“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.