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