The Werewolf and the Wormlord (12 page)

‘Advance, myself, and be recognized.’

Alfric advanced, and stepped into a puddle, which proved to be waist-deep and exceedingly wet.

‘Aha!’ said Qa. ‘The puddle-trap! You fell for it!’

‘I have to admit I did,’ said Alfric, struggling out of his pack.

‘They usually do,’ said the dragon complacently. ‘If they’ve been particularly rude to me, I kill them then and there.’

‘And if not?’ said Alfric, throwing his pack well clear of the puddle.

‘Then I give them a second chance,’ said Qa.

‘That’s very sporting of you,’ said Alfric, hauling himself out of the puddle.

‘Oh yes,’ said Qa. ‘But it’s in keeping with my status. I’m an honorary Yudonic Knight, you know.’

‘That’s nice,’ said Alfric.

He was trying hard to remain polite, but this was a struggle; for, being exceedingly wet and very cold, Alfric had little time for dragonprattle. He looked around.

The cave was capacious, but not enormous. It was, in fact, not much bigger than the average haybam. There was a solemn drip-drop of water, some of it falling from the roof, but rather more descending from Alfric himself. These drips splashed into puddles and stirred faint echoes from the living rock of the cave. There was not much sign of treasure. A few oddments here and there, yes, but no sign of the unlimited wealth of which legend had so generously rumoured.

Here and there were piles of skulls carefully assembled into pyramids. Skulls? Alfric looked more closely. They were skull-sized rocks. Strange.

‘That’s strange,’ said Qa.

‘You read minds?’ said Alfric, startled.

‘No,’ said Qa. ‘I use my eyes. That’s how I saw.’

‘Saw? Saw what?’

‘The red light from yours. Your eyes, I mean.’

‘You must be imagining things,’ said Alfric; then slapped his arms vigorously against his chest, trying simultaneously to warm himself and get rid of some of the surplus water.

‘Oh, I don’t imagine things,’ said Qa. ‘I’m a trained observer, don’t you know.’

‘If you say so,’ said Alfric, squatting down on his hams.

‘I do say so,’ said Qa. ‘I saw you looking at one of my piles of rocks. You wouldn’t be able to do that if you were an ordinary human.’

‘And why not?’ said Alfric.

‘Because it’s pitch dark in here, that’s why,’ said Qa. ‘Then how can you see me seeing things?’ said Alfric. ‘Because I’m a sea dragon,’ said Qa. ‘Sea dragons can see in the dark. Not light, but heat. That’s what they see, I mean. Heat. But I didn’t see heat when I saw your eyes. No. I saw light. Red light. I can see it now. Anyway, enough of that. This debate isn’t getting us very far. Let’s get down to business. You’ve come to kill me.’

‘In theory, yes.’

‘In theory?’ said Qa. ‘What do you mean? You’re going to run away? It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?’

‘Well, yes and no,’ said Alfric. ‘As I said before, I have a proposition.’

‘Then what say you fetch your horse?’ said Qa. ‘We could eat it here. Share it between us. Have a barbecue. Awfully jolly, what?’

‘As I told you before,’ said Alfric, ‘I don’t have a horse.’

‘Really?’

‘I give you my word of honour as a Yudonic Knight.’ ‘You’re a liar,’ said Qa. ‘After I left you on the beach, I swam along the shore to look for your horse. I found it in the trees. That’s where they always leave the horse.’ ‘You did no such thing,’ said Alfric. ‘You’re just testing me. Consider me tested. I had no horse, and that’s the truth. I walked here with my pack.’

‘If you say so,’ said Qa, mimicking Alfric’s accents.

‘I do say so,’ said Alfric staunchly. ‘And now let me say, with the greatest of sincerity, that I am familiar with your poetry, and admire it greatly.’

‘Oh,’ said Qa, in surprise. ‘Do you?’

And, from the way the dragon spoke, Alfric knew that he really had its interest.

‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘I hold your poetry in such high regard that I’ve committed some of it to memory. Would you like me to recite?’

‘Please do,’ said Qa, with the most genuine of enthusiasms.

So Alfric cleared his throat and began:

‘Phenomenological stone.

No lapis lazuli but rock.

Your silence a rebuff to snakes.

In gutterals the wind

Gambles in dialects.

In marshland muds

(Cold codfish their taste, their scent

Deprived of ubiquity)

Stork critiques frog with a skewer.

You wait.

Phenomenological stone.’

‘Marvellous stuff,’ said Qa. ‘Marvellous stuff, though I say it myself.’

‘Such is your right,’ said Alfric generously. ‘After all, you created the stuff, so you’re in the best position to appreciate its intrinsic genius.’

‘So I am, so I am,’ said Qa. ‘But what about yourself? Do you really think you can appreciate it properly? Do you even know what it means?’

A note of suspicion had entered the dragon’s voice, warning Alfric that he had better be careful.

‘What it means?’ said Alfric, striving to keep his teeth from chattering with the cold. ‘Not exactly. But it speaks to me in a - a special way. When I hear those words, I feel as if I’m looking at the world through glass.’

All this and more said Alfric Danbrog. None of it was exactly spontaneous. In preparing himself for this mission, he had invaded a salon of poetasters in Galsh Ebrek, had studied the phrases by which the dilettanti flatter each other, and had invented some of his own just in case.

‘You know,’ said Qa, ‘you’re the first of my visitors who’s known about my poetry. I usually ask them about it. Before I eat them, I mean. But the results have been most disappointing. Till now.’

‘It is unfortunate,’ said Alfric carefully, ‘that poetry must struggle hard to preserve itself in the absence of the poet. For poetry can only come to full life through the genius of the voice of the original creator. I would be most privileged if I could hear you recite some of your verse.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Qa.

And, without further ado, the dragon began to recite:

‘Slush, said the sea.

Slush, slush.

Slush blashimmer.

Plash!

Then the sun pursued biology

And the world was dark.’

Alfric listened in respectful silence. Was there more to come? Apparently not. He wanted to scratch his backside, where wet cloth was crumpled against his skin. He was also experiencing the anal urgency of incipient diarrhoea. But he controlled his sphincter out of respect for the poet.

‘That was good,’ said Alfric. ‘That was very good.’ ‘Ah,’ said Qa. ‘But do you know what it means? Or do you find all my poetry ultimately incomprehensible?’

‘I - I’d hazard a guess that it says something about entropy. The heat death of the universe.’

The dragon’s eyelids flickered.

Had Alfric said the right thing or—

‘I see that for once I have the kind of audience I deserve,’ said Qa.

‘True,’ said Alfric. ‘I’m a great fan of yours. Since that’s so, it’s always hurt me to think that much of your genius is going to die with your flesh. You’re going to die sooner or later. If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s probably going to be sooner rather than later. And, well, there’s no collected edition of your works extant. Most of what survives exists in autograph form only, and may soon perish unless properly published.’

‘Publication,’ said Qa, ‘costs money.’

‘I am well aware of this,’ said Alfric. ‘So that’s where my proposition comes into it. Subject: to your compliance with certain terms, the Bank is prepared to pay for publication. A hundred scribes will work for a year to replicate your works so that your name will live in honour for ever. Life is short, but art is long. If art is properly collected and published in the first place.’

There was a pause, while the sea dragon Qa brooded about mortality, and about what a properly organized edition of the collected poems could do to perpetuate the memory of Galsh Ebrek’s greatest poet.

‘You’re tempting me,’ said Qa. ‘Aren’t you?’

Alfric mastered his now frankly chattering teeth and answered:

‘Yes. The Bank wants me to succeed in this quest. So, if you hand over the ironsword Edda, the Bank will organize the publication of the poems.’

‘I suppose,’ said Qa, ‘they’d also want me to let you kill me.’

‘Well, yes,’ admitted Alfric. ‘That does come into it. I mean, technically I only have to recover the sword. But it’d look much better if I killed you into the bargain. From the point of heroic legend, I mean. If I’m going to be king, I’ll have need of such a legend to support my rule.’

The dragon sighed, outbreathing warmth. Alfric wished it would sigh again, for he was sure he would shortly die of the cold. But it did not. Instead it said:

‘The deal you offer me is no deal at all. While I’m proud to be an honorary Yudonic Knight, I know the limitations of the breed. They never accepted my genius in life, so they’re not likely to in death. There’s no point in publication, for the volumes would be torn apart to be used for lighting fires, or for - for purposes worse.’

‘But,’ said Alfric, ‘distribution of your works will not be limited to Galsh Ebrek. Rather, the whole world will learn of your genius.’

‘The world?’

‘The Bank has authorized me to tell you about the Circle of the Partnership Banks,’ said AlMc. ‘Of this we do not usually speak. But let it be known that the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association is linked to the rest of the civilized world by a series of Doors arranged in a Circle.’

‘That’s all Janjuladoola to me,’ said Qa, using an expression in the Toxteth used to convey incomprehension.

So Alfric explained about the Circle of the Doors, a Circle controlled by a star-globe held by the Safrak Bank of the Safrak Islands, a place which was linked to the Monastic Treasury of Inner Adeer, itself in turn communicating with the Bank in Galsh Ebrek.

‘By going through our own Door,’ said Alfric, ‘we can reach the Bondsman’s Guild in Obooloo.’

Then he explained the rest of the Circle, and how the Doors opened up the entire world to the Bank. Qa listened, fascinated.

‘You see,’ said Alfric, in conclusion, ‘your works will not be confined to Galsh Ebrek. Instead, your fame will spread throughout the world.’

‘It’s a thoughtful offer,’ said the dragon. ‘But I refuse.’ ‘Why?’ said Alfric.

‘Because I have a philosophical objection to suicide.’

‘There is another way,’ said Alfric.

‘What’s that?’ said Qa.

‘You don’t really have to die. You could just disappear.’

‘What? You mean, leave my barrow and swim off into the sea? Oh no, I couldn’t do that. This is my home. It may not be much, but it’s all I’ve got. I couldn’t bear to leave it.’

And, at the very thought of leaving his much-loved domicile, Qa began to cry. Alfric was sorely embarrassed. The dragon was as wet as an ork!

‘Look,’ said Alfric, ‘you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not asking you to - to just swim off into nowhere. Remember all the different Banks I told you about. Richest of all the Partnership Banks is the Singing Dove Pensions Trust of Tang. You remember what I told you about Tang?’

‘Tell it to me again,’ said Qa.

So Alfric told, enlarging on the wealth of the place, and the high regard in which poets were held by the populace.

‘It sounds marvellous,’ said Qa dreamily. ‘I wish I could go to a place like that.’

‘But you can, you can,’ said Alfric earnestly. ‘The Bank’s arranged it all for you. We can smuggle you into Galsh Ebrek on a seaweed cart then let you through the Door. This time tomorrow, you can be in Tang.’

‘Where I’d probably be killed as a marauder,’ said Qa.

‘No, no,’ said Alfric, sounding shocked. ‘Not at all. Your fame has gone there in advance. Here, I have an official invitation from the Emperor of Tang himself. You’re invited there to be court poet. They admire poetry of your kind. Phenomenological stones. They broke into open applause when they heard about it.’ Perhaps Alfric overstated the case somewhat. Nevertheless, the substance of what he was telling the dragon was true. The invitation was genuine. The Flesh Traders’ Financial Association very much wanted Alfric to succeed in his quest and make himself Wormlord, so an immense amount of trouble had been put into cooking up a deal which would appeal to the sea dragon Qa.

‘There remains,’ said Qa, ‘the problem of translation. I don’t imagine they speak Toxteth in Tang.’

‘No,’ said Alfric, ‘they don’t. Scarcely anyone does, once you get outside Wen Endex. They speak Toxteth in Port Domax, of course, but I don’t think it’s heard in many other places.’

‘So all my poetry would have to be translated.’

‘Well. . . yes.’

‘So my true genius could never be properly appreciated. It can’t be, you know. Not in translation.’

‘But you’d have a most admiring audience,’ said Alfric, trying to be encouraging. ‘Anyway, you could always learn the stuff they speak in Tang.’