Skavamareen (aka the Ruptured Cat): an instrument frequently mentioned in discussions of fates worse than death. It is said to have been invented in Chi'ash-lan by the notorious anarchist Han Dran Ilk, who is alleged to have been sentenced to five years' penal servitude after he repented and confessed to the offence.
The veracity of this story is often disputed, on the grounds that the sentence detailed is manifestly grossly inadequate for the crime in question. Be that as it may, Chi'ash-lan was certainly the first place to ban this instrument, though it was later outlawed everywhere from Jatzu to Quartermain.
In all the Ravlish lands, the skavamareen (and the delinquents who played it) could find no refuge. Except in Sung. There it won welcome, for it fitted in well with the discord of the back-thumping sklunk, the honk of the kloo, the crash and scatter of the krymbol and the blare of the bray.
While Sung is many leagues from the Gates of Chena- meg, the chances of these troubled times have brought a skavamareen to the ruler of those Gates, and, having plenty of time on his hands, he has set himself to master it. A formidable task indeed, for the skavamareen is a complicated instrument having the following parts: The gut (some say: the demon hole) which is a capacious bag of greased leather. According to the scholarly account given in the 'Protocols of the Pipers of Prion', the gut contains the tormented soul of a murderer (or, in the low-budget version, that of a cat) which has been imprisoned there by sorcery. The funnel (alternatively: the strangled python) which is a valved tube used by the player to inflate the gut. And, finally, the Three Demons and the Demonmaster, which are, respectively, three reed drones and a special- ised pipe equipped with finger-holes which help the player degrade the environment with a peculiarly horrible form of gratuitous violence which only Sung could welcome as music.
'Do you like it?' said Douay, obviously referring to the music he had been making.
'Since I am human,' said Sarazin, with the bitter courage of a man who is certain of his death, 'I welcome the confirmation of my prejudices.' 'What mean you by that?' said Douay.
'I mean,' said Sarazin, 'I knew you at first sight for a barbarian. To find you embracing a skavamareen does but confirm my opinion.'
Douay grinned again, and patted his trusty skavamareen. Then said: 'Did you sleep well?'
You know very well how I slept,' said Sarazin, on the verge of losing his temper. You had me strapped down for torture throughout the night.'
"Man, why so fierce with the voice?' said Douay. 'I was but searching for truth. Is that not right, that I should seek to improve myself?'
Douay's merry face and effortless bonhomie were the very last straw. Sarazin, who had fear worse than nightmare, thought Douay's merriment the worst kind of mockery.
You tortured me for fun!' said Sarazin. 'As a joke! What kind of monster are you?'
'I am no monster,' said Douay, sounding hurt. 'I am but a diligent student of the arts and philosophies. 'Twas in Selzirk that I studied in torture. Was I wrong to remember my lessons?'
'Whatever was done to you in Selzirk,' said Sarazin, 'there were grave matters of state involved.'
'Oho!' said Douay. 'Matters of state, is it? The world's excuse for everything. Well, man, get this straight – here I rule. I am the state.'
He started to blow into the funnel of the skavamareen, inflating the instrument for another onslaught on the sensibilities. If Sarazin had restrained himself, speech would shortly have become impossible. But Sarazin lost his temper entirely and spoke:
You're like every bully,' said he. 'Brave when the numbers are with you.'
Almost immediately, Sarazin regretted having spoken. Such words might well lead to instant death. But the blond- haired Douay did not order his execution. Instead, he stopped inflating the skavamareen, and said:
'Speech is easy, man. But I'd doubt you brave even with the numbers on your side.'
You doubt my courage?' said Sarazin. 'I tell you this – if I had a sword I'd prove you coward soon enough.'
You say?' said Douay. 'Truly, you are rash, for I have yet to meet the man to match my blade. In truth, I lately killed a man named Plovey, who counted himself the best swordsman in Selzirk.'
Sarazin knew he must be bluffing, for Plovey had been known in Selzirk as a master swordsman. Surely a bar- barous uitlander like Douay could never have defeated a sophisticate like Plovey. The young man was over- confident. This might be the way out I If Douay could be provoked into combat, Sarazin could surely kill him.
'Talk, talk I' said Sarazin, urging scorn into his voice. 'I know well the talk of dwarves, for I have one of my own.'
Tou called me what?' said Douay, an edge of ice in his voice.
What do you expect me to call you?' said Sarazin. T)are I name you giant when the dog which raped your mother was taller than the brat he spawned?'
Douay laid aside the skavamareen and drew his sword. The thugs holding Sarazin gripped him tighter.
'Is this the way you prove your courage?' said Sarazin. Through butchery?'
'Nay, man,' said Douay, with contempt. He selected another blade from the wall, held one in each hand and said to Sarazin: 'Choose. My left or my right.' 'The left,' said Sarazin.
'It makes no difference either way,' said Douay, laying the weapon in his left hand down on the stone floor. 'For the blades are of equal quality.' Then he said to his strong- men: 'Leave. Close the door. Stand without. Let none enter until we are finished.'
Douay stepped back from the weapon on the floor. Sarazin, edgy, heart quick-pulsing, dared himself forward, snatched up the blade and screamed his defiance: 'Scaaa!'
Douay, standing some five sword-lengths' distance, said with indifference:
'No need to hurry. We've got all day. Take your time. Test your weapon to start with. I don't want this to be too easy.'
Sarazin did not know what to think. Was this a trap? He backed off. Then, with a decent distance between himself and Douay, checked the linkage of blade to hilt, and tried the sword for balance.
'I cannot fault the weapon,' said Sarazin, trying to keep a tremor of fear from his voice.
He was beginning to think that this was not exactly fair. He had been on short rations for many days. He had not slept through the night. He was still stiff, bruised and sore from the pounding Douay had given him the day before. He was cold, hungry, tired, thirsty. But there was no time to protest for Douay was advancing. Obviously for the kill.
'Scaaa!' screamed Sarazin desperately, throwing himself on the defence.
Douay, still well out of weapon-reach, eased himself to a halt, then, amused beyond measure by Sarazin's evident desperation, threw back his head and laughed.
This is – is a joke?' said Sarazin, starting to hope that Douay would call off the fight. 'You are the joke,' said Douay softly.
Then graced closer, sword at the ready. His face had become hard, cruel, predatory. He was finished with laughter. Sarazin realised that only one of them would leave this room alive. -One chance then. One blow to kill him.
Thus thinking, Sarazin seized the initiative, putting all his strength into a blow designed to decapitate his opponent. 'Ha!' screamed Sarazin, striking.
Douay ducked. Sarazin's sword hissed through the air, missing Douay's scalp by no more than the black of a fingernail. And Sarazin was for a moment off-balance, wide open and helpless to save himself. Douay struck.
Douay slammed into Sarazin with his shoulder, hitting so hard that Sarazin was sent staggering backwards. As he flailed for balance, Douay kicked him in the chest. Down went Sarazin, his sword discarding to the air. Sklang!
Thus sang steel against steel as Sarazin's blade tumbled into cold metal racked on the walls of the armoury. It was well out of reach. And Drake Douay was already standing over him. Sword in hand. 'What sayest thou, Watashi?' said Douay. And Sarazin found courage to answer:
'I was taught to match my blade against swordsmen, not streetfighters.'
Whereupon Douay said, in a perfect imitation of the voice of Plovey of the Regency:
'Ah, darling boy! But I am a swordsman! Swordsman and streetfighter both.'
Sarazin closed his eyes. Waited for his death. And heard Douay say: Take him to the guest room.'
Almost immediately, Sarazin was seized and dragged away to the unknown horrors of the guest room, whatever that might be.