Name: Gouda Muck. Birthplace: Cam. Occupation: swordsmith.
Status: taxpayer; senior citizen; second-best swordsmith on Stokos.
Description: old and ugly (Drake's opinion); wise and dignified (his own opinion); a waste of skin (his mother's opinion). .
Residence: Hardhammer Forge, Ironbird Street, Cam, Stokos.
Gouda Muck was an atheist.
He was, quite possibly, the only atheist in the city of Cam.' Most citizens enjoyed the practice of religion – indeed, for many devout souls, its consolations were all that made life worth living. But Gouda Muck was born to be a dissident. He refused to believe in the demon Hagon, far less to worship that formidable eater of souls.
He also avoided those sacred religious duties usually accepted even by unbelievers, viz:T patronizing the temple casinos;t copulating with the temple prostitutes;t playing the temple numbers game;t going to the temple cockfights;f participating in the human sacrifices.
His main objection to all the above activities was that they cost an exorbitant amount of money.'Religion,' said Muck, 'is a racket.'
He could get away with talk like that, for he was the second-best swordsmith on Stokos, where metalworkers were valued highly.
Gouda Muck lived with three boys, but slept with none of them. One was a deaf mute who shovelled coal, worked the bellows, and exorcised the minor demons of puberty by raping chickens. The other two, Drake and Yot, were older, virgins no longer though beardless still.
The fair-haired Drake had, till now, been very religious: he loved to drink, gamble, fight and swear, and relished the privileges which came with having a sister in the temple. Unfortunately, there had been times when he had overdone things somewhat – and the people of Stokos, like people elsewhere, frowned on religious mania.
'Balance,' said Drake to himself, 'that's the thing. I've got to find a balance between the pleasures of religion and the demands of the world of work.'
Yot, on the other hand, had no such problems to grapple with, for he was a spiritless fellow, a lank pale stripling with a runny nose (an allergy to coal dust made his life miserable with rhinitis) and warts.
And it was with Yot that the trouble began. It began only nine days after Drake saw the wizard Miphon – that is, just twenty days after Drake's ordeal at sea. It began when Yot, refusing to accept expense as excuse sufficient, demanded the real reason for Muck's dissent.
T only believe in the Flame,' said Muck, peering into the furnace.'The Flame?' asked Yot.
'Aye, boy,' said Muck, amused by Yot's wide-eyed attention. 'The living presence of the High God of All Gods, which purifies as it witnesses.'
Drake, who was working in the forge at the time, heard that, but kept himself from sniggering. He wanted to hear more. So did Yot.'How does it purify?' asked Yot.
'It burns, boy,' said Muck. 'Didn't your mother ever teach you that? Stick a hand in, if you doubt me – it'll do more than clean your fingernails. It burns, and I can see that it burns. Ocular proof, aye, that's the thing.'
'But what's this business about gods?' asked Yot. 'How did you find out about that?'
The Flame spoke to me,' said Gouda Muck. 'And it speaks to me still.'
And, seeing Yot's jaw drop, he continued the joke. At length.
Afterwards, Drake teased Yot for believing in fairy tales. But Yot, stubborn in belief, refused to concede that Muck's dogma was a load of tripe and codswallop, conjured up for the whim of the moment. They fought. Drake, as usual, won – but Yot still made no intellectual concessions. He went on asking for tales of the Flame, and Muck went on telling them.
Well, all was fine at first. Then, after Muck had been telling these fairy tales for three days, the Flame did speak to him. It roared up out of the furnace, hung purple in the air, and shouted in a voice of drums and cymbals:'Muck! Thou art who thou art!'Then left, even as Muck fainted.
On recovery, Muck decided he had experienced a true religious revelation. Actually, the syphilis scrambling his brain had made him hallucinate. The syphilis, by the way, was a souvenir of his riotous youth – Muck had been solemnly celibate these past thirty-five years or more.
The Flame spoke often thereafter, bringing Faith to Gouda Muck; those gnawing spirochaetes had a lot to answer for. Muck listened to the Flame as he laboured in the forge; he heard it as he ate his meals or walked by the dockside; the Flame gave him fresh revelations in his dreams.
How long does it take to create a religion? Inspired by syphilis, Gouda Muck took precisely two days to lay down the foundations of his own faith.
The revelations of the Flame elevated Muck's personal quirks to the status of divine law: no drink, no gambling, no fighting and no loose women. What's more, thrift became an absolute virtue. Muck immediately began to help his apprentices be good by banking half their paltry wages into trust accounts managed by the Orsay Bank.
Drake had till then been happy enough as a sword-smith's devil, since all his hardships had been sweetened by the compensations of religion. With these denied to him – the confiscation of half his wages made certain of that – life went sour.'Endure,' said Drake to Drake.
He must live for the day when he was a master swordsmith, yes, with his own forge and apprentices.
'Muck,' said Drake, one evening. 'How about setting a definite date for me to start making my first sword?''Why should I do that?' said Muck.
'Because it will give me something to look forward to,' said Drake.
'You've got nothing to look forward to,' said Muck. 'You're a filthy little scag-bag stuffed with iniquity. You pollute the forge by your very presence. All you're good for is slave labour.''Oh, come now!' said Drake. 'A joke's a joke, but-'
'I'm not joking!' roared Muck. 'You'll never make a sword in this forge, no.'
'But,' said Drake, 'I have to make swords. Lots of them. So I can finish my apprenticeship.'
'Time will finish your apprenticeship nicely,' said Muck. 'But you won't be a swordsmith at the end of it, oh no. When I'm finished with you, we'll kick you back to the filthy coal cliffs you came from.'
Drake was staggered by this sudden turnaround. He really thought he'd finally come to terms with Gouda Muck. Now – what was he supposed to think? He could only suppose that he had grievously offended Muck in the last few days, though he couldn't for the life of him think of any really outrageous stunts he'd pulled.
Well, the situation was grim, that was for real. And . . . desperate situations called for desperate remedies. So . . .
'Man,' said Drake, T know we've cut each other up in the past, but that's over and done with. I respect you, man, I'll say that fair and square. You're the master. I'm but a child at your elbow. If I've done you wrong, I'm too much of a child to see what I can do to set things right. So – tell me, man. What have I done that's so terrible? What can I do to make amends?'
This display of humility really hurt him. He was intensely proud: he hated to grovel.What was worse, his humility did him no good.
'You can't make amends,' said Muck. 'You went too far years ago. So you'll sweat death and dream buckles till your bones splinter.''What?' said Drake, bewildered.'The vizier of Galsh Ebrek calls,' said Muck.Then left the forge without further explanation.
The syphilis which had begun to destroy Muck's brain was, of course, invisible, so Drake had precious few clues to the reason for Muck's bizarre behaviour. Was the man drunk? Worse: was he mad? Drake was reluctant to think so.Was Muck serious?
That was a more important question. For if Muck was serious, then Drake's life was in ruins. Drake, turning things over in his mind, could only presume that his master was setting him a weird sort of test.Yes.
A test to draw him out, to see how much initiative and determination he had. Maybe this was one of the secrets of the swordsmith's guild. Maybe every apprentice got set such a test, sooner or later, to see what he was really made of.
Accordingly, Drake set to work on a sword of his own. Yot, who had been shovelling coal into sacks outside, came in and asked what he was doing.'Never you mind,' said Drake.
'It looks to me,' said Yot, 'as if you're starting work on a sword. You can't do that! Not till Muck gives you permission.'
'I'll be the judge of what I can and can't do,' said Drake.
And laboured grimly until Muck returned at nightfall.'What are you doing?' said Muck.
'Man, I'm making a sword,' said Drake. 'For I've got to start learning the real stuff sooner or later.'
'I've told you already,' said Muck, 'your days of learning are finished. You're not human any longer, not as far as this forge is concerned. You're a piece of working meat, and nothing else.'
'Man,' said Drake, trying to keep himself from crying, 'you're not being fair. You've got to teach me! That's why I'm here! To learn!'
'You're here to repent,' said Muck. 'To purify yourself.''How do I do that?' said Drake.'By working yourself to death.'
'Right!' said Drake. 'If you won't teach me, then I'll not stay here to sweat it out for starvation wages.'
And, thirty days after his sixteenth birthday, Drake ran away. He fled to his parents' home in south-west Stokos. He was frightened, bitter, amazed at the sudden turn of events. A few days ago, everything had been going his way – and now? Disaster!
There was one bright spot on the horizon, of course: Drake's marriage prospects. But he could hardly rely too much on those, since King Tor might die any day, his demise destroying Drake's chances.
'Four years of my life!' sobbed Drake. 'Four years of my life gone to this lousy apprenticeship! And what do I get out of it? I get kicked around like a cat.'
The cat was the lowest form of life on the island of Stokos, for it was well known that the demon Hagon hated cats. They had it rough.
Drake had it rough, too, when he finally got home. He had only just finished explaining himself to his parents and to his brother Heth when agents from the sword-smith's guild arrived with a warrant, and whipped him back to Cam.
'We've a system for breaking people like you,' said Muck, when Drake was brought back to the forge, whip-wounds bleeding. 'We'll prove it out, if you try your nonsense a second time.''Man,' said Drake, 'you've flipped! You're mad!'
'Don't answer back,' said Muck. 'You're just work-meat. A slave.'
Well, there was no way Drake could take that in silence. So he did answer back, thus starting an argument, which Gouda Muck won by beating his apprentice into insensibility.
The next day, Drake went to complain to his uncle, Oleg Douay. He explained his problem.
'Muck says he won't teach me. He's going to work me like a piece of slave-rubbish till my apprenticeship runs out, then throw me on the slag heap.'
'Come, boy,' said Oleg, sure that Drake was exaggerating, 'you had a little spat with your master, but that's no reason to act as if the world's coming to an end.''He's serious!' said Drake.
'Oh, maybe he said a few words harder than he should have,' said Oleg, 'but don't take them to heart. I've known Gouda Muck for years. He's an honourable man. He'll do all right by you.'
Unsatisfied by such reassurances, Drake promptly absconded a second time. And was hunted again, caught again, whipped again, and threatened with castration if he repeated his performance. The swordsmiths' guild was enormously powerful. There was no way Drake could fight it – not since his uncle refused to help.
'Maybe Muck will come to his senses,' said Drake. 'Maybe it's something he's eaten. I'll give him three months, yes, and see if he starts talking sense.'
Meantime, Drake sought to console himself with some of the pleasures of religion. He swiftly spent what savings he had. What now? He could hardly afford much on the half-wage Muck was doling out weekly.T need more money,' said Drake.
He thought about robbing the Orsay Bank. Not a good idea! Many people had died that way, and nobody had yet succeeded. So he tried something more subtle – to borrow from the bank on the strength of the funds held in trust for him.
'We lend to nobody under twenty-five,' said the Bankers. 'And your funds are blocked till then, too.'T hope you're paying me interest,' said Drake smartly.
'Are you trying to squeeze us, boy? Get out, while you still have legs to get with!'
Fleeing the gaunt donjon of the Orsay Bank, he arrived back at the forge late, and got a beating which opened his whip-wounds. This was too much to bear, but worse was promised.
'The Flame has revealed Powers and Commands,' said Muck grandly. 'Any who resist Revealed Truth are worthy only of death. Thou shalt kneel down and worship – or die!'
Being the person he was, Drake acted boldly, and reported Muck's latest delusions to King Tor. He hoped to get Muck executed. For then, under the laws governing apprenticeships, the swordsmiths' guild would be obliged to arrange for Drake to serve out the remainder of his apprenticeship under another master. With luck, that master would be Oleg Douay.
Unfortunately, Tor was busier than usual. Busy with what? With some weird and wonderful legislation his counsellors had lately proposed: a Bill to raise the minimum age for a mine worker to seven years, a Bill which would raise the age of consent to twelve, and a swag of Bills designed to limit the powers of a slavocrat over his human instruments.'Let the Chamber of Commerce deal with it,' said Tor.'But this is serious!' said Drake. 'There's not just heresy involved, either. Muck's refusing to teach-'
'Boy, I'm up to my ears in work,' said Tor. 'Go away! I don't want to see you until we consider you for marriage in two years' time.'So Drake got out while the getting was good.
He had scant faith in the Chamber of Commerce, so went and told Muck's mother instead. If she could knock some sense into her son, Muck might still come right, and prove himself as a decent master and a diligent teacher.
On learning the truth, Muck's mother was – to say the least – outraged. She had spent a lifetime in the temple, and was still working there at age ninety. Admittedly, these days she was a casino croupier, rather than the luxurious harlot she had been in the days when Muck was conceived.
She came hobbling down to the forge, leaning heavily on her swordstick, and told Muck just what she thought of him.
'You godless blaspheming heretic!' she said. 'You're a waste of skin! I always thought so. Now I'm sure of it.''Mother, dearest,' said Muck. 'Listen to me . . .'
And he began to preach. With eloquence. With a passion close to lust. With absolute conviction. And, slowly, his mother's expression began to change . .
When Drake realized Muck's mother had been converted to her son's cult, he almost despaired.'But,' he said, 'we can still try . . .'
And he denounced Muck to the Chamber of Commerce. That august body investigated, found the truth was worse than the report – the prophet of the Flame was starting to proselytize his neighbours – and promptly had Gouda Muck thrown into jail.
This happened on Midsummer's Day, two months after Drake's sixteenth birthday. By local reckoning, it was the middle of the year Tor 5; by the Collosnon dating which more of the world is familiar with, it was the start of Khmar 17. In any event, the date eventually became known as the Day of the Martyrdom of Muck; its anniversary was ultimately enshrined as the most sacred event of the Holy Calendar of Goudanism.
Considering what some martyrs endure, Muck got off lightly. He was not beaten, flayed, singed, starved, or exhibited in the stocks for the populace to throw stones at. His prison pallet had bedbugs, true, and his cell had rats – but his home had more of both. And, in any case, the terrible old man was soon released. All that money he had saved by never debauching himself in the temple had come in handy for bribes.'How did you get out?' asked Yot.'The Flame saved me,' said Gouda Muck.
And, once said, it was impossible not to believe.Muck spent long days brooding.So did Drake.
Muck was showing no signs of coming to his senses. All attempts at getting rid of him had failed. So what now? Endure life as a virtual slave for the rest of his apprenticeship? Try again to run away? Or what? Drake decided that, as a point of honour, he would bring his apprenticeship to a successful conclusion despite anything and everything Muck might try.'Living well is the best revenge,' said Drake.
He imagined himself presenting a mastersword for the examination of the swordsmith's guild. Oh, that would give Muck a shock!
Accordingly, Drake went to see his uncle. He found Oleg painting some of his favourite skulls in patterns of red and green.'What do you want?' said Oleg.
'I want to work at your forge in the evenings, after I finish work for Muck,' said Drake. 'I want you to teach me how swords are really made. I want you to give me all the learning so I can make my own mastersword.''Oh, I can't do that!' said Oleg. 'It wouldn't be ethical.'
'But it's the only way!' said Drake, in tones of utter despair. 'Muck still refuses to teach me!''Doubtless because you've been naughty,' said Oleg, dabbing a brushload of red paint into the nose-hole of one of his skulls. 'Go back and apologize. You'll see. Things will soon come right.'
Drake did apologize. Again. He grovelled.It did him no good whatsoever.
'At least things can't get any worse,' said Drake to himself.
He was wrong, of course. Things can always get worse.
Shortly after Midsummer's Day, Drake's sister found a lump in her mouth. A friend examined it for her, and told her it was blue. The next day another lump sprouted. It could not be doubted: she had blue leprosy.She cut her throat.
Drake mourned her for fifty days. In his grief, he no longer cared about his prospects for becoming a sword-smith. He also mourned for himself. For Miphon had made it clear that blue leprosy was spread by sex. Since Drake's sister had had the disease, it was even odds that he had it too.'So what am I to do?' he said to himself.He went and asked a priest for help.
'The answer is simple,' said the priest. 'As the wizard Miphon explained, there's no telling if you've got blue leprosy, for it may not show up for years. If you do get it, there's no cure, so don't bother looking for one. In the meantime, wear a condom every time you copulate with woman or man or dog or pig or whatever it is you fancy. That way, you won't spread the disease to anyone else.'Small comfort that was.
After another thirty days, however, Drake had got over his grief, fear and panic. Maybe he was infected. Maybe not. In any case, he was unlikely to find out for a year or two. Even if he had blue leprosy, a period of grace remained to him. He had better use that time wisely.But how?
His sixteenth birthday was 150 days in the past. The end of his apprenticeship, which had once seemed to lie far away in the infinite future, would be upon him in little more than a year and a half. Oleg Douay still refused to believe Drake's account of his plight, or to give Drake the teaching he needed. Overtures to other swordsmiths brought blunt refusals.
It was clear he would never make a masters word, or have his own forge, or have apprentices to kick around. He was getting old; his youth and hope were gone; he was finished. Sadly, Drake concluded that all that remained to him were the compensations of religion.
'I will devote what time remains to me,' said Drake, 'to the practical worship of the Gift.'
The Gift? Sex! (And, technically, alcohol and drugs as well.)
Unfortunately, Muck had taken to banking his apprentices' wages with the Orsay Bank in toto. Drake was penniless. And, since his sister was dead, he no longer had special privileges at the temple.'Right,' he said. 'I'll sell my body.'He had done it before, so he could do it again.
He cruised the docks, but found no buyers. For everyone knew why his sister had committed suicide, and none dared couple with someone who might be contaminated with blue leprosy. Thanks to the efforts of the temple of Hagon, knowledge of its etiology had spread throughout Cam. Priests boarded every incoming ship, preached doctrines of safe sex, advertised the temple prostitutes and warned against liaisons with dockside riff-raff.
'Right,' said Drake. 'I've got no sister. I've got no money. I can't sell my body. So how do I get a woman?'
Simple: he would have to make someone fall in love with him. Or at least in lust with him.
Since he might already be doomed to die of blue leprosy, the colony on the outskirts of town held little fear for him. He ventured there, and found Zanya Kliedervaust on her hands and knees scrubbing out bedpans.'Remember me?' said Drake.She looked up from her work.
'Oh yes,' she said. 'I remember you. You're the crazy fisherman we hauled out of the sea a horizon away from Stokos.'
'That's right,' said Drake. 'Only I'm a swordsmith, not a fisherman. Your body language tells me that you're looking for a relationship.'
He had rehearsed that line – and many others besides -for a long time. It came out perfectly.'What?' said Zanya, sounding both tired and puzzled.
'I'm seeking to make a treaty against the loneliness of flesh born into solitude,' said Drake. 'I aspire to harmonize our auras into one mutual faith.'
'My Galish,' said Zanya, 'is not the best, though it improves steadily. You'll have to speak plain if you wish to be understood.'
Oh! So there was a language problem! That was all right, then. For a moment, Drake had almost been afraid that his blond good looks were failing to make the right impression on the lady.
'Zanya,' said Drake, T like your looks, just as I'm sure you like mine. What say we get together tonight? We'd look right handsome together.''What have you got in mind?' said Zanya.
'Some mutual moonlight, a dash of star-hunting, then a little lick of sweet honey.'
Zanya entirely failed to recognize the import of these delicate euphemisms, which were part of the common language of courtship on Stokos.'Speak plainly,' she said. 'What do you want?'
Drake, his eloquence thwarted by her linguistic ignorance, lost patience – and gave an answer which was, unfortunately, honest, clear, direct and straightforward.'I'm in lust,' he said. T want to fornicate.'
'I'm not meat,' said Zanya coldly. 'I'm a woman. There's a difference.'And she went back to her scrubbing.
'Sorry,' said Drake. 'I meant no offence. I didn't mean to be so blunt. But-'
'OronokoV bawled Zanya. 'Fana tufa n 'fa n'maufil' And out from a workshed came Prince Oronoko. The purple-skinned man was – as he had been when Drake last saw him – wearing only a loin-cloth. Perhaps he had been chopping wood: his body glistened with sweat, and he had an axe in his hands. Oronoko advanced, grinning. Drake fled.
Later, sullen and disconsolate, he brooded over his failure with Zanya. She hadn't even bothered to ask his name.
He thought – and thought hard – about the advice the wizard Miphon had given him. All that stuff about flowers, poetry, daily visits, sincerity, pretty speaking, persistence. Should he try it? No, it couldn't possibly work. It sounded too stupid for words. Anyway, there was Oronoko to think of. If Drake went back, the purple man would probably chop off his head.Drake sulked.
Meanwhile, the Flame spoke long and hard to Gouda Muck. Until finally, on Midwinter's Day (the start of the year Tor 6, or the middle of Khmar 17, depending on one's calendar) Muck announced to the world that he was the incarnation of the Flame. And the Flame, by his account, was the High God of All Gods.'Fall down and worship me,' said Muck.
Some of his more credulous neighbours actually did. They fell to the ground, groaning. They licked his feet. They saw visions. They spoke in tongues.'Good,' said Muck. 'You see? I am God!'
And Drake, dissenting, was severely kicked and beaten. He sought refuge with his uncle.
'Man,' said Drake, 'you've got to do something! Muck's mad, I'm sure of it.'
'Endure,' said Oleg Douay, who thought a little perdition would be good for the boy.'But the man's mad, I tell you!' protested Drake.
'We're all mad,' said Oleg Douay grimly, 'or we'd have had more sense than to get ourselves born.''We don't have a choice,' said Drake.
'Of course we do!' said his uncle grimly. 'Why, only yesterday I was down by the shore in conversation with the sea gods, and they told me distinctly-'Drake turned tail and fled.
By now, financial constraints made it virtually impossible for Drake to worship at the temple brothel. What's more, Gouda Muck forbid his apprentices even to go near the place. Of course, to forbid a thing is often to encourage a taste for it. Drake had always had a love for the Demon. Now, he became a true victim of religious mania, feeling he needed to practise religion at every possible moment just to keep himself sane.But most forms of worship required money.
'What I need,' said Drake, 'is some kind of worship that will earn me money.'
Gambling was the only religious practice which seemed to meet his requirements. So he took himself off to the casinos.
From the middle of winter to the beginning of spring, Drake tried his luck and his luck tried him. After that, the casinos cut off his credit. His gambling debts were huge, and the temple's enforcers were soon pressing him for payment.
Barred from the casinos, Drake chanced his fortunes privately, hazarding ill-lit backgammon saloons and murky dice-chess parlours. To finance his ventures, he borrowed where he could, signing notes to all and sundry with his thumbprint. He wagered ever more wildly, hoping to recoup his losses. But he drank while he gambled – never a good combination. He came home drunk one night, and, feeling reckless, spat into the fire in his master's sight.
'You have defiled my living flesh,' said Gouda Muck -and began to beat him.
Drake fled. He was doing a lot of running away these days. He didn't like it. He wandered through the night, cursing, kicking cats, and working himself into a rage. This was all Zanya's fault! If that proud-faced bitchhadn't snubbed his offer, he'd never have got in this mess. That suggested a way out.
If he porked her once, surely she'd see sense. One taste of Drake Douay, and she'd be eagering for more. Yes. She'd said no, but it was common knowledge that women often said no when they meant yes. How far was it to the leper colony? Not far at all: he was almost at the edge of town already.Drake rolled up to the leper colony.
'Despatch for Zanya Kliedervaust,' he said, brandishing a wallet (which was empty). 'Urgent despatch. Immediate delivery required.''You've been drinking,' said the night porter.
'So I have,' said Drake belligerently. 'But I can still deliver a letter. If you don't want to let me through, wake your boss, and we'll talk it out with him.'
The night porter saw sense, and gave Drake directions to Zanya's quarters. It was, after all, scarcely unusual for a courier to be drunk on duty. And they did work all hours of day and night.
Shortly, Drake entered Zanya's room – a mean little hut lit by a smoky oil lamp. The woman of his desires was sitting up in bed, reading a scroll of some kind.'You!' she said.'Me,' said Drake.'Get out!' she said.
'Hey,' said Drake. 'Don't be so hard on me. I don't mean any harm. What's with that scroll?'
'This?' said Zanya, mellowing ever so slightly. 'This was lent to me by a friend. It's very interesting. It's all about Goudanism. That's the creed of Gouda Muck. I don't know if you've ever heard of him.'
'I may have,' said Drake cautiously. 'What do you think of it?'
'Great!' said Zanya, her eyes shining. 'Would you like to hear about it? Here, sit down on the floor and I'll read you some.'
That was mighty accommodating of her, under the circumstances. But Zanya, as a priestess of the Orgy God on the Ebrells, had gained a vast experience of dealing with drunks. She thought Drake was not too dangerous. If she settled him down and spoke to him nicely, likely he would go to sleep. Then she could slip out and summon Oronoko.
'Why should I listen to something about Gouda Muck?' said Drake.
'Because of who he is,' said Zanya, meaning no harm. 'He's the High God of All Gods.'
This was too much to bear. Drake had come to the woman who was the focus of all his desire – only to find Gouda Muck had come before him, in spirit if not in flesh.
With a scream of rage, Drake tore the scroll away from Zanya, and jumped on her.
She slapped a hand to his face and dug fingers into his eyes. Hard. He jerked his head back. Instantly her fingers slid to his throat and dug in. Viciously. Then she hooked an elbow into the side of his head. His world reeled. Agonizing pain exploded between his legs as she thumped him in the testicles.
Drake collapsed to the floor, a helpless heap of writhing misery. Zanya, who was indeed a well-built woman, picked him up and threw him outside.'Don't come back!' she said. 'Or I'll batter you dead!'
Drake crawled away into the darkness, groaned. But, after a while, the pain became manageable. He decided he had better go back and apologize, yes. Otherwise Zanya would be permanently soured against him. Manfully, Drake got to his feet. Someone was knocking at Zanya's door. Who? The door opened; a gleam of lamplight showed Prince Oronoko standing in the doorway.
If Drake's throat had not been so sore, he would have screamed his outrage. Instead, he stood silent as Oronoko entered. The door closed. Drake heard Zanya speak, then laugh. Well! So much for that! Drake's prospects for making his woman were – for tonight, at least – reduced to zero.
Drake was a long time getting back to the forge, since every step he took hurt him. Would the door be barred against him? It was not. Since Muck had discovered he was actually the High God of All Gods, he had lost all fear of mortal men. Everyone was asleep when Drake slipped inside, as quiet as could be.
Drake did not sleep that night. He brooded in the little attic where he was quartered, and while he brooded he drank from the crock of hard liquor he kept in his chest for emergencies.He felt humiliated.
Rape was supposed to be easy, the perfect demonstration of a man's easy mastery over a woman. But Drake had failed. Everything he tried had gone sour. His whole life was a disaster. He was ready to kill himself.
But why should he? Why should he give Gouda Muck that satisfaction? No. He shouldn't kill himself. He should do something which would really piss Muck off in a big way. But what? Burn down the forge? No good – it was insured. Let's see. Another drink, yes, that was the story. First drink, then thought. Drink was good. It eased the pain in his balls and the pain in his eyes.
Towards dawn, sore, drunk, hurt and as reckless as ever, Drake crept downstairs and stole Muck's mastersword, the prize bit of steelwork which Muck had created years before to win admission to the swordsmiths' guild.
Sunrise found Drake on the docks of Cam, determined to sell that very same sword.
At that early hour, there was little life stirring. Drake, nothing daunted, went and knocked up Theyla Slonage, a merchant from Narba who had a certain reputation. Slonage, bleary and unbeautiful in the morning light, reluctantly invited Drake into his back room.
'What have you got for me?' asked Slonage. 'And don't say yourself! You've spoilt your boyish beauty with those blacksmith's muscles. Look at your hands – Demon's grief, they're twice as tough a sharkskin. And you've been fighting. Have you looked at yourself? You've got two hideous-ugly black eyes.'
Drake, in answer, revealed the sheathed sword which had been hidden down his trouser leg. Slonage, without bothering to look at it, offered a thousandth of its value. Drake unsheathed the blade, slowly, fingerlength by fin-gerlength. Its naked beauty glimmered in the gloom. Drake, looking at it, felt almost sober.
Slonage sneered, but doubled his offer. However, Drake, who knew the price of steel, was hardly going to sell the masterwork for 0.2 per cent of its value.
Drake eased open a shutter to let in the cool light of morning. Raising the blade to the light, he blew upon its surface. As his breath condensed upon the steel they both saw the patterns of the forging momentarily snake across the surface of the metal.
Theyla Slonage raised his offering to a hundredth of the sword's value. Drake replied by asking double, and they settled, at length, for a fiftieth.
Drake was not paid off in the shangles and jives minted by King Tor, but in Bankers' Money, the coinage issued everywhere by the Partnership Banks. He got five zeals – small rings of nine-carat gold, stamped on both inside and outside with banker's marks. He got a dozen bronze flothens, circular coins with threading holes in the middle. And he got, as well, a scattering of spings which he did not even bother to count.
There were nine Partnership Banks, each issuing the same identical coinage. And these banks – immensely rich, enormously powerful and intensely secretive – were:t the Orsay Bank of Stokos;t the Morgrim Bank of Chi 'ash-Ian;j the Safrak Bank of the Safrak Islands;t the Monastic Treasury of Inner Adeer, located hard up against the Ashun Mountains in Voice, the retirement city of the rulers of the Rice Empire;t the Flesh Trader's Financial Association of Galsh Ebrek;t the Bondsman's Guild of Obooloo, capital city of Aldarch the Third, the Mutilator of Yestron;t the Bralsh, of Dalar ken Halvar;T the Singing Dove Pensions Trust of Tang;t and the Taniwha Guarantee Corporation of Quilth.
How those far-flung organizations managed to coordinate their activities was one of the larger mysteries of the universe. However, most people – indeed, even most kings, princes, priests and emperors – were unaware that Bankers' Money was accepted in many far-flung places which were largely ignorant even of each other's existence.
The only person ever to ponder this conundrum seriously was the wizard Phyphor; that notable master of the Order of Arl was brooding about it yet again even as Drake emerged into the steadily strengthening sunlight of the dockside morning.
Drake, who was starting to feel a little anxious, settled his nerves with an early-morning beer. His new-found wealth made it hard for him to find the bottom of the beer mug, and it was mid-morning before he emerged again into the hot, raucous bustle of the docks.
He strolled along, hands dug deep in his pockets. He kicked a piece of shining sea-coal. Once. The sudden movement hurt his bruised, swollen testicles. He idled from stall to stall, scarcely listening to the babble of languages assaulting his ears as hoarse-voiced shills screamed the virtues of products as diverse as querns and keflo shell.
Then he saw a couple of big men prowling through the crowds. They wore long robes and carried iron-shod staves. Elsewhere, they might have been mistaken for wizards, but Drake recognized them on sight. They were two of the temple's enforcers. He knew they knew him well. He walked the other way, toward a man who was hawking passages to Androlmarphos.
'. . . 'Marphos today . . . noon sailing . . . 'Marphos today . . . one zeal for the beer-price passage . . .'
Drake made a drunken decision which he would never have made sober, and paid out for a passage to the foreign port, leaving at noon that same day.