what manner this journey? What landscape worth the telling?” And upon that moment her eyes, depthless tunnels, found me. “Will you, kind sir, assemble the scene for my poor tale?”

“Honoured,” said I mostly humbly. “Let us imagine a vast plain, broken and littered. Starved of water and bare of animals. She travels alone and yet in company, a stranger among strangers. All she is she hides behind veils, curtains of privacy, and awaiting her as awaiting the others, there is a river, a flowing thing of life and benison. Upon its tranquil shores waits redemption. Yet it remains distant, with much privation in between. But what of those who travel with her? Why, there are knights avowed to rid the world of the unseemly. In this case, the unseemly personages of two foul sorcerors of the darkest arts. So too there are pilgrims, seeking blessing from an idle god, and a carriage travels with them and hidden within it there is a face, perhaps even two, whom none have yet to see-”

“Hold!” growled Steck Marynd, looming out of the gloom, crossbow held at rest but cocked across one forearm. “See how the colour has left the face of this woman? You draw too close, sir, and I like it not.”

Mister Ambertroshin relit his pipe.

“Lacks imagination,” purred Nifty Gum. “Allow me, Lady Snippet. The village of her birth is a small holding upon the rocky shores of a fjord. Beyond the pastures of her father the king, crowded forests rear up mountain sides, and in a deep fastness there sleeps a dragon, but most restlessly, for she had given birth to an egg, one of vast size, yet so hard was the shell that the child within managed to no more than break holes for its legs and arms, and with its snout it had rubbed thin the shell before its eyes, permitting it a misty regard of the world beyond. And, alas, the egg monster had escaped the cavern and now roved down between the black trees, frightened and lost and so most dangerous.

“In its terrible hunger it has struck now in the longhouse of the king, rolling flat countless warriors as they slept ensorcelled by the child’s magic. Woe, bewails the king! Who can save them? Then came the night-”

“What knight?” Tulgord demanded.

“No, night, as in the sun’s drowning in darkness-”

“The knight drowned the sun?”

“No, fair moon’s golden rise-”

“He’s mooning the sun?”

“Excuse me, what?”

“What’s the knight doing, damn you? Cracking that egg in half, I wager!”

“The sun went down-that kind of night!”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Tulgord Vise snorted. “And the monster set a deep magic upon the longhouse. Bursting down the stout door-”

“He ran into the knight!”

“No, instead, he fell in love with the princess, for as she was ugly on the inside, he was ugly on the outside-”

“I’d suspect,” Apto said, “he’d be pretty ugly on the inside, too. Dragon spawn, trapped in there. No hole for the tail? He’d be neck deep in shit and piss. Why-”

Brash Phluster, working on his second supper, having lost the first one, pointed a finger bone at Nifty and, with a greasy smirk, said, “The Judge is right. You need to explain things like that. The details got to make sense, you know.”

“Magic answers,” snapped Nifty with a toss of his locks. “The monster walked into the main hall and saw her, the princess, and he fell in love. But knowing how she would view him with horror, he was forced to keep her in an enchanted sleep, through music piped out from the various holes in his shell-”

“He farted her a magic song?” Apto asked.

“He piped her a magic song, which made her rise as would one sleep-walking, and so she followed him out from the hall.”

“What’s that story got to do with Purse Snippet’s?” Was that my question? It was.

“I’m getting to that.”

“You’re getting to the point where I vote we spit you on the morrow,” said Tulgord Vise.

Arpo Relent agreed. “What a stupid story, Nifty. An egg monster?”

“There is mythical precedent for-”

“Make your silence deep, poet,” warned Steck Marynd. “My Lady Snippet, do you wish any of these pathetic excuses for poets to resume their take on your tale?”

Purse Snippet frowned, and then nodded. “Flicker’s will suit me, I think. A river, the promise of salvation. Strangers all, and the hidden threat of the hunted-tell me, poet, are they closer to their quarry than any might imagine?”

“Many are the stratagems of the hunted, My Lady, to confound their pursuers. So, who can say?”

“Tell us more of this quest, then.”

“A moment, please,” said Steck Marynd, his voice grating as if climbing a stone wall with naught but fingernails and teeth. “I see that unease has taken hold of Mister Ambertroshin. He gnaws upon the stem and the glow waxes savage again and again.” He shifted the crossbow, his weight fully on the one leg whose foot had not suffered the indignity of a quarrel through it only a short time earlier. “You, sir, what so afflicts you?”

Mister Ambertroshin was long in replying. He withdrew his pipe and examined the chipped clay stem, and then the bowl, whereupon he drew out his leather pouch and pinched out a small amount of stringy rustleaf, which he deftly rolled between two fingers and a thumb before tamping it down into the pipe’s blackened bowl. He drew fiercely a half-dozen times, wreathing his lined face in swirling clouds. And then said, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Ordig was something sour, wasn’t he?” Brash Phluster opined, and then he laughed in the manner of a hyena down a hole, even as he wiped grease from his hands.

Grunting, Steck Marynd limped away, and over one shoulder said, “It’s suspicious, that’s all. Suspicious strange, I mean. Diabolical minds and appalling arrogance, aye, that spells them sure. I need to think on this.” And with that off into the darkness he went.

Tulgord Vise was frowning. “Addled wits. That’s what comes of living in the woods with the moles and pine beetles. Now then, Flicker, you have a burden to bear with your tale, for it must carry this Lady’s charge. Tell us more of the knights.”

“They number five in all,” did I respond, “though one was counted senior by virtue of skill and experience. Sworn were they to the execution of criminals, and criminality in this case was found in the committal of uncivil behaviour. More specifically, in behaviour that threatened the very foundations of civilization-”

“Just so!” said Arpo Relent, fist striking palm, an unfortunate gesture in that he was wearing gauntlets with studded knuckles but only kid leather upon the palms. His eyes widened in pain.

“Tender pleasures this night for you,” commented Apto Canavalian.

Of course Arpo would not permit a single utterance of agony to escape him. So he sat, cringing, jaw muscles bulging, water starting in his eyes.

“As it is known to all,” I resumed, “civilization lies at the very heart of all good things. Wealth for the chosen, privilege for the wealthy, countless choices for the privileged. The promise of food and shelter for all the rest, provided they work hard for it. And so on. To threaten to destroy it is, accordingly, the gravest betrayal of all. For, without civilization there is barbarism, and what is barbarism? Absurd delusions of equality, generous distribution of wealth, and settlements where none can hide in anonymity their most sordid selves. It is, in short, a state sure to be deemed chaotic and terrible by the sentinels of civilization, said sentinels being, by virtue of their position, guardians of property more often than not their own. To display utter disdain for civilization, as surely must be the regard of the two mad sorcerers, can only be seen as an affront and a most insistent source of indignation.

“Thus fired with zeal we see our brave knights, sworn one and all to destroy those who would threaten the society that has granted them title and privilege, and what could be more selfless than that?”

Purse Snippet, I saw in aside, was smiling, even as both Tulgord and Arpo made solemn their nods, Arpo having recovered to some extent from his foray into the melodramatic. Apto Canavalian was smirking. Brash Phluster was dozing, as were Nifty Gum’s entourage of three, whilst their erstwhile paragon was hair-twirling (one of those habitual gestures that brings to mind the measured unraveling of intelligence or at least the appearance thereof) and, at the same time, seeking to catch the eye of Relish Chanter, the last Chanter still awake this night. There are, it must be said, men of the world who, for all their virility, will at times confuse the gender of their flirtations. For it is in my mind the woman who twirls (for how wonderfully attractive is vacuousness, assuming natural affinities to knee-high morals and such), and bats lashes with coy obviousness, not the man. Nifty Gum, alas, having no doubt witnessed endless displays of said behaviour directed at him, now seemed to believe it was courting’s own language; alas, in giving back what he so commonly received, he did little more than awaken Relish’s sneer, Relish being a goodly woman and not inclined to mothering.

“I could speak now of the pilgrims,” said I, “but for the ease of narrative, let it be simply said that all who seek to catch the eyes of a god, are as empty vessels believing themselves incomplete unless filled, and that said fulfillment is, for some reason, deemed to be the gift given by some blessed hand not their own.”

“Is there no more to it, then?” so asked Mister Ambertroshin, who seemed to have recovered his momentary disquiet.

My gesture was one of submission. “Who am I to say, in truth? Even I can see the lure of utter faith, the zest of happy servitude to an unknown but infinitely presumptuous cause.”

“Presumptuous?”

“Anyone can fill silence with voices, kind driver,” I said in reply. “We are most eager inventors, are we not?”

“Ah, I understand. You suggest that religious conviction consists of elaborate self-delusion, that those who hear the words of their god telling them to do this and that, are in fact inventing their certainty as they go.”

“I would hazard it all begins,” ventured I, “with someone else, a priest or priestess, or the written words of the same, telling them first. The mission needs direction, yes? One serves a purpose, and in the god’s silence, who is it that presumes to describe that purpose? If all are lost, the first to shout that he or she has found something will be as a lodestone to others, and their desperation will become the joy of relief. But who is to say that the one who shouted first was not lying? Or mad? Or possessing ambitions of far more secular nature-to wit, how much can I bilk all these fools for?”

Mister Ambertroshin puffed on his pipe. “You do indeed walk a wasteland, sir.”

“And does yours look so different?”

“We may agree on the rocks and stones, sir,” he replied, “but not their purpose.”

“Rocks?” Tulgord said, eyes a little wild. “Stones and purpose? Aye, give me a rock, something for you to trip over, driver, but for me, something to bash in your head.”

Mister Ambertroshin blinked. “Why, Mortal Sword, why ever would you do that?”

“Because you’re confusing things, that’s why! Flicker’s telling a story, right? By all meets he must now give voice to the evil whispers seeking ill of our heroes.”

“I think he just did,” the pipe-puffing old man said.

“The knights hold to honour and purpose and the two are one and the same,” proclaimed Tulgord Vise. “While the pilgrims seek salvation. Now, who else travels with the worthy ones? Someone diabolical, no doubt. Speak on, poet, for your life!”

“I hesitate, good knight.”

“What?”

“Without the Chanters, there can be no proper vote, can there? And by their collective snores one can presume only that they are insensate to the moment. Lady Snippet, does your need devour all patience?”

She regarded me with some slyness. “Do you promise redemption, poet?”

“I do.”

Sudden doubt in her eyes, perhaps even a trembling vulnerability. “Do you?” she asked again, this time in a whisper.

I gave gentle nod.

“It would seem most honourable,” suggested Apto, studying me grave and seriously, “that your fate, Flicker, now be made to depend solely upon Purse Snippet’s judgement. Should you achieve redemption of the woman in her tale, your life is secured. Should you fail, it is forfeit. This being said, and by all the nods I see it is a notion well-met, it would not do to string her along and so assure your survival. So I pose the following provision. Should she decide, at any time in your telling, that you are simply… shall we say, padding your narrative, why, one or both of the knights shall swing their swords.”

“Wait!” cried Calap Roud. “I am not nodding and this is not well-met-not by me anyway. Can we not all see that Lady Snippet is a woman of mercy? And not such a soul as would so cruelly condemn someone? This is Flicker’s devious mind at work here! He makes a promise he cannot keep, but only to win his life upon this terrible journey! Perhaps indeed they are in cahoots!”

At that the dancer straightened in perfect haughtiness. “Bitter words from you, poet, dredged from a poor and squalid mind. I have performed before the most fickle tyrants, when it was my life that was at stake. Of harsh yet true adjudication, I have learned at the feet of masters. Do you think I would dissemble? Do you think I would not cast a most hardened eye upon this man who so boldly promises redemption? Be it understood to all, that Avas Didion Flicker chooses-if he dares-the deadliest of courses in the days ahead!”

So stark and shocking this bridling that all were humbled, and as all eyes now fixed upon me, I knew the truth of this bargain. Did my courage quiver? Did my bowels loosen more than a stomach full of human meat warranted (and yes, Ordig was indeed most sour)? Shall I take this instant to weave the woeful lie? I shall not. Indeed, I make no comment whatsoever, and before that sharp wealth of regard, I tilted head a fraction toward the venerable dancer and said, “I do accept.”

And to that she could only gasp.

Weariness soon landed on bat wings, ears twitching, flitting ghostly among us all, and this night was, by silent consensus, done. As I rose to walk watery into the darkness for a few moments of cold desert air and mocking stars, beyond all heat and light from the dying hearth, I drew close about me my threadbare cloak. It is the still moments in which doubts assail the soul. So I’m told.

The notion was untested as soft arms closed about my waist and two full and generous breasts spread across my back. A breathy voice then murmured in my ear, “You’re a clever one, aren’t you?”

Perhaps not so clever as I believed, as my right hand dropped and stole back to find the outside of her thigh. What is it with men, anyway? To see is as good as to touch when seeing is all we can manage; but to touch is as good as to explode in milky clouds in the spawning stream. “Oh,” murmured I, “sweet Relish. Is this wise?

“My brothers snore, do you hear them?”

“Alas, I do.”

“When they’re snoring, you can drop rocks on their heads and still they won’t wake. I know. I’ve done it. Big rocks. And when they wake up with knobs and bruises, I just tell them they all knocked heads together last night, and so they get mad at each other and that’s that.”

“It would seem that I am not the only clever one here.”

“That’s right, but then, maybe you ain’t so smart after all. She’ll see you killed, that bitchy dancer, you know that, don’t you?”

“It is indeed quite possible.”

“So this could be your last night left alive. Let’s make it a fun one.”

“Who saw you leave the camp?”

“No one. I made sure everyone was bedded down.”

“I see. Well, then…”

Shall we titter and wing gazes heavenward now? Shall we draw the veil of modesty upon these decorous delicacies? Is it enough to imagine and paint private scenes in the mind? A knowing smile, the flash of bared flesh, a subtle editing of grunts and pinches and shifts as elbows prod and jab? Dreamy our sighs, delicious our ponderings? What’s wrong with you?

She straddled my face. The meaty flesh of her thighs closed like the jaws of a toothless leg monster, oozing with suffocating intentions. My tongue discovered places it had never known before, and partook of flavours I wish never to revisit. After some frenzied mashing of orifices that made the bones of my skull creak ominously, she lifted herself clear with an ear-crackling sucking sound, twisted round and descended once more.

There are places in the human body where no man’s face belongs, and this fact found its moment of discovery for hapless Avas Didion Flicker at that precise instant. Well, once her fullest intentions were made evident, that is. The heave with which I freed myself was of sufficient vigour as to throw her over my feet and flat on her face upon the stony ground. Her grunt was most becoming. She endeavoured a vicious kick which I deftly dodged as I rolled up and onto her back, forcing both knees up between her legs. Twisting, she flung a handful of sand and gravel into my eyes. Ignoring this ambiguous gesture I took hold of her meaty thighs and lifted them off the ground, and then impaled her most mightily.

She clawed furrows in the hard ground as if swimming for shore, but the riptide of my lust held her fast. It was, assuredly, do or drown for Relish Chanter. Her gasps gusted clouds of dust round her face. She coughed, she hacked, she moaned in the manner of mothers behind the pantry door, and with her hips she bolted like a cow before the bull, only to lunge backward with small animal cries. I leaned forward and wrapped close my arms, hands finding her breasts. I took hold of full nipples and tried to twist them off, failing but not for want of trying to be sure.

As all know, lovemaking is the most gentle art. Sweet sensations, tender strokes of desire, the sudden nearness of hovering lips, a brush of cheeks, the sharing of wine breaths and so on. Clothes peel off languorous and sultry, shadows tease and warmth invites and then drips, and about all the bedding closes to enfold soft and fresh.

Lacking such amenities of the seductive, let the dogs howl. Beneath savagely cold stars, in beds of wiry stunted bushes, broken branches, rocks and buttons of cacti, this was the scrape and gouge of seed’s wild spill, a life’s banking in a dubious vessel of potential posterity, when said vessel is all there is on offer. Burgeon proud seed! Steal vigorous root in sweetest flesh! Bay with life’s triumph! I held her very nearly upside down as I unleashed my hungry stream, and if she didn’t weep white tears it is no small miracle.

The reparations that followed were conducted in sated silence. She combed through her hair to remove the bark, pebbles and saliva. I rubbed my face with sand and would have cut off my own left arm for a bowl of water. We hunted down our wayward clothing, before each in turn staggering off to find our bedding.

Thus ended the twenty-third night upon Crack’d Pot Trail. A Recounting of the Twenty-Fourth Day

Like rubbing a glossy coat the wrong way, secret amorous escapades can leave the elect parties stirred awry in the wake, although of course there are always exceptions to the condition, and it would appear that, upon the dawn of the twenty-fourth day, both your venerable chronicler and Relish Chanter could blissfully count themselves thus blessed. Indeed, I never slept better, and from Relish’s languid feline stretch upon sitting up from her furs, her mind was as unclouded as ever, sweet as unstirred cream upon the milk.

Far more soured the dispositions of the haggard mottle of artists as the sun elbowed its way up between the distant crags to the east. Wretched their miens, woeful their swollen eyes. Harried their hair, disheveled their comportment as sullen they gathered about the embers whilst Steck Marynd revived the flames with sundry fettles of tinder and whatnot. Strips of meat roasted the night before were chewed during the wait for the single small pot of tea to boil awake.

With bared iron fangs, the day promised torrid heat. Already the sun blazed willful and not a single cloud dared intrude upon the cerulean sands of heaven’s arena. We stood or sat with the roar of blood in our ears, the silty tea gritty upon our leathery tongues, our hands twitching as if reaching for the journey’s end.

From somewhere close came the keening cry of a harashal, the cruel lizard vulture native to the Great Dry. The creature could smell the burnt bone, the raveled flaps of human skin and scalp, the entrails shallowly buried in a pit just upwind of the camp. And with its voice it mocked our golden vigour until we felt nothing but leaden guilt. The world and indeed life itself lives entirely within the mind. We cast the colours ourselves, and every scene of salvation to one man shows its curly-haired backside to another. And so standing together we each stood alone, and that which we shared was unpleasant to all.

With, perhaps, a few exceptions. Rubbing a lump on his temple, Tiny Chanter walked off to fill a hole, humming as he went. Flea and Midge grinned at each other, which they did with unnerving frequency. Both had sore skulls and only moments earlier had been close to drawing knives, the belligerence halted by a warning grunt from Tiny.

Mister Ambertroshin filled a second cup of tea and walked over to the carriage, where a chamber pot awaited him set on the door’s step. A single knock and the wooden shutter on the window opened a crack, just wide enough for him to send the cup through, whereupon it snapped shut, locks setting. He collected the chamber pot and set out to dispose of its contents.

Tulgord Vise watched him walk off and then he grunted. “Looked to be a heavy pot for some old lady. See that, Steck? Arpo?”

The forester squinted with slitty eyes, but perhaps that was just the woodsmoke drifting up to enwreathe his weathered face.

Arpo, on the other hand, was frowning. “Well, she took two helpings last night, so it’s no wonder.”

“Did she now?” and Tulgord Vise glanced over at the carriage. He scratched at his stubbled jaw.

“Must get horrid hot in there,” Apto Canavalian mused, “despite the shade. Not a single vent is left open.”

Arpo set off to see to his horse, and after a moment Tulgord did something similar. Steck had already saddled his own half-wild mount and it stood nearby, chewing on whatever grasses it could find. Mister Ambertroshin returned with the scoured pot and stored it in the back box, which he then locked. He then attended to the two mules. So too did the others address to sundry chores or, as privilege or arrogance warranted, did nothing but watch the proceedings. Oggle Gush and Pampera set about combing Nifty’s golden locks, while Sellup bundled bedding and then laced onto Nifty’s feet the artist’s knee-high moccasins.

Thus did the camp break and all preparations were made for the trek ahead.

Calap Roud and Brash Phluster came up to me in the course of such readying. “Listen, Flicker,” said Calap in a low voice, “nobody’s even told the Chanters about your deal last night, and I’m still of a mind to argue against it.”

“Oh, did the Lady’s word not convince you then?”

“Why should it?” he demanded.

“Me neither,” said Brash. “Why you anyway? She won’t even look at me and I’m way better looking.”

“This relates to the tale, surely,” said I. “A woman such as Purse Snippet would hardly be of such beggarly need as to consider me in any other respect. Brash Phluster, I began a tale and she wishes to hear its end.”

“But it’s not a believable one, is it?”

To that I could but shrug. “A tale is what it is. Must you have every detail relayed to you, every motivation recounted so that it is clearly understood? Must you believe that all proceeds at a certain pace only to flower full and fulsome at the expected time? Am I slave to your expectations, sir? Does not a teller of tales serve oneself first and last?”

Calap snorted. “I have always argued thus. Who needs an audience, after all. But this situation, it is different, is it not?”

“Is it?” I regarded them both. “The audience can listen, or they can walk away. They can be pleased. They can be infuriated. They can feel privileged to witness or cursed by the same. If I kneel to one I must kneel to all. And to kneel is to surrender and this no teller of tales must ever do. Calap Roud, count for me the times you have been excoriated for your arrogance. To be an artist is to know privilege from both sides, the privilege of creating your art and the privilege in those who partake of it. But even saying such a thing is arrogance’s deafening howl, is it not? Yet the audience possesses a singular currency in this exchange. To partake thereof or to not partake thereof. It extends no further for them, no matter how they might wish otherwise. Now, Calap, you say this situation is different, indeed, unique, yes?

“When our lives are on the line, yes!”

“I have before me my audience of one, and upon her and her alone my life now rests. But I shall not kneel. Do you understand? She certainly understands-I can see that and am pleased by it. How will she judge? By what standards?”

“By that of redemption,” said Calap. “It’s what you have offered, after all.”

“Redemption comes in a thousand guises, and they are sweetest those that come unexpectedly. For now, she will trust me, but, as you say, Calap, at any time she can choose to abandon that trust. So be it.”

“So you happily trust your life to her judgement?”

“Happily? No, I would not use that word, Calap Roud. The point is, I will hold to my story, for it is mine and none others.”

Scowling and no doubt confused, Calap turned about and walked away.

Brash Phluster, however, remained. “I would tell you something, Avas Flicker. In confidence.”

“You have it, sir.”

“It’s this, you see.” He licked his lips. “I keep beginning my songs, but I never get to finish them! Everyone just votes me dispensation! Why? And they laugh and nobody’s supposed to be laughing at all. No, say nothing just yet. Listen!” His eyes were bright with something like horror. “I decided to hide my talent, you see? Hide it deep, save it for the Festival. But then, this happened, and suddenly I realized that I needed to use it, use it to its fullest! But what happened? I’ll tell you what happened, Flicker. Now I know why I was damned good at hiding my talent.” He clawed at his straggly beard. “It’s because I don’t have any in the first place! And now I’m sunk! Once they stop laughing, I’m a dead man!”

Such are the nightmares of artists. The gibbering ghosts of dead geniuses (yes, they are all dead). The bald nakedness of some future legacy, chewed down illegible. The torture and flagellation of a soul in crisis. The secret truth is that every artist kneels, every artist sets head down upon the block of fickle opinion and the judgement of the incapable. To be a living artist is to be driven again and again to explain oneself, to justify every creative decision, yet to bite down hard on the bit is the only honourable recourse, to my mind at least. Explain nothing, justify even less.

Grin at the gallows, dear friends! The artist that lives and the audience that lives while they live are without relevance! Only those still unborn shall post the script of legacy, whether it be forgotten or canonized! The artist and the audience are trapped together in the now, the instant of mood and taste and gnawing unease and all the blither of fugue that is opinion’s facile realm! Make brazen your defiance and make well nested your home in the alley and doorstep or, if the winds fare you well, in yon estate with Entourage in tow and the drool of adoration to soothe your path through the years!

“Dear Brash,” said I after this torrid outburst, “worry not. Sing your songs with all the earnestness you possess. What is talent but the tongue that never ceases its wag? Look upon us poets and see how we are as dogs in the sun, licking our own behinds with such tender love. Naught else afflicts us but the vapours of our own worries. Neither sun nor stone heeds human ambition. Kings hire poets to sell them lies of posterity. Be at fullest ease, is it not enough to try? Is desire not sufficient proof? Is conviction not the stoutest shield and helm before wretched judgement? If it is true that you possess the talent of the talentless, celebrate the singularity of your gift! And should you survive this trek, why, I predict your audience will indeed be vast.”

“But I won’t!”

“You shall. I am sure of it.”

Brash Phluster’s eyes darted. “But then… that means… Calap Roud? Nifty Gum?”

Solemn my nod.

“But that won’t be enough!”

“It shall suffice. We shall make good time today, better than our host adjudges.”

“Do you truly believe so?”

“I do, sir. Now, the others have begun and the carriage is moments from lurching forward. Unless you wish to breathe the dust of its passing, we had best be on, young poet.”

“What if Purse hates your story?”

I could but shrug.

Now, it falls upon artists of all ilk to defend the indefensible, and in so doing reveal the utterly defenseless nature of all positions of argument, both yours and mine. Just as every ear bent to this tale is dubious, so too the voice spinning its way down the track of time. Where hides the truth? Why, nowhere and everywhere, of course. Where slinks the purposeful lie? Why, ‘tis the lumps beneath truth’s charming coat. So, friends, assume the devious and you’ll not be wrong and almost half-right, as we shall see.

Not twenty paces along, Tiny Chanter pointed a simian forefinger at Calap Roud and said, “You, finish your story, and if it’s no good you’re dead.”

“Dead,” agreed Flea.

“Dead,” agreed Midge.

Calap gulped. “So soon?” he asked in a squeak. “Wait! I must compose myself! The Imass woman, dying in the cold, a spin backward in time to the moment when the Fenn warrior, sorely wounded, arrives, sled in tow. Yes, there I left it. There. So.” He rubbed at his face, worked his jaw as might a singer or pugilist (wherein for both beatings abound, ah, the fates we thrust upon ourselves!), and then cleared his throat.

“He stood silent before her,” Calap began, “and she made gesture of welcome. ‘Great Fenn,’ said she-”

“What’s her name?” Sellup asked.

“She has no name. She is Everywoman.”

“She’s not me,” Sellup retorted.

“Just so,” Calap replied, and then resumed. “ ‘Great Fenn’ said she, ‘you come to the camp of the Ifayle Imass, the clan of the White Ferret. We invite you to be our guest for the time of your stay, however long you wish it to be. You shall be our brother.’ She did not, as you may note, speak of the dire state of her kin. She voiced no excuse or said one word to diminish his expectation. Suffering must wait in the mist, and vanish with the sun’s light, and the sun’s light is found in every stranger’s eyes-”

“That was stupid,” said Oggle Gush, her opinion rewarded with a nod from Sellup. “If she’d said ‘we’re all starving,’ why, then he’d go away.”

“If that happened,” said Apto Canavalian, “there can be no story, can there?”

“Sure there can! Tell us what she’s wearing! I want to know every detail and how she braids her hair and the paints she uses on her face and nipples. And I want to hear how she’s in charge of everything and secretly smarter than everyone else, because that’s what heroes are, smarter than everyone else. They see clearest of all! They wear Truth and Honour-isn’t that what you always say, Nifty?”

The man coughed and looked uncomfortable. “Well, not precisely. That is, I mean-what I meant is, well, complicated. That’s what I meant. Now, let Calap continue, I pray you, darling.”

“What do they look like?” Apto asked Oggle.

“What does what look like?”

“Truth and Honour. Is Truth, oh, fur-trimmed? Line stitched?

Brocaded? And what about Honour? Do you wear Honour on your feet? Well tanned? Softened with worn teeth and the gums of old women?”

“You do maybe,” Oggle retorted, “wear them, I mean,” and then she rolled her eyes and said, “Idiot.”

Calap continued, “To her words the Fenn warrior did bow, and together they walked to the circle of round-tents, where the chill winds rushed through the furs of the stretched hides. Three hunters were present, two men and another woman, and they came out to greet the stranger. They knew he would have words to speak, and they knew, as well, that he would only speak them before the fire of the chief’s hut. In good times, the arrival of a stranger leads to delight and excitement, and all, be they children or elders, yearn to hear tales of doings beyond their selves, and such tales are of course the currency a stranger pays for the hospitality of the camp.”

“Just as a modern bard travels from place to place,” commented Apto. “Poets, each of you can lay claim to an ancient tradition-”

“And for reward you kill and eat us!” snapped Brash Phluster. “Those horses-”

“Will not be sacrificed,” uttered Tulgord Vise, in a low growl of lifted hackles. “That was settled and so it remains.”

Tiny Chanter laughed with a show of his tiny teeth and said to Tulgord, “When we done ate all the artists, peacock, it’s you or your horses. Take your pick.” His brothers laughed too and their laughs were the same as Tiny’s, and at this moment the knights exchanged glances and then both looked to Steck Marynd who rode a few paces ahead, but the forester’s back stayed hunched and if his hairs prickled on his neck he made no sign.

Tiny’s threat remained, hanging like a raped woman’s blouse that none would look at, though Brash seemed pleased by it, evidently not yet thinking through Tiny’s words.

“The Chief in the camp was past his hunting years, and wisdom made bleak his eyes, for when word came to him that a Fenn had made entrance, and that he brought with him a sled on which lay a body, the Chief feared the worse. There was scant food, and the only medicines the shoulder-women still possessed-after such trying months-were those that eased hunger pangs. Yet he made welcome his round floor and soon all those still able to walk had gathered to meet the Fenn and to hear his words.”

Clearing his throat, Calap resumed. “The woman who had first greeted him, fair as the spring earth, could not but feel responsible for his presence-though she was bound to honour and so had had no choice-and so she walked close by him and stood upon his left as they waited for the Chief’s invitation to sit. Soft the strange whisperings within her, however, and these drew her yet closer, as if his need was hers, as if his straits simply awaited the strength of her own shoulders. She could not explain such feeling, and knew then that the spirits of her people had gathered close to this moment, beneath grey and lifeless skies, and the strokes upon her heart belonged to them.

“It is fell and frightening when the spirits crowd the realm of mortals, for purposes remain ever hidden and all will is as walls of sand before the tide’s creep. So, fast beat her heart, quickening her breath, and when at last a child emerged from his grandfather’s hut and gestured, she reached out and took hold of the stranger’s hand-her own like a babe’s within it, and feeling too the hard calluses and seams of strength-and he in turn looked with hooded surprise down upon her, seeing for the very first time her youth, her wan beauty, and something like pain flinched in his heavy eyes-”

“Why?” Sellup asked. “What does he know?”

“Unwelcome your chorus,” muttered Apto Canavalian.

Calap rubbed his face, as if in sudden loss. Had he forgotten the next details? Did the Reaver now stand before him, Death at home in his camp?

“Before the fire…” said I in soft murmur.

Starting, Calap nodded. “Before the fire, and with the sled left outside where the last of the dogs drew close to sniff and dip tails, the Fenn warrior made sit before the Chief. His weapons were left at the threshold, and in the heat he at last drew free of his wintry clothing, revealing a face in cast not much elder to the woman kneeling beside him. Blood and suffering are all-too-common masks among all people throughout every age. In dreams we see the hale and fortunate and imagine them some other place, yet one within reach, if only in aspiration. Closer to our lives, waking each day, we must face the scarred reality, and all too often we don our own matching masks, when bereft of privilege as most of us are.” It seemed he faltered then, as if the substance of this last aside now struck him for the first time.

Statements find meaning only in the extremity of the witness, else all falls flat and devoid of emotion, and no amount of authorial exhortation can awaken sincerity among those crouchd in strongholds of insensitivity. No poorer luck seeking to stir dead soil to life, no seed will take, no flower will grow. True indeed the dead poet’s young vision of masks of suffering and blood, but true as well-as he might have seen in his last days and nights- a growing plethora of masks of the insensate, the dead-inside, the fallow of soul, who are forever beyond reach.

Calap cleared his throat yet again. “The Chief was silent and patient. Tales will wait. First, meagre staples are shared, for to eat in company is to acknowledge the kinship of need and, indeed, of pleasure no matter how modest.” And once more he hesitated, and we all walked silent and brittle of repose.

“Too grim,” announced Tiny. “Brash Phluster, weave us another song and be quick about it.”

Calap staggered and would have fallen if not for my arm.

Brash weaved as if punched and suddenly sickly his pallor. Drawing deep, ragged breaths, he looked round wildly, as if seeking succor, but no eyes but mine would meet his and as he fixed his terror upon me I inclined my head and gave him the strength of my assurance.

Gulping, he tried out his singing voice. “Va la gla blah! Mmmmmmm. Himmyhimmyhimmy!”

Behind us the harashal vulture answered in kind, giving proof to the sordid rumour of the bird’s talent at mimicry.

“Today,” Brash began in a reedy, quavering voice, “I shall sing my own reworking of an ancient poem, a chapter of the famous epic by Fisher kel Tath, Anomandaris.”

Apto choked on something and the host ably pounded upon his back until the spasm passed.

One of the mules managed a sharp bite of Flea’s left shoulder and he bellowed in pain, lumbering clear. The other mule laughed as mules were in the habit of doing. The Chanters as one wheeled to glare at Mister Ambertroshin, who shook his head and said, “Flea slowed his steps, he did. The beasts are hungry, aye?”

Tulgord Vise turned at that. “You, driver,” he barked, “from where do you hail?”

“Me, sir? Why, Theft that’d be. A long way away, aye, no argument there, and varied the tale t’bring me here. A wife, you see, and plenty of Oponn’s infernal pushings. Should we run outta tales, why, I could spin us a night or two.”

“Indeed,” the Mortal Sword replied dryly, one gauntleted hand settling on his sword’s shiny pommel, but this gesture was solitary as he once more faced forward in the saddle.

“For your life?” Arpo Relent asked, rather bitingly.

Mister Ambertroshin’s bushy brows lifted. “I’d sore your stomach something awful, good sir. Might well sicken and kill you at that. Besides, the Dantoc Calmpositis, being a powerful woman rumoured to be skilled in the sorcerous arts, why, she’d be most displeased at losing her servant, I dare say.”

The host gaped at that and then said, “Sorcerous? The Dantoc? I’d not heard-”

“Rumours only, I’m sure,” Mister Ambertroshin said, and he smiled round his pipe.

“What does ‘Dantoc’ mean?” Arpo demanded.

“No idea,” the driver replied.

“What?”

“It’s just a title, ain’t it? Some kind of title. I imagine.” He shrugged. “Sounds like one, t’me that is, but then, being a foreigner to it all, I can’t really say either way.”

A tad wildly, Arpo Relent looked round. “Anyone?” he demanded. “Anyone heard that title before? You, Apto, you’re from here, aren’t you? What’s a ‘Dantoc’?”

“Not sure,” the Judge admitted. “I don’t pay much attention to such things, I’m afraid. She’s well known enough in the city, to be sure, and indeed highly respected and possibly even feared. Her wealth has come from slave trading, I gather.”

“Anomandaris!” Brash shrieked, startling all three horses (but not the mules).

“Anomandaris!” cried the vulture, startling everyone else (but not the mules).

“Right,” said Tiny, “get on with it, Phluster.”

“I shall! Hark well and listen to hear my fair words! This song recounts the penultimate chapter of the Slaying of Draconus-”

“You mean ‘ultimate’ surely,” said Apto Canavalian.

“What?”

“Please, Brash, forgive my interruption. Do proceed.”

“The Slaying of Draconus, and so… “

He cleared his throat, assumed that peculiar mask of performance that seemed to afflict most poets, and then fell into that stentorian cadence they presumably all learned from each other and from generations past. Of what stentorian cadence do I speak? Why, the one that seeks to import meaning and significance to every damned word, of course, even when no such resonance obtains. After all, is there really anything more irritating (and somnolent) than a poetry reading?

“Dark was the room

Deep was the gloom

That was Draconus’s tomb

Dank was the air

Daunting the bier

On which he laid eyes astare

The chains not yet broken

For he not yet woken

His vows not yet revoken

His sword still to awaken

In its scabbard black oaken

Cold hands soon to stroken”

“Gods below, Phluster!” snarled Calap Roud. “The original ain’t slave to rhymes, and those ones are awful! Just sing it as Fisher would and spare us all your version!”

“You’re just jealous! I’m making Fisher’s version accessible to everyone, even children! That’s the whole point!”

“It’s a tale of betrayal, incest and murder, what are on earth are you doing singing it to children?”

“It’s only the old who get shocked these days, old man!”

“And it’s no wonder, with idiots like you singing to innocent children!”

“Got to keep them interested, Calap, something you never did understand, even with a grown-up audience! Now, be quiet and keep your opinions to yourself, I got a song to sing!

“And his head flew into the air

On a fountain of gore and hair!

And-”

“Hold on, poet,” said Tiny, “I think you missed a verse there.”

“What? Oh, damn! Wait.”

“And it better start getting funny, too.”

“Funny? But it’s not a funny story!”

“I get his brain,” said Midge. “All that fat.”

“You get half,” said Flea.

“Wait! Here, here, wait-

“Envy and Spite were the daughters

To the Consort of Dark Fathers

She the left breast and her the right

Two tits named Envy and Spite!

And deadly their regarrrrd!

Cold the nipples’ rewarrrd!

And when Anomander rose tall

Between them so did they fall

Sliding down in smears of desire

Down the bold warrior’s gleaming spire!

And crowded the closet!

Sharp the cleaving hatchet!”

“Damn me, poet,” said Tulgord Vise, “the Tomb of Draconus has a closet?”

“They had to hide somewhere!”

“From what, a dead man?”

“He was only sleeping-”

“Who sleeps in a tomb? Was he ensorcelled? Cursed?”

“He ate a poisoned egg,” suggested Nifty Gum, “which was secreted into the clutch of eggs he was served for breakfast. There was a wicked witch who haunted the secret passages of the rabbit hole behind the carrot patch behind the castle-”

“I hate carrots,” said Flea.

Brash Phluster was tearing at his hair. “What castle? It was a tomb I tell you! Even Fisher agrees with me!”

“A carrot through the eye can kill as easily as a knife,” observed Midge.

“I hate witches, too,” said Flea.

“I don’t recall any hatchet in Anomandaris,” said Apto Canavalian. “Rake had a sword-”

“And we been hearing all about it,” said Relish Chanter, and was too bold in her wink at me, but for my fortune none of her brothers were paying any attention to her.

“I don’t recall much sex either-and you’re singing your version to children, Brash? Gods, there must be limits.”

“On art? Never!” cried Brash Phluster.

“I want to hear about the poisoned egg and the witch,” said Sellup.

Nifty Gum smiled. “The witch had a terrible husband who spoke the language of the beasts and knew nothing of humankind, and in seeking to teach him the gifts of love the witch failed and was cast aside. Spiteful and bitter, she pronounced a vow to slay every man upon the world, at least, all those who were particularly hairy. Those she could not kill she would seduce only to shave clean their chest and so steal their power, which she stored in the well at the top of the hill. But her husband of old haunted her still, and at night she dreamed of warped mirrors bearing both her face and his and sometimes the two were one in the same.

“The city was named Tomb. This detail, by the way, is what confused legions of artists, including Fisher himself, who, dare I add, is not so nearly as tall as me. And Draconus was the city’s king, a proud and noble ruler. Indeed he had two daughters, born of no mother, but of his will and magic gifts. Shaped of clay and sharp stones, neither possessed a heart. Their names they took upon themselves the night they became women, when each saw her own soul’s truth and could not look away, could not lie or deceive even unto their own selves.”

Noting at last the host of blank expressions, he said, “The significance of this-”

“Is a form of torture I will not abide,” said Tiny Chanter.

“Carrot through the eye,” said Midge. “Anyone got a carrot?”

“Eye,” said Flea.

“Anomander kills Draconus and gets the sword!” shouted Brash Phluster. “You never let me get to the funny bits-you can’t vote, it’s not fair!”

“Oh be quiet, will you?” said Tulgord Vise. “Plenty of light left this day, and we’ve plenty of cooked meat from yesterday. No, what we need is water. Sardic Thew, what chance the next spring is dry?”

The host stroked his jaw. “We’ve no more than trickles for days now, in every watering hole. I admit I am worried mightily, good sir.”

“Might have to bleed someone,” said Tiny, showing his tiny teeth again. “Who’s flush?”

His brothers laughed.

I spoke then. “Vows are as stone, each a menhir raised like a knuckled finger to the sky. The knights who hunted the Nehemoth were not alone in such cold chisel. Another traveled in the group, a strange and silent man who walked like a hunter in forestlands, yet in his face could be seen the ragged scrawl of a soldier’s cruel life, a past of friends dying in his arms, of the guilt of surviving, of teeth bared to fickle chance and a world stripped of all meaning. The gods are as nothing to a soldier, who in prayer only begs for life and righteous purpose, and both are selfish needs indeed. This is not reaching up to touch god. It is pulling the god down as if stealing a golden idol upon a mantelpiece. Begging voiced as a demand, a plea paid out as if owed, such are a soldier’s prayers.

“Faith fell beneath his marching boots long ago. He knows the curse of reconciliation and knows too its falsity, the emptiness of the ritual. He has abandoned redemption and now lives to excoriate a stain from the world. That stain being the Nehemoth. In this, perhaps, he is the noblest of them all-”

“Not true!” hissed Arpo Relent. “The Well Knight serves only the Good, the Wellness of the soul and the flesh that is its home! Not a single three-finned fish has ever passed these lips! Not a sip of wretched liquor, not a stream of noxious smoke. Vegetables are the gift of god-”

“Didn’t stop you stuffing your maw last night though, did it?”

Arpo glared at Tiny who grinned back. “Necessity-”

“Of which the hunter and soldier understood all too well,” I resumed. “Necessity indeed. The vow stands tall upon the horizon, bold in bleak skies. Even the sun’s light cringes from that dark stone. Has rock earned worship? Does a man so lose himself as to kneel before insensate stone? Does one cherish home or the walls and ceiling so enclosing? To see that vow each day, each night, season upon season, year upon year, is it any wonder that it becomes unto itself a god before the supplicant’s eyes? In making vows we chisel the visage of a master and announce our abjection as its slave.

“Yet, does not the soldier now standing unmoving behind his eyes not see and understand the dissembling demanded of him, the bending of reason, the burnishing into blindness the madness of absurd conviction? He does, and is mocked within himself, and the god of his vow is a closed fist inside iron scales and those iron scales mark the lie of his own hand, there upon the saddle horn.”

At last, Steck Marynd did twist round in his saddle. “You presume at your peril, poet.”

“As do we all,” I replied. “I tell but a tale here. The hunter’s face is not your face. The knights are not as travel here in our company. The carriage is nothing like the carriage in my tale. To noble Purse Snippet I paint a scene close enough to be familiar, indeed, comfortable, as much as such luxury can be achieved here on this fatal trail.”

“Rubbish,” said Steck. “You steal from what you see and claim it invention.”

“Indeed, by simple virtue of changing a name or two here and there, or perhaps it is enough to say that what I relate is not what you may see around you. Each listener crowds eager with an armful of details and shall fill in and buttress up as he or she sees fit.”

Apto Canavalian was frowning, as Judges are in the habit of doing when they can’t really think of anything worth thinking. He then shook his head, casting off the momentary fug, and said, “I see no real value in changing a few names and then making everyone pretend it isn’t what it obviously is. How is this invention, or even creative? Where is the imagination?”

“Buried six feet down, I should think,” said I, and smiled. “In some far off land in no way similar to any place you know, of course.”

“Then why bother with the pathetic shell-game, now you’ve shown us where the nut hides?”

“Did I really need to show you for you to know where it is?”

“No, which makes it even more ridiculous.”

“I most heartily agree, sir,” said I. “Now, if you will permit, may I continue?”

Flitting eagerness in the Judge’s eyes, as if at last he understood. It warms the soul when this is witnessed, I do assure you.

Before I could speak, however, Purse Snippet asked, “Poet, how fares their trek, these hunters and pilgrims of yours?”

“Not well. In flesh and in spirit, they are all lost. The enemy has drawn close-closer than any among them is aware-”

“What!” bellowed Tulgord Vise, wheeling his horse around and half-drawing his sword. “Do you glean too close to a secret here, Flicker? Dare not be coy with me. I kill coy people out of faint irritation, and you venture far beyond that! You sting like spider hairs in the eye! On your life, speak true!”

“Not once have I strayed from what is true, sir. Now you show us your clutter of details and would build us something monstrous! Shall I weigh upon your effort? Terrible its flaws, sir, set no hope or belief upon such a rickety frame. This tale is thin and clear as a mountain rook. Sir, the blinding mud so stirred resides behind your eyes and nowhere else.”

“You dare insult me?”

“Not at all. But may I remind you, my life is in the palm of Lady Snippet, not in yours, sir. And I am telling her a tale, and for this breath at least she withholds her judgement on its merit. In the Lady’s name, may I continue?”

“What’s all this?” Tiny demanded. “Flea?”

Flea scowled.

“Midge?”

Midge scowled, too.

The host waved his hands. “Whilst you slept-”

“While we sleep everything stops!” Tiny roared, his face the hue of masticated roses. “No votes! No decisions! No nothing!”

“Incorrect,” said Purse Snippet, and so flat and so certain her tone that the Chanters were struck dumb. “I am not chained to you,” she went on, her eyes knuckling hard as stone upon Tiny’s faltering visage. “And the blades with which you would seek to threaten me strike no fear in this breast. I have charged this poet to speak me a story, to continue what I so poorly began. If he fails in satisfying me, he dies. This is the pact and it does not concern you, nor anyone else here. Only myself and Avas Flicker.”

“And how does he fair so far, Milady?” Apto asked.

“Poorly,” she said, “but for the moment I shall abide.”

The day was most desultory, in the manner of interminable treks the world over. Heat oppressed, the ground grew harder underfoot, stones sharp stabbed beneath soles already tender with threat. The ancient pilgrim track was rutted and dusty, repository of every discarded or surrendered aspiration and ambition. To journey is to purge, as all wise ancients know, and of purging the elderly know better than most.

But what burdens could be so cast off our straining shoulders here on Cracked Pot Trail? Crushing and benumbing this weight, that our art should have purpose, but dare I hazard that those of you who are witness to this grim tale who are neither poet nor musician, not sculptor or painter, you cannot hope to imagine the sudden prickling sweat that bespeaks performance, no matter its shaping. Within the heated skull vicious thoughts ravage the softer allowances. What if my audience is composed of nothing but idiots? Raving lunatics! What if their tastes are so bad not even a starving vulture would pluck loose a single rolling eyeball? What if they hate me on sight? Look at all those faces! What do they see and what notions ply the unseen waters of their thoughts? Am I too fat, too thin, too nervous, too ugly to warrant all this attention? The composing of art is the most private of endeavours, but the performance paints the face in most dramatic hues. Does failure in one devour the other? Do I even like any of these people? What do they want with me anyway? What if-what if I just ran away? No! They’d hate me even more than they do now! Dare I speak out? Ah, these are most unwelcome streams, swirling so dark and biting. Assume the best and let the worst arrive as revelation (and, perhaps, dismay). An artist truly contemptuous of his or her audience deserves nothing but contempt in return.

But, the razor voice inside softly whispers, idiots abound.

No matter. The rocky outcrops are patiently ticking, the blue sky egalitarian in its indifference, the sun unmindful of all who would challenge its stare. The story belongs to the selfsame world, implacable as stone, resistant to all pressures, be they breaths wind or rain’s piss. The mules plod befuddled by their own weight and clopping strain. The heads of the horses droop and nod, tails flicking to keep the flies alert. The plateau stretches on into grainy white haze.

“I am not happy about this,” Tiny said in pique, his girthless eyes flitting. “Special rules and all that. Once special rules start, everything falls apart.”

“Listen to the thug,” Arpo Relent said.

“Midge?”

Midge spat and said, “Tiny Chanter is head of the Chanters, and the Chanters rule Toll’s City of Stratem. We chased out the Crimson Guard to do it, too. Tiny’s a king, you fool.”

“If he’s a king,” Arpo retorted, “what’s he doing here? Stratem? Never heard of Stratem. Crimson Guard? Who’re they?”

Calap said, “Since when does a king wander around without bodyguards and servants and whatnot? It’s a little hard to believe, your claim.”

“Flea?”

Flea scratched in his beard and looked thoughtful. “Well, me and Midge and Relish, we’re the bodyguards, but we ain’t servants. King Tiny don’t need servants and such. He’s a sorceror, you see. And the best fighter in all Stratem.”

“What kind of sorceror?” the host demanded.

“Midge?”

“He can raise the dead. That kind of sorceror.”

At that the pace stumbled to a halt, and Steck Marynd reined in to slowly swing his horse round, the crossbow cradled in one arm. “Necromancer,” he said, baring his teeth and it was not a smile. “So what makes you any different from the Nehemoth? That is what I want to know.”

Midge and Flea stepped out to the sides, hands settling on the grips of their weapons as Tulgord Vise drew his sister-blessed sword and Arpo Relent looked around confusedly. Tiny grinned. “The difference? Ain’t nobody hunting me, that’s the difference.”

“The only one?” Steck asked in a dull tone.

Was it alarm that flickered momentarily in Tiny’s eyes? Too difficult to know for certain. “Eager to die, are you, Marynd? I can kill you without raising a finger. Just a nod and your guts would be spilling all over your saddle horn.” He looked around, his grin stretching. “I’m the deadliest person here, best you all understand that.”

“You’re bluffing,” said Tulgord. “Dare you challenge the Mortal Sword of the Sisters, oaf?”

Tiny snorted. “As if the Sisters care a whit about the Nehemoth-a madman and a eunuch never destroyed the world or toppled a god. Them two are irritants and nothing more. If you truly was the Sisters’ Mortal Sword, they must be pretty annoyed by now. You running all over every damned continent and what for? An insult? That’s what it was, wasn’t it? They made a fool of you, and you’ll burn down half the world all because of wounded pride.”

Tulgord Vise was a most frightening hue of scarlet wherever skin was visible. He stepped forward. “And you, Chanter?” he retorted amidst gnashing teeth. “Hunting down a pair of rivals? I agree with Steck, necromancers are an abomination, and you are necromancer. Therefore, you are-”

“An abomination!” shrieked Arpo Relent, fumbling with his axe.

“Midge, pick one.”

“That girl there, the one with only one eyebrow.”

Tiny nodded. He gestured slightly with his left hand.

Sellup seemed to vomit something even as she pitched forward, limbs rattling on the sand before falling still. Face down on the ground, motionless in death, and all eyes upon her. Eyes that then widened.

“Beru bless us!” moaned the host.

Sellup moved, lifted to her hands and knees, her hair hanging down and clotted with-what was it, blood? She raised her head. Her visage was lifeless, the eyes dull with death, her mouth slack in the manner of the witless and fanatic fans of dubious sports. “Who killed me?” she asked in a grating voice, tongue protruding like a drowning slug. A strange groaning noise from her nose announced the escape of the last air to grace her lungs. “That wasn’t fair. There was no cause. Pampera, is my hair a mess? Look, it’s a mess. I’m a mess.” She climbed to her feet, her motions clumsy and loose. “Nifty? Beloved? Nifty? I was always for you, only you.”

But when she turned to him he backed away in horror.

“Not fair!” cried Sellup.

“One less mouth to feed, though,” muttered Brash Phluster.

“You killed one of my fans!” Nifty Gum said, eyes like two dustbird eggs boiling in a saucer.

“It’s all right,” simped Oggle Gush, “you still have us, sweet-thumb!”

“Tiny Chanter,” said Steck Marynd, “if I see so much as a finger twitch from you again you’re a dead man. We got us a problem here. Y’see, I get hired to kill necromancers-it’s the only reason I’m still hunting the Nehemoth, because I guarantee satisfaction, and in my business without my word meaning something I’m nothing.”

Tiny grunted. “Anybody hired you to kill me?”

“No, which is why you’re still alive. But, you see, over the years, I’ve acquired something of a dislike for necromancers. No, that’s too mild. I despise them. Loathe them, in fact.”

“Too bad,” said Tiny. “You only got one quarrel and you won’t get a chance to re-load before one or more of us get to you. Want to die, Steck?”

“I doubt it will be as uneven as you seem to think,” Steck Marynd replied. “Is that a fair thing to say, Mortal Sword?”

“It is,” said Tulgord Vise in a growl.

“And you, Well Knight?”

Arpo finally had his axe ready. “Abomination!”

“This is great!” said Brash Phluster in what he likely thought was a whisper.

Tiny’s tiny eyes snapped to him. “For you artists, yes it’s perfect, isn’t it? It was your meddling that caused all this.” And with that he looked straight at me. “Devious tale-you’ll spin us all to death!”

Innocent my regard. “Sire?”

“I don’t know Flicker’s game and I don’t much care,” said Steck Marynd, his stony eyes still fixed upon Tiny Chanter. “You claim to be hunting the Nehemoth. Why?”

“I don’t answer to you,” Tiny replied.

“You killed one of my fans!”

“I still love you, Nifty!” Arms opening, Sellup made pouting motions with her dry lips and advanced on her beloved.

He howled and ran.

Oggle shot Sellup a vicious glare. “See what you done!” she hissed, and then set off in pursuit of the Great Artist.

Pampera posed for an instant, arching to gather and sweep back her hair, her breasts pushing like a pair of seals rising for air, and then with an oddly languorous lunge she flowed into a fluid sprint, buttocks bouncing most invitingly.

“In the wayward seas

My love rolls in heaving swells

Can a man drown with a smile

Plunging deep beneath the foam?”

To my heartfelt quotation, Brash Phluster gusted a sigh and nodded. “Gormle Ess of Ivant, aye, he knew his art-”

“Sandroc of Blight,” Calap Roud corrected. “Gormle Ess wrote the Adulterer’s Lament.” He tilted his head back and assumed the orator’s posture, hands out to the sides.

“She was beauty beheld

In shadows so sweet

Where the fragrant blossoms

Could kiss the tongue

With honey dreams!

She was desire adamant

So soft to quiver under touch

Leaning close in heat

All this she was and more-

Last night-oh the ale fumes

Fail to abide the mole’s squint

In dread morning light!”

“Oh sorrow!” cried Sellup, clapping her hands and offering everyone a bright and ghastly smile.

Arpo, staring up the trail, suddenly spoke. “Could be the coward’s running… from us.”

“We got horses,” said Tulgord Vise. “They won’t get away.”

“Even so, we should resume our journey” Arpo then jabbed a mailed finger at Tiny. “I will be watching you, sorceror.” Taking his horse’s reins, he set off.

Tiny grinned at Steck Marynd. “The Well Knight has the memory of a twit-bird. Leave off, Marynd. When we finally corner the Nehemoth, you’ll want me at your side. In the mean-time-

“In the meantime,” Steck jerked his head at Sellup, “no more of that.”

“I was only making a point,” Tiny replied. “And I don’t expect to have to make it twice. Midge?”

“Once will do.”

“Flea?”

“Once.”

The march resumed, because time yields to no reins, nor its plodding course turned aside by wishes or will. The mules cloppled, the carriage clattered, the horses snorted, and we who would claim to exception and privilege among all the things of this world, we measured each and every step in bitter humiliation. Oh, we stood taller in our minds, as is reason’s hollow gift, but what do such conceits avail us in the end?

Sixty paces ahead rose the tumulus announcing the wellspring, the heap of stones fluttering with bleached rags stuffed in cracks like banners of the crushed. But of Nifty Gum and his Entourage of Two there was no sign.

Snarling under his breath,Tulgord Vise kicked his horse into a canter, riding for the spring. Dust swirled like a mummer’s cape in his wake. With a click of his tongue Steck Marynd rode out to one side and stood in his stirrups, scanning the horizons.

Calap Roud and Brash Phluster drew close to me.

“This is bad, Flicker,” Calap muttered with low breath. “We can maybe eat Sellup tonight, if she ain’t gone foul by then.”

“We should eat her now,” Brash interjected. “Thatd save us all for another night, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it? We got to suggest it- you do it, Flicker. Go on-”

“Good sir,” said I, “I am of no mind whatsoever to suggest such a heinous thing. Tell me, would you have her complain all the while? While a single piece of her flesh exists, the curse of the unliving remains-what eternal torment would you consign to the poor lass? Besides,” I added, “I know little of the art of necromancy, but it occurs to me that such flesh is itself poison to the living. Will you risk becoming an undead?”

Brash licked his lips, his face white. “Gods below!”

“What if Nifty got away?” Calap demanded. “It’s impossible. He must be hiding out there somewhere. Him and his women. His kind get all the luck! Think of it, he’s got an undying fan! I’d kill for that!”

“Calap Roud,” said I, “your tale of the Imass is cause for concern. Where it leads…”

“But it’s all I got, Flicker! The only one I remember word for word-”

“Hold on!” said Brash. “It ain’t yours? That’s cheating!”

“No it isn’t. Nobody said it had to be our own compositions. This isn’t the Festival. They just want to be entertained, so if you need to steal then steal! Gods, listen to me. I’m giving you advice! My rival. Both of you! Flicker, listen! It’s your story that’s going to get us all killed. You’re too close to what’s really going on here-”

“Am I? I think not, sir. Besides, my task now is quite different from the one you two face.”

“That was some fancy trickery from you, too! She knows we can do a day or three without food. She only has to make sure you outlive me and Phluster, and then you can make the last long run to the ferry landing. You’re in cahoots, and don’t deny it!”

Brash Phluster smirked. “It don’t matter, Roud, because Flicker’s going to lose. And soon, before either of us.”

Arch did an eyebrow upon my benign demeanor. “Indeed?”

“Indeed,” he mimicked, wagging his head. “You see, I saw you, last night. And I saw her, too.”

Calap gasped. “He’s rollicking Purse Snippet? I knew it!”

“Not her,” Brash said, his eyes bright upon me, “Relish Chanter. I seen it, and if I tell Tiny-and maybe I’ll have to, to buy my life, why, you’re a dead man, Flicker.”

Calap was suddenly grinning. “We got him. We got Flicker. Hah! We’re safe, Brash! You and me, we’re going to make it!”

Did I quiver in terror? Did my knees rattle and bladder loosen to the prickly bloom of mortal panic? Did I fling myself at Brash, hands closing about his scrawny throat? An elbow to the side of Calap’s head? Did my mind race, seeking an escape? “Good sirs, more of this discussion anon. We have reached the spring.”

“Aye,” said Calap, “we can wait, can’t we, Brash?”

But Phluster grasped my arm. “Your tale’s going to go sour, Flicker. I know, you was nice to me but it’s too late for that kind of stuff. You were only generous because you felt safe. I’m not such a fool as to take such patronization from one such as you! I am a genius! You’re going to disappoint Snippet, do you understand me?”

“I shall resume my tale, then, once we have slaked our thirsts.”

Brash’s grin broadened.

“I always hated you,” said Calap, now studying me as he would a worm. “Did you know that, Flicker? Oh, I saw the aplomb in your pertinence, and knew it as a fraud from the very first! Always acting like you knew a secret nobody else knows. And that smile you show every now and then-it makes me sick. Do you still think it’s all so amusing? Do you? Besides, your tale’s stupid. It can’t go anywhere, can it, because what you’re stealing from isn’t done yet, is it? You’re doomed to just repeat what’s already happened and they won’t take that much longer. So, even without Phluster’s ultimatum, you’re doomed to lose. You’ll die. We’ll carve you up and eat you, and we’ll feel good about it, too!”

Ah, artists! “The truth of the tale,” said I, most calmly, “is not where it is going, but where it has been. Ponder that, if you’ve the energy. In the meantime, sustenance beckons, for I see that some water survives still, and Mister Must is already unhitching the mules. Best we drink before the beasts do, yes?”

Both men pushed past me in their haste.

I followed at a more leisurely pace. I have this thing, you see, about anticipation and abnegation, but of that, later.

Steck had ridden up and was now dismounting. “Found their tracks,” he said, presumably to Tulgord. “As we know they must stay relatively close to the trail, however, we need not worry overmuch. Deprivation will bring them back.”

“We can go hunting, too,” said Tiny. “A bit of excitement,” and he smiled his tiny ratty smile.

“Drink your fill,” cried the host, “all of you! Such benison! The gods have mercy, yes they do! Oh, perhaps this will suffice! Perhaps we can complete our journey without the loss of another life! I do implore you all, sirs! We can-”

“We eat the artists,” rumbled Tiny. “It was decided and there ain’t no point in going back on it. Besides, I’ve acquired a liking for the taste.” And he laughed.

Midge laughed too.

So did Flea.

Relish yawned.

“We rest here,” announced Steck Marynd, “for a time.”

Purse Snippet was crouched down at the murky pool, splashing her face. I squatted beside her. “Sweet nectar,” murmured I, reaching down.

“They’re tyrants one and all,” she said under her breath. “Even Steck Marynd, for all his airs.”

Cool water closed about my hand with a goddess touch. “Milady, it is the nature of such paragons of virtue, but can we truly claim to anything nobler? Human flesh has passed our lips, after all.”

She hissed in frustration. “Our reward for cowardly obedience!

“Just so.”

“Where will your tale lead us, poet?”

“The answer to that must, alas, wait.”

“You’re all the same.”

“Perhaps,” I ventured, “while we may taste the same, we are in taste anything but the same. So one hopes.”

“You jest even now, Avas Didion Flicker? Will we ever see your true self, I wonder?”

Cupping water, I took a sip. “We shall see, Milady.”

A woman I once knew possessed a Kanese Ratter, a hairy and puny lapdog with all sanity bred out of it, and hers was more crazed than most. Despite its proclivities, which included attacking in a frenzy overly loud children and stealing the toys and rattles of babies, the beast was entirely capable of standing on its hind legs for inordinate amounts of time, and its owner was most proud of this achievement. Training with tidbits and whatnot was clearly efficacious even when the subject at hand possessed a brain the size of betel nut.

I was witness to such proof again when, at a single jab of one finger from Tiny Chanter, Calap Roud sat straight, all blood rushing from his face. Sputtering, he said, “But Flicker’s volunteered-”

“Later for him. Tell us about the giant and the woman.”

“But-”

“Kill him?” Midge asked.

“Kill him?” Flea asked.

“Wait! The tale, yes, the tale. Now, when we last saw them, the Fenn warrior was seated before the chief and a scant meal was being shared out. Gestures are ever delicate among such tribes. Language speaks without a single word spoken. In this song of nuance, it was understood by all the Imass that a terrible fate had befallen the warrior, that grief gripped the Fenn’s broad, wounded shoulders. He bled within and without. His troubled eyes found no other in their weary wandering over the wealth of the chief, the furs and beaded hides, the shell-strung belts and steatite pipes, the circle masks with the skins of beastly faces stretched over them-the brold bear, the ay wolf, the tusked seal. Of the meagre portions of rancid blubber, dried berries and steeped moss tea, he ate each morsel with solemn care and sipped the tea with tender pleasure, but all was tinged with something bitter, a flavour stained upon his tongue-one that haunted him.”

We were gathered, squatting or seated in the shade of the carriage and the stolid mules. The wellspring’s basin trickled as it slowly refilled with water. Flies danced on the mud our passages had left behind. Steck Marynd had dismantled his crossbow and was cleaning each part with an oiled cloth. Midge had produced a brace of fighting knives and was making use of a large boulder bearing the grooves of past sharpening, the whisk-whisk-whisk sound a grating undercurrent grisly in its portent. The host, Sardic Thew, had built a small fire on which to brew tea. Brash Phluster sat leaning against one gouged carriage wheel, examining his fingernails. Purse Snippet had walked behind the carriage to prepare her small pewter cup a few moments earlier, and now sat on my left, whilst to my right was Apto Canavalian, surreptitiously sipping from a small flask every now and then. Flea and Relish had begun dozing, and Mister Must sat upon the driver’s seat of the carriage, drawing upon his pipe. Arpo Relent and Tulgord Vise sat opposite each other, askance their mutually resentful glances. Thus, we were assembled to hear Calap’s tale.

“The maiden, kneeling to the Fenn’s right, could hear little more than the drum of her own heart. What flower this thing called love, to burst so sudden upon the colourless sward? Its seed is a ghost that even the wind carries unknowing. The blossom shouts to life, a blaze of impossible hue, and in its wild flush it summons the sun itself. So bright! So pure! She had never before known such sensations. They frightened her, stealing all control from her thoughts, from her very flesh. She felt swollen of spirit. She could feel the rough truth of his scarred arm against her own, though they did not touch. She felt herself swaying closer to him with every breath he drew into himself, only to sway back at his exhalation.

“In all things of self, she was still a child, and her soft cheeks glowed as if lit with the fire of the hearth, as if all coverings but the sky could not contain her heat. Softly, unnoticed by any, she panted, every breath shallow and making her feel half-drunk. Her eyes were black pools, the sweat swam upon her palms, and in the folds between her legs a coal fanned hot and eager.

“The flower is suffering’s gift, its only gift. Did her kin see it? Did its sweet scent fill the hut? Perhaps, but the winter’s cruel ways had stolen the warmth from their souls. They sat in misery, wilted with need, and as the Fenn ate all he was offered they saw the count of their days diminishing. Before their eyes, they witnessed his return to strength and hale vigour. When blood flows, the place it leaves becomes pale and weak, whilst the new home deepens rich with life. They could not shake the chill from their huddled forms, and outside the sun surrendered to the Blackhaired Witches of night, and the wind awoke with a howl than spun long and twisted into a moan. The hide walls rippled. Draughts stole inside and mocked the ashes that seek naught but contented sleep.”

Calap Roud licked his lips and reached for a gourd of water. He sipped with great care, making certain he did not disturb the settled silts, and then set the bowl back down.

The host poured tea into Snippet’s cup.

“When spake the Fenn, his voice was the bundle of furs, soft and thick, tightly bound and barely whispering of life. His words were Imass, proof of his worldly ways despite his evident youth- although, of course, with the Fenn age is always difficult to determine.

“ ‘I am the last of my people,’ said he. ‘Son of a great warrior cruelly betrayed, slain by those he thought his brothers. To such a crime, does the son not have but one answer? This, then, is my tale. The season was cursed. The horned beasts of the mountain passes were nowhere to be found. The Maned Sisters of the Iron Hair had taken them away-’ ”

“The who?” demanded Arpo Relent.

“Thus the Fenn named the mountains of their home, good Knight.”

“Why do people have to name everything?” Arpo demanded. “What’s wrong with ‘the mountains’? The river? The valley?”

“The Knight?” retorted Tiny Chanter. “Aye, why not just ‘the idiot’?”

“ ‘The brainless ox,’ ” suggested Midge.

“ ‘The Bung-Hole Licker,’ “suggested Flea.

The three men snickered.

“I never licked no-”

“Hood’s breath, Relent,” growled Tulgord Vise. “Details are abominations with you. Stopper your trap and let him get on with it. You, Calap. No game left in the mountains, right? Let’s get on with the tale. Betrayal. Vengeance, aye, that’s the making of a decent story.”

“‘My father,” said the Fenn, “was the Keeper of the Disc, the stone wheel upon which the tribe’s life was carved-its past, its present and its future. He was, therefore, a great and important man, the equivalent of chief among the Imass. He spoke with wisdom and truth. The Maned Sisters were angry with the Fenn, who had grown careless in their rituals of propitiation. A sacrifice was necessary, he explained. One life in exchange for the lives of all.

“ ‘The night’s gathering then chose their sacrifice. My father’s second son, my own brother, five years my younger. The Clan wept, as did my father, as did I. But the Wheel was certain in its telling. In our distress-’ and at that moment the Fenn warrior looked up and met the Imass Chief’s eyes-’in our distress, none took notice of my father’s brother, my own uncle, and the hard secret unveiled in his face.

“ ‘There is blood and there is love. There are women who find themselves alone, and then not alone, and there is shame held within even as the belly swells. Truth revealed can rain blood.

She held to herself the crime her husband’s brother had committed upon her. She held it for her love for he who was her husband.

“‘But now, on this night, she felt cut in two by a ragged knife. One of her sons would die, and in her husband’s eyes she saw tears from a love fatally wounded. Too late she cast her regard upon her beloved’s brother, and saw only the mask of his indifference.”

“Wait, I don’t understand-”

“Gods below!” burst out Tiny Chanter. “The uncle raped the mother, you fool, and the boy chosen was the beget of that!”

“The mother’s uncle raped the boy? But-”

“Kill him?” Midge asked.

“Go on, Calap,” Tiny commanded.

“‘In the deep of night, a knife was drawn. When a brother slays a brother, the gods are aghast. The Maned Sisters claw through their iron hair and the earth itself shakes and trembles. Wolves howl in shame for their bothers of the hunt. I awoke to hard slaughter. My mother, lest she speak. My father, too. And of my brother and uncle, why, both were gone from the camp.’“

“Vengeance!” bellowed Tiny Chanter. “No man needs a god when vengeance stands in its stead! He hunted them down didn’t he? Tell us!”

Calap nodded. “And so the Fenn told the tale of the hunt, how he climbed mountain passes and survived the whelp of winter, how he lost the trail again and again, and how he wept when he came upon the cairn bearing the frozen carcass of his brother, half-devoured by his uncle-who had bargained with the darkest spirits of the shadows, all to purchase his own life. Until at last, upon a broad glacier’s canted sweep, he crossed blades with his uncle, and of that battle even a thousand words would be too few. Beneath the cold sun, almost blinded by the snow and ice, they fought as only giants could fight. The spirits themselves warred, as shadows locked with honoured light, until even the Maned Sisters fell to their knees, beseeching an end.”

He paused again to sip water.

“And it was light that decided the battle-the sun’s flash on the son’s blade, direct into the eyes of the uncle. A deft twist, a slash, and upon the crushed and broken ice and snow a crimson stream now poured, sweet as the spring’s thaw.

“And so the son stood, the slayings avenged, but a bleakness was upon his soul. He was now alone in his family. He was, he knew, also the murderer of kin. And that night, as he lay sleeping, huddled in a rock shelter, the Maned Sisters visited upon him a dream. He saw himself, thin, weak, walking into the camp of his tribe. The season had broken, the terrible cold was gone from the air, and yet he saw no smoke, and no fires. He saw no one and as he drew closer he came upon bones, picked clean by foxes and here and there split open by the jaws of rock leopards, wolves and bears. And in the hut of his father he found the Wheel, split down the centre, destroyed forever more, and in his dream he knew that, in the moment his sword took the soul of his uncle, the Wheel had been sundered. Too many crimes in a single pool of blood-a curse had befallen the tribe. They had starved, they had torn one another apart in their madness. The warrior awoke, knowing he was now alone, his home was no more, and that there was a stain upon his soul than not even the gods could wash clean.

“Down from the mountains he came, a vessel emptied of love. Thus he told his tale, and the Imass keened and rocked to share his grief. He would stay for a time, he said, but not overlong, knowing well the burden he presented. And that night-”

“That will do,” pronounced Tiny, grunting as he climbed to his feet. “Now we walk.”

“It’s Flicker’s turn now, isn’t it?” So demanded Brash Phluster.

“Not yet.”

“But soon?”

“Soon.” He paused and smiled. “Then we vote.”

Strips of charred meat were apportioned out, skins filled one last time, the mules and horses brought close to drink again, and then the trek resumed. Chewing with an array of curious and disparate expressions, we trudged along the worn trail.

What fate had befallen this region? Why, nothing but the usual vagary. Droughts settled like a plague upon lands. Crops withered and blew away, people and beasts either died or moved on. But the track where walked pilgrims asserted something more permanent, immortal even, for belief is the blood’s unbroken thread. Generation upon generation, twisted and knotted, stretched and shredded, will and desire set the cobble stones upon this harrowed road, and each is polished by sweat and suffering, hope and cherished dreams. Does enlightenment appear only upon the shadeless travail, on a frame of soured muscles and aching bones? Is blessing born solely from ordeal and deprivation?

The land trembles to the slightest footfall, the beetle and the bhederin, and in the charms of the wind one can hear countless cries for succor.

Of course, with all the chewing and gnawing going on, not one of us could hear a damned thing.

We are pilgrims of necessity, stumbling in the habits of privation.

“The Dantoc must have known a mighty thirst.” So said Apto Canavalian. “Two heavy skins, just for an old woman hiding in the cool gloom.”

“Elderly as she is,” replied Mister Must from atop the carriage, “the Dantoc Calmpositis holds to the teaching of Mendic Hellup, whose central tenet is that water is the secret of all life, and much physical suffering comes from a chronic undernourishment of water in our bodies.” He chewed on his pipe stem for a moment, and then said, “Or something like that.”

“You’re an odd one,” Apto noted, squinting up at the driver. “Times you sound rolled up as a scholar, but others like a herder who sleeps under his cow.”

“Disparate my learnings, sir.”

Moments of malice come to us all. How to explain them? One might set hands upon breast and claim the righteous stance of self-preservation. Is this enough to cleanse the terrible bright splashes stinging the eye? Or what of simple instinctive retaliation from a kneeling position, bearing one’s own dark wounds of flesh and spirit? A life lived is a life of regrets, and who can stand at the close of one’s years and deny the twisted skeins skirled out in one’s wake?

In this moment, as the burden of the tale was set upon me once more, could I have held up before my own visage a silvered mirror, would I recoil before a mien of vicious spite? Were all witness to something bestial, akin to a rock-ape’s mad gleam upon discovering a bloated tick dangling from an armpit? Did I snarl like a hyena in a laughing pit? A sex-sodden woman with penis and knife in hand, or breasts descending as weapons of suffocation upon a helpless, exhausted face? Wicked my regard?

Or naught but a sleepy blink and the coolness of a trickling rill only moments from a poisonous chuckle? Pray, you decide.

“The mortal brain,” quoth I, “is an amorous quagmire. Man and woman both swim sordid currents in the gurgling caverns of unfettered desire. We spread the legs of unknown women at a glance, or take possession of the Gila Monster’s stubby tail in a single flutter of sultry lashes. Coy is our silent ravishing, abulge with mutual lust pungent as a drunkard’s breath. In the minds of each and every one of us, bodies writhe slick with oiled perfumes, scenes flash hot as fire, and the world beyond is stripped naked to our secret eyes. We rock and we pitch, we sink fast and grasp tight. Our mouths are teased open and tongues find bedmates. Aftermaths wash away and with them all consequence, leaving only the knowing meet of eyes or that shiver of nearness with unspoken truths sweet as a lick.”

None interrupted, proof of the truth of my words, and each and all had slid into and far down the wet channel so warm, so perfect in base pleasure. Sweat beaded beneath napes, walks stiffened awkward. Do you deny? What man would not roger nine of ten women he might see in a single day? Ninety of a hundred? What woman does not imagine clutching a dozen crotches and by magic touch make hard what was soft, huge what was puny? Does she not, with a shudder, then dream the draining weakness of utter surrender? We are rutters of the mind and in the array of each and every pose can be found all the misery and joy of existence. History’s tumult is the travail of frustration and desire, murder the slaughter of rivals, slaying the coined purse of the spurned. Children die… to make room for more children! Pregnant women swing wild their trophies of conquest pitched so fierce upon their creaking hips. Young men lock horns in swagger and brainless gnashing of eyes. Old men drool over lost youth when all was possible and so little was grasped. Old women perch light as ragged songbirds on brawny young arms not even hinting of blemishes to come. But do not decry such truths! They are the glory of life itself! Make wild all celebration!

Just be sure to invite me along.

“Among the pilgrims,” so I did resume after an appropriate duration to stir the stew, “maelstroms raged in silent touch of glance and hungers were awakened and the conviction of terrible starvation sizzled with certainty, and for all the threats spoken and unspoken, ah, love will find a way. Legs yearn to yawn, thighs quiver to clamp hard. Snakes strain to bludgeon into ruin all barriers to sentinel readiness.

“There was a woman,” and if possible, why, even the mules and horses trod more softly to challenge not my words, “a sister to three bold warriors, and desired by all other men in the company. Hard and certain the warnings issued by the brothers. War in answer to despoiling, a thousand legions upon the march, a siege of a hundred years and a hundred great heroes dead on the sand. The toppling of kings and wizards upon the rack. Heads on spikes and wives raped and children sold into slavery. The aghast regard of horrified gods. No less to any and all of these the stern threats from the brothers.

“But who could deny her beauty? And who could ignore the hooked bait in the net she daily cast so wide into her path and wake both?”

Did I risk a glance at Relish Chanter? I did not. But let us imagine now her precious expression at this moment. Eyes wide in horror? Lips slack? A rising flush? Or, and with surety I would cast my coin here, an odd brightness to her gaze, the hint of a half-smile, a touch wilder and wider the sway of her petalled hips.

Perhaps even a deflagrant toss of her head. No young woman, after all, can be chained to childhood and all its perverse innocence, no matter how many belligerent brothers she has in tow. The flush apple beckons every hand, and the fruit in turn yearns to be plucked.

“Among the poets and bards,” said I then, “there was a statesman of the tender arts, elder in his years, but creativity’s flower (still so lush in his mind) proclaimed with blind lie a vigour long past. And one night, after days of effort growing ever more desperate, ever more careless, did he finally catch the maiden’s eye. Whilst the brothers slept, heads anod and snores asnore, out they crept into the night — “

“But I-’’

Poor Calap Roud, alas, got no further.

With a roar, Tiny Chanter lunged upon the hapless old man. The fist that struck the poet was driven hard as a mace, crushing visage and sending shards of bone deep into Calap’s brain. In his collapse not a finger’s breadth of his body evinced the remotest sign of life.

Oh dear.

Do the gods stand in wait for each and every one of us? So many do believe. Someone has to pay for this mess. But who among us does not also believe that he or she would boldly meet such immortal regard? Did we not drag our sack of excuses all this way? Our riotous justifications? Even death itself could not defy this baggage train chained to our ankles and various other protuberances. Truly, can anyone here honestly assert they would do other than argue their case, all their cases, that mountain heap of cases that is the toll of a life furtively lived?

‘Yes, oh Great Ones, such was my laziness that I could not be bothered to dispose of my litter in the proper receptacles, and a thousand times I pissed against a wall behind my neighbours house, even as I coveted and eventually seduced his wife. And yes, I was in the habit of riding my horse through town and country too quickly, exercising arrogant disregard for courtesy and caution. I cut off other riders out of spite, I threatened to trample pedestrians at every turn! I always bought the biggest horse to better intimidate others and to offset my sexual incapacities! I bullied and lied and cheated and had good reasons every time. I long ago decided that I was the centre of all existence, emperor of emperors-all this to hide my venal, pathetic self After all, we are stupider than we like to believe: why, this is the very meaning of sentience, and if you gods are not to blame for your own miserable creations, then who is?’

Just so.

And, as poor Calap Roud’s corpse cooled there on the hard ground, and all the others stared in array of horror, shock, sudden appetite, or mulish indifference, first upon Calap and then upon me, and then back again, deft in swivel to avoid the Chanters with their gnarly fists and black expressions (and Relish, of course, who stood examining her fingernails).

Yet t’was Relish who spoke first. “As if.”

Extraordinary indeed, how two tiny words could shift the world about-face, the volumes of disdain and disgust, disbelief and a hundred other disses, so filling her breath by way of tone and pitch as to leave not a single witness in doubt of her veracity. Calap Roud in Relish’s arms? The absurdity of that notion was as a lightning strike to blast away idiotic conviction, and in the vacuous echo of her comment, why, all eyes now fixed in outrage upon Tiny Chanter.

Whose scowl deepened. “What?”

“Now we’ll never hear what happened to the Imass!” So cried our amiable host, as hosts must by nature be ever practical.

The mood soured then, until I humbly said, “Not necessarily. I know that particular tale. Perhaps not with the perfect recall with which Calap Roud iterated it, but I shall do my best to satisfy.”

“Better choice than your own story,” muttered Apto, “which is liable to see us all killed before you’re done with it.”

“Unacceptable,” pronounced Purse Snippet. “Flicker owes me his tale.”

“Now he owes us another one!” barked Tulgord Vise.

“Exactly!” chimed Brash Phluster, who, though an artist of modest talents, was not a fool.

“I shall assume the added burden,” said I, “in humble acknowledgment of my small role in poor Calap Roud’s fate — ”

“Small?” snorted Steck Marynd.

“Indeed,” I replied, “for did I not state with sure and unambiguous clarity that my tale bears only superficial similarity to our present reality?”

As they all pondered this, Mister Must descended from the carriage, to get his butchering tools from the trunk. A man of many skills, was Mister Must, and almost as practical as Sardic Thew.

Butchering a human was, in detail, little different from butchering any other large animal. The guts must be removed, and quickly. The carcass must be skinned and boned and then bled as best as one is able under the circumstances. This generally involved hanging the quartered sections from the prong hooks at the back end of the carriage, and while this resulted in a spattered trail of blood upon the conveyance’s path, why, the symbolic significance was very nearly perfect. In any case, Mister Must worked with proficient alacrity, slicing through cartilage and tendon and gristle, and in no time at all the various pieces that had once been Calap Roud depended dripping from the carriage stern. His head was sent rolling in the direction of the shallow pit containing his hide, organs and intestines.

Does this shock? Look upon the crowd that is your company. Pox the mind with visions of dressed and quartered renditions, all animation drained away. The horror to come in the wake of such imaginings (well, one hopes horror comes) is a complicated melange. A face of life, a host of words, an ocean of swirling thoughts to brighten active eyes. Grace and motion and a sense that before you is a creature of time (just as you no doubt are), with past, present and future. A single step could set you in his or her sandals, as easy as that. To then jolt one’s senses into a realm of butchered meat and red bone, a future torn away, and eyes made dull and empty, ah, is any journey as cruel and disquieting as that one?

To answer: yes, when complimented with the growling of one’s own stomach and savory hints wetting the tongue.

Is it cowardice to turn away, to leave Mister Must to his work whilst one admires the sky and horizon, or perhaps frown in vaunted interest at the watchful regard of the horses or the gimlet study from the mules? Certainly not to meet the gaze of anyone else. Cowardice? Absolutely.

Poor Calap Roud. What grief and remorse assails me!

Brash Phluster sidled close as the trek resumed. “That was vicious, Flicker.”

“When the mouse is cornered-”

“ ‘Mouse?’ Not you. More like a serpent in our midst.”

“I am pleased you heeded the warning.”

“I bet you are. I could have blurted it out, you know. And you’d have been lying there beside Roud, and I’d be safe.”

“Do you wish me to resume my tale, Brash? Recounting all the other lovers of the woman with the brothers?”

“Won’t work a second time.”

“You would stake your life on Tiny Chanter’s self-control?”

Brash licked his lips. “Anyway, now you have two stories, and Purse isn’t happy about it. She’s disgusted by what you did to Calap. Using her story like that. She feels guilty, too.”

“Why, Brash, that is most perceptive.”

“She won’t be forgiving, not anymore.”

“Indeed not.”

“I think you’re a dead man.”

“Brash!” bellowed Tulgord Vise. “Cheer us up! Sing, lad, sing!”

“But we got our supper!”

Tiny Chanter laughed and then said, “Maybe we want dessert. Midge?”

“Dessert.”

“Flea?”

“No thanks.”

His brothers halted and stared at him. Flea’s expression was pained. “I been bunged up now six whole days. I got bits of four people in me, and poets at that. Bad poets.”

Tiny’s hands twitched. “A dessert will do you good, Flea.”

“Honey-glazed,” suggested Midge, “if I can find a hive.”

Flea frowned. “Maybe an eyeball or two,” he conceded.

“Brash!” Tiny roared.

“I got one! Listen, this one’s brilliant. It’s called ‘Night of the Assassin’-”

“Knights can’t be assassins,” objected Arpo Relent. “It’s a rule. Knights can’t be assassins, wizards can’t be weapon-masters and mendics got to use clubs and maces. Everyone knows that.”

Tulgord Vise frowned. “Clubs? What?”

No, ‘night’ as in the sun going down.”

“They ride into the sunset, yes, but only at the end.”

Brash looked round, somewhat wildly.

“Let’s hear it,” commanded Tiny.

“Mummumummymummy! Ooloolooloo!”

“Oh sorrow!” came a gargled croak from Sellup, who stumbled along behind the carriage and was now ghostly with dust.

“I was just warming up my singing voice,” Brash explained. “Now, “Night of the Assassin,” by Brash Phluster. An original composition. Lyrics by Brash Phluster, music by Brash Phluster. Composed in the year-”

“Sing or die,” said Tiny Chanter.

“In the black heart of Malaz City on a black night of blackness so darrrk no one could see a thing it was all gritty when a guard cried out ‘harrrrk!’

But the darkness did not answer because no one was therrre

Kalam Mekhar was climbing the tower instead of using the stairrr

The Mad Empress sat on her throne dreaming up news ways of torturrre when she heard a terrible groan and she did bless the mendic’s currre

There was writing carved on the wall great kings and mad tyrants wrote dire curses there in the gloomy royal stall so rank with smeared mercies-”

“She’s sitting on a shit-hole?” Tulgord Vise demanded. “Taking a dump?”

“That’s the whole point!” Brash retorted. “Everybody sings about kings and princesses and heroes but nobody ever mentions natural bodily functions. I introduced the Mad Empress at a vulnerable moment, you see? To earn her more sympathy and remind listeners she’s as human as anybody.”

“People know all that,” Tulgord said, “and they don’t want to hear about it in a damned song about assassins!”

“I’m setting the scene!”

“Let him go on,” said Tiny. Then he pointed a culpable finger at Brash. “But no more natural bodily functions.”

“Out of the dark night sky rained down matter most foulll and Kalam swore and wiped at his eye wishing he’d brought a towelll

But the chute yawned above him his way to the Mad Empress was a black hollle could he but reach the sticky rim he was but moments from his goallll

In days of yore she was an assassin too a whore of murder with claws unfurlllled but now she just needed hard to poo straining to make her hair currrlll”

“I said-”

“It’s part of the story!” squealed Brash Phluster. “I can’t help it!”

“Neither could the Empress, seems,” added Apto under his breath.

“Kalam looked up then to see a grenado but swift he was in dodging its plungggge and he launched up into the brown window and in the narrow channel he thrashed and lunggged

And climbed and climbed seeking the light or at least he hoped for some other wayyy to end the plight of this darkest night as he prayed for the light of daayyy

Through the narrowest of chutes he clambered into a pink caverrrnnn and swam among the furly flukes

“ ‘oh’ he cried, “when will I ever learrnnn?”

Tis said across the entire empire that the Empress Laseen did give birrthhh to the Royal Assassins of the Claw entire you can take that for what it’s worrthhh

But Kalam Mekhar knew her better than most and he did carve his name on her wallll and we’d all swear he got there first because we never went there at allll!”

Imagine, if you dare, the nature of the silence that followed ‘Night of the Assassin.’ To this very day, all these years later, I struggle and fail to find words of sufficient girth and suitable precision and can only crawl a reach closer, prostrate with nary more than a few gibbering mumbles. We had all halted, I do recall, but the faces on all sides were but a blur, barring that of Sellup, who marched in from a cloud of dust smiling with blackened teeth and said, “Thank you for waiting!”

It is said that as much as the dead will find a way into the ground, so too will they find a way out again. Farmers turn up bones under the plow. Looters shove aside the lid of the crypt and scatter trucked limbs and skulls and such in their hunt for baubles. Sellup, of course, was yet to be buried, but in appearance she was quickly assuming the guise of the interred. Patchy and jellying, her lone brow a snarling fringe above murky matted eyes, various thready remnants of mucous dangling from her crusted nostrils, and already crawling with maggots that had writhed out from her ear-holes to sprinkle her shoulders or choke in the nooses of her tangled hair, she was the kind of fan to elicit a cringe and flinch from the most desperate poet (though sufficiently muted as to avoid too much offense, for we will take what we can get, don’t you know).

The curious thing, from the point of view of an artist, lies in the odd reversal a dead fan poses. For the truly adoring worshipper, a favourite artist cursed to an undying existence could well be considered a prayer answered. More songs, more epics, an unending stream of blather and ponce for all eternity! And should the poor poet fall into irreparable decay-a nose falling off, a flap of scalp sagging loose, a certain bloating of intestinal gases followed by a wheezing eruption or two, well, one must suffer for one’s art, yes?

We artists who remained, myself and Brash and indeed, even Purse Snippet, we regarded Sellup with an admixture of abhorrence and fascination. Cruel the irony that she adored a poet who was not even around.

No matter. The afternoon stretched on, and of the cloudy thoughts in this collection of cloudy minds, who could even guess? A situation can fast slide into both the absurd and the tragic, and indeed into true horror, and yet for those in its midst, senses adjust in their unceasing search for normality, and so on we go, in our assembly of proper motions, the swing of legs, the thump of heels, lids blinking over dust-stung eyes, and the breath goes in and the breath goes out.

Normal sounds comfort us. Hoofs and carriage wheels, the creak of springs and squeal of axles. Pilgrims upon the trail. Who, stumbling upon us at that moment, might spare us little more than a single disinterested glance? Walk your own neighbourhood or village street, dear friends, and as you see nothing awry grant yourself a moment and imagine all that you do not see, all that might hide behind the normal moment with its normal details. Do this and you will come to understand the poet’s game.

Thoughts to ruminate upon, perhaps, as the twenty-fourth day draws to a close. A Recounting of the Twenty-Fourth Night

“We made good time this day,” announced our venerable host, once the evening meal was done and the picked bones flung away into the night. The fire was merry, bellies were full, and out in the dark something voiced curdling cries every now and then, enough to startle Steck Marynd and he would stroke his crossbow like a man with too many barbs on his conscience (What does that mean? Nothing. I just liked the turn of phrase).

“In fact,” Sardic Thew continued, beaming above the ruddy flames, “we may well reach the Great Descent to the Landing within a week.” He paused, and then added, “Perhaps it is at last safe to announce that our terrible ordeal is over. A few days of hunger, is that too terrible a price to pay for the end to our dread tithe among the living?”

Midge grunted. “What?”

“Well.” The host cleared his throat. “The cruel fate of these few remaining poets, I mean.”

“What about it?”

Sardic Thew waved his hands. “We can be merciful! Don’t you see?”

“What if we don’t want to be?” Tiny Chanter asked, grinning greasily (well, in truth he was most fastidious, was Tiny, but given the venal words issuing from those lips, I elected to add the grisly detail. Of course, there is nothing manipulative in this).

“But that-that-that would be-”

“Outright murder?” Apto Canavalian inquired, somewhat too lightly in my opinion.

Brash choked and spat, “It’s been that all along, Apto, though when it’s not your head on the spitting block, you just go ahead and pretend otherwise.”

“I will, thank you.”

“Just because you’re a judge-”

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Apto cut in. “Not one of you here is getting my vote. All right? The truth is, there’s nothing so deflating as actually getting to know the damned poets I’m supposed to be judging. I feel like a far-sighted fool who finally gets close enough to see the whore in front of him, warts and all. The magic dies, you see. It dies like a dried up worm.”

Brash stared with eyes bulging. “You’re not going to vote for me?” He leapt to his feet. “Kill him! Kill him next! He’s no use to anyone! Kill him!”

As Brash stood trembling, one finger jabbed towards Apto Canavalian, no one spoke. Abruptly, Brash loosed a sob, wheeling, and ran off into the night.

“He won’t go far,” opined Steck. “Besides, I happen to agree with our host. The killing isn’t necessary any more. It’s over-”

“No,” said an unexpected voice, “it is not over.”

“Lady Snippet,” Steck began.

“I was promised,” she countered, hands wringing about the cup she held. “He gave me his word.”

“So I did,” said I. “Tonight, however, I mean to indulge the interests of all here, by concluding poor Calap Roud’s tale. Lady, will you abide me until the morrow?”

Her eyes were most narrow in their regard of me. “Perhaps you mean to outlast me. In consideration of that, I will now exact yet another vow from you, Avas Didion Flicker. Before we reach the Great Descent, you will satisfy me.”

“So I vow, Milady.”

Steck Marynd rose. “I know the tale you will tell tonight,” he said to me, and to the others he said, “I will find Nifty Gum and his ladies and bring them back here, for I fear they must be suffering greatly this night.”

“Sudden compassion?” said Tulgord Vise with a snort.

“The torment must end,” Steck replied. “If I am the only one here capable of possessing guilt, then so be it.” And off he went, boots crunching in the gravel.

Guilt. Such an unpleasant word, no doubt invented by some pious meddler with snout pricked to the air. Probably a virgin, too, and not by choice. A man (I assert it must have been a man, since no woman was ever so mad as to invent such a concept, and to this day for most women the whole notion of guilt is as alien to them as flicking droplets after a piss, then shivering), a man, then, likely looking on in outrage and horror (at a woman, I warrant, and given his virginal status she was either his sister or his mother), and bursting into his thoughts like flames from a brimstone, all indignation was transformed into that maelstrom of flagellation, spite, envy, malice and harsh judgement that we have come to call guilt. Of course, the accusation, once uttered, is also a declaration of sides. The accuser is a creature of impeccable virtue, a paragon of decency, honour, integrity and intransigence, unsullied and unstained since the moment of birth. Why, flames of purest white blaze from that quivering head, and some force of elevation has indeed lifted the accuser from the ground, feet alight on the air, and somewhere monstrous musicians pound drums of impending retribution. In accusing, the accuser seeks to crush the accused, who in turn has been conditioned to cringe and squirm, to holler and rage, or some frenzied cavort between the two, and misery must result. Abject self-immolation, depression, the wearing of ugliness itself. Whilst the accuser stands, observing, triumphant and quivering in the ecstasy of the righteous. It’s as good as sex (but then, what does the virgin know about sex?).