Salt Road: trading route running from Drangsturm to Narba, through the Rice Empire, past Veda, north to Selzirk and Runcorn, then through the kingdoms of Chorst and Dybra to Estar and the far north of Argan.
Midsummer's Day arrived, bringing the start of the year Alliance 4327. By then, Sarazin was so busy he scarcely had time to say his annual prayers to the sungod.
His military duties were demanding. By now, dis- turbing rumours from the far north of Argan had been confirmed. The evil Khmar, the Red Emperor of Tameran, had invaded Argan. His armies had already conquered the northern nation of Estar, and were expected to march south down the Salt Road to invade the Harvest Plains.
While the reports were confused, it seemed dragons and wizards were mixed up in this warfare. Some reliable eye- witnesses had indeed seen Khmar's armies commanding dragons against the defenders of Estar, doubtless through magic provided to them by wizards.
Since Sean Sarazin had personal experience of fighting against wizards, he was made a member of an army council charged with planning the defences of the Harvest Plains against Khmar's monstrous regiments.
Meanwhile, he was actively engaged in Jarl's conspiracy. He was meeting members of the Watch and other people, and taking personal oaths of fealty from them. The coup was timed for the following year.
The Watch was diligently investigating the past lives of all the most important political figures in the Harvest Plains, eager to see if any were vulnerable to blackmail. They were turning up a lot of interesting information about Qolidian, king of Androlmarphos.
Farfalla was not the first person to bribe Qolidian, and not all of those who had bought justice from that corrupt judge had been so discreet in their dealings. With luck, Qolidian could be blackmailed into handing over control of the city of Androlmarphos when the coup finally took place.
In the little time remaining after the demands of army and conspiracy, Sarazin devoted himself to the disposal of the wealth which had come his way. Some of it went on things Benthorn brought him. Always things connected with royalty, nobility. Illuminated texts on heraldry and courtly manners. Ancient scrolls dedicated to poetry such as Saba Yavendar's Victory of the Prince of the Favoured Blood. And other items of a similar nature.
Late in the summer, Sarazin's brothers Jarnel and Peguero marched away at the head of an army which was to have a second crack at destroying the ogre Tor. Sarazin wished them luck, then forgot about them, for he had seen his brothers so seldom that they were still very much strangers to him. Celadon he had scarcely seen at all: the man was still in Shin.
To his surprise, Sarazin found he envied his brothers' simple lives. They lived free from the doubts which had lately begun to plague both his waking moments and his dreams. All they had to do was put in a day's work then get drunk in the evening.
Some of those doubts were entirely natural. He feared for his life, and not without reason – for many things could go wrong with the complex conspiracy he was involved in. Well, he could steel himself against fear.
But it was harder to deal with his growing doubts about the ethics of the conspiracy he was involved in. He could not say where doubt had come from. Was it a symptom of senility, perhaps? Despite his best efforts to ignore it, he could not. What right did he, Sean Sarazin, have to overthrow the present government and impose his will on the Harvest Plains?
– I could govern the country better. That's the main thing. So he told himself.
Indeed, he was sure he could improve things. By now he knew full well that many important problems were ignored because Selzirk's power brokers were absorbed by the long, slow, agonising political struggle between Farfalla and the Regency.
Once Sean Sarazin had swept away both the Regency and the institution of kingmaker, once he had made himself absolute and unopposed ruler of the Harvest
Plains, why then surely he could end inflation, abolish unemployment, bring the criminal classes to heel, get dung-dropping animals banned from the streets (or at least put an end to the taxes on dung carts) and take the thousand and one other initiatives necessary for the health of the nation. So why this doubt?
Things had been much, much simpler back in the old days, when he had believed absolutely in the prophecy. Of course, once Jarl had revealed the prophecy to be but Lord Regan's instrument of communication, his belief had been destroyed. Still…
He longed to see the ancient book in which the prophecy had been written down.
At last, unable to resist the temptation any longer, Sarazin took himself off to the premises of Madam Sosostris. He was wary, knowing the woman might (possibly) be an agent of the Regency. Yet how could it be a crime to want to look at an old book? He asked after it.
'Oh, that old thing,' said Sosostris. 'I sold that by auction months ago. But there's something on the premises which might interest you. Jaluba is her name.'
Sarazin was bitterly disappointed at the loss of the book. But gained some reward for his enterprise nevertheless, for Madam Sosostris allowed him to hire out Jaluba for half a day at a time. Thus he once again enjoyed Jaluba's delights, often smuggling her right into his quarters in Farfalla's palace – easy enough to do, for Bizzie col- laborated with him in this enterprise.
Of Sarazin's relationship with Jaluba there is little to tell. It was a repetitive and predictable affair, a matter of haunch and nipple, cock and quim, lips and tongues, pants and grunts, tensions and spasms, teasing and giggling, laughter and lies. Enjoyable, to be sure – but of no consequence whatsoever.
Physical lust is an itch most easily scratched. But
Sarazin's lust for the old book could not be so easily satisfied. He saw it in dreams and daydreams alike. He somehow felt that, if only he could read those ancient words again, all would become clear.
Eventually, he took Benthorn into his confidence. He described the book, then said:
'From its contents, I judge it to be at least in part a cookery book. However, if I recall rightly there was stuff in it about wizards, which might aid my present military research.' Benthorn undertook to seek it out and find it.
Then, in the autumn, Benthorn delivered the book to Sarazin. Who bargained hard – for he did not wish to betray the volume's true worth to his half-brother – and bought it for a reasonable price. (A reasonable price being, nevertheless, a very high price, for the workman- ship which had gone into the book was alone enough to make it a treasure of great value.) And took it back to his quarters. And opened it with trembling hands.
It was just as he remembered. Marvellous, marvellous. A glory of glowing colours, of fantastical animals and imaginary landscapes illuminated in miniature. Sunset orange, aubergine purple, dragon-flame red. Pictures of eagle-winged cats, of grouchy basilisks with smouldering eyes, of- But never mind! It was the prophecy which counted.
Swiftly, Sarazin found again the relevant passage. After all this time in the Harvest Plains, he had no trouble reading (or talking, or thinking in) Churl. Even the antiquated Spiral Style orthography gave him no prob- lems. Here again was the prophecy, with its several parts:
– That a prince of the Favoured Blood would be exiled from Selzirk in his youth, then would return to the city.
Well, that fitted the facts of the life of Sean Sarazin, no doubt about it.
– That wicked and witless men would unleash great dangers threatening Selzirk's survival, and that the prince would be scorned when he revealed the solution.
Maybe, with a little prodding and poking, the past events of Sarazin's life could be made to fit that part of the prophecy. Or perhaps that part had yet to come.
– That he would earn the name Watashi, would marry the princess of an ancient kingdom, would war against (and kill) his own father.
All true. All that had happened. His public knew him now as Watashi. He had married Amantha. And he had killed Fox in a rooftop battle in Shin – something he regretted but which was not his fault, for the ring of invisibility had made it impossible for him to recognise his father as they did battle.
– That his father's death would give him the power he needed to save Selzirk.
Did that fit? Not exactly. But maybe he had gained some power from his father's death which was not yet revealed to him.
– That he would rescue the city from danger, and would be praised with great praises, his name enduring forever in glory.
What did that mean? Doubtless it referred to the future, because so far he had saved the city from no real danger, only from the sham danger posed by Epelthin Elkin. Presumably, his moment of greatest glory lay in the future. And, while the prophecy did not specifically promise him rule of the Harvest Plains – he could see that now, though in the past he had somehow deluded himself into believing it did – surely such rule was implicit in its promises.
After all, surely he could parlay great glory into a leadership position. He was Sean Sarazin, was he not? Sarazin the bold, the brave, the valorous! So thought Sarazin. Then abruptly pushed the book away from him. 'What was I thinking of?' said he. The whole thing's a con. It was Lord Regan who sent me the book.'
Then the most marvellous thing happened. Sarazin remembered that, while Lord Regan had sent him the book, Lord Regan had not had it forged. The text was genuine – and very old.
Then…
Sarazin felt as if his consciousness was expanding. His mind was getting larger and larger. He understood every- thing, in scarcely the time it takes to swallow a mouthful of bread.
The text was genuine. The prophecy was no forgery. Furthermore, it fitted the facts of Sarazin's life. While Lord Regan had sent it to him, surely the facts implied that Lord Regan was but a tool of destiny. Sean Sarazin was fated to have the prophecy revealed to him, and the fates had worked themselves out by means of Lord Regan. 'FoolsI' said Sarazin, hammering the table with his fist. He laughed. Exulting.
All these people thought they could control him, use him, manipulate him. Lord Regan thought as much when he sent Sarazin the prophecy by a tortuous route. But Lord Regan was not using the prophecy – no, the prophecy was using him! Jarl thought Sarazin condemned to (even- tually) pledge his allegiance to Lord Regan in return for military assistance. But Jarl was wrong, for Sarazin had the ring, the candle, the dragons.
'I am no pawn of theirs,' said Sarazin. 'They are now players in my game!'
His doubts were gone, now. He had to act as he did because it was fated. It was no use fighting against fate.
That night, before Sarazin slipped off to sleep, he remem- bered walking with Lord Regan long ago in the Sunrise Gardens in the elegant city of Voice.
'In the final analysis,' Lord Regan had said, 'you can have whatever you want. You can be whatever you want to be. You can win whatever you want to win.' That was what free will meant.
Lord Regan had spoken thus because he was manipulating Sarazin, working on Sarazin's sentiments, shaping Sarazin to be a weapon to use against the existing order in the Harvest Plains. -But what he said is true.
– I can be what I want to be. I can have what I want. The will is free so all things truly are possible. So thought Sarazin.
Later, when he was almost asleep, it finally occurred to him that such a faith in free will was in conflict with his faith in fate. He trusted Lord Regan's doctrines because he believed free will shaped the future. Yet allowed himself to be comforted by prophecy because it suggested the future was fixed already. That woke him up properly. 'Have I got it wrong?' he said.
He sat in bed thinking about it for a long, long time, his thoughts getting more and more tangled all the time. Happily, he was able to bring things to a nice conclusion:
– These are philosophical questions and I no philosopher. Who am I to say that fate and free will cannot exist in the same world? Surely it is a dichotomy, like light and dark, right and wrong, good and evil, up and down. Who can deny that such opposites exist? The one is necessary for the existence of the other.
– The contradiction, then, is not there at all. It only seems to be there. If I were a better philosopher, I would see how the one world supports the two opposites. One room supports both light and dark, does it not, when a candle burns at midnight?
– When I am older, when I am wiser, when the pro- phecy has worked itself out, then I will understand. I must live for that day. I must work for it.
With that settled, Sean Sarazin fell asleep, and slept more soundly (and with sweeter dreams) than he had ever done before in his life.