The Wordsmiths and the Warguild (2 page)

        And
to say that Sung was foggy! That was ridiculous. Foggy days were few and far
between, there being only ten days of fog a year, compared to 275 days of rain.
Water is essential to life, so the inhabitants of Sung were particularly
favoured and fortunate, for they were copiously supplied with this commodity,
which was delivered free of charge or taxes.

        Let
is also be known that, contrary to the traveller's declaration, the amusements
of the people were many. The principal pastimes were hunting, feuding, fighting
and fornication. Drinking and gambling were also very popular, and, on
occasion, the people found time for dancing, music and banqueting.

        The
inhabitants of Sung had their own unique cultural heritage, the intricacies of
which were seldom appreciated by outsiders; it included lively games such as
"Stone the Leper," and detailed religious rituals such as those laid
down for strangling unwanted children and disposing of aged relatives.

        Clearly,
the unkind traveller whose comments have been the subject of this analysis did
Sung a great wrong when he slandered it so unforgivably.

        So
who was he, and what were his motives?

        The
disgruntled traveller was none other than the renegade wizard of Drum, who
lived on a high and barren island in the dangerous strait separating the
continent of Argan from the Ravlish Lands. The wizard of Drum had passed
through Sung frequently on his various peregrinations, and, for one reason or another,
had never been very pleased with his reception.

        Once,
indeed, he almost became the victim of a game of "Stone the Leper,"
which was unfortunate as his incontinent reaction left fifty people dead and an
entire village in smouldering ruins. It must be admitted, also, that the wizard
of Drum was one of the victims of the Devaluation, which occurred shortly after
he had been paid 5,268 punts for work he had done for the Wordsmiths and the
Warguild. After that incident, he swore never again to have anything to do with
Sung, or even to set foot in the place.

        The
Devaluation, which ruined many people, was the direct result of swine fever.

        While
the kingdom of Sung was at best a legal fiction, and the king of Sung little
more than a handy butt for the jokes of his people, the currency issued by the
king had for many years enjoyed great respect and stability.

        King
Skan Askander was passionately interested in pigs, which he bred on a large
scale. The currency he issued was backed up pork, and consisted of elegant
ceramic dials marked "one rasher," "five rashers" or
"fifty rashers," and of thin bronze disks which each declared that
"This Punt Will Be Redeemed By The Royal Exchequer For One Side Of
Bacon."

        Then
came the great swine fever epidemic of the year Askander 32. In the consequent
and inevitably Devaluation, a punt became worth a single rasher of bacon, and
the minor ceramic coins became worthless. Hence the wrath of the wizard of
Drum, who, besides being rather partial to pork, had seven hungry dragons to
feed.

        While
the wizard of Drum had nothing good to say of Sung, there was some good that
could be said of it. There were no droughts and no deserts; the land was free
from scorpions and crocodiles; nobody died of thirst and nobody of heatstroke;
there were no forest fires, and there was virtually unlimited stone for
building with.

        Furthermore,
despite the weakness of the king, the ferocity of the barons, the strictly
parochial interest of the city states and the local penchant for feuding and
fighting, the land was protected by a rough and ready form of law and order
administered by the Warguild. This wizard of Drum once described the Warguild
as a club for the promotion of amateur archery; while it is true that the
Warguild held archery contests with wine and women as the prizes, there was
much more to it than that.

        The
Warguild was a league of the most aggressive barons who had made a mutal
defence treaty to protect the realm. It had been formed thirty years previously
when the land had been plagued by bandits and warlords; having routed out those
nuisances, the Warguild now occasionally exercised itself by undertaking
mercenary forays, or by serving as guards with Galish convoys.

        Many
Galish convoys passed through Sung, as the main long-distance trading route,
the Salt Road, ran through the land. Furthermore, convoys often wintered in
Sung. The Galish found it attractive first and most importantly because the king
was too weak to levy any residency taxes, and, second, because the local patois
was a form of Galish, albeit much modified. Indeed, some generations
previously, this land had been colonised by a number of Galish convoys at a
time when war, plague and famine had made trading particularly difficult. The
lifestyle of the inhabitants of Sung was now wildly different from that of the
Galish traders, to put it mildly, but, when they spoke, they still found each
other mutually intelligible.

        If
there had been any problems in understanding then the Wordsmiths, now busy
perfecting their command of all known languages, could surely have translated.
The Wordsmiths, an organisation slightly oder than the Warguild, had formed
their alliance shortly after the discovery of the odex, which, in the year
Askander 35 - three years after the Devaluation - was held in the Wordsmiths'
stronghold in a city state in the mountains, a town known as Keep, which
boasted a population of a full 5,000 souls.

        
Not far from Keep was the estate of Baron Chan Poulaan, who, on a certain night
in the season of autumn, was keeping a close eye on his son Togura, who was
dancing with the girl Day Suet. Now the Suets were a family from Keep, a
powerful banking and trading family which actively supported the Wordsmiths.
Baron Chan Poulaan, head of the Warguild, considered himself to be, in some
respects, the de facto ruler of Sung; he was suspicious of traders, bankers and
of the Wordsmiths, and saw the family Suet in partciular as a potential rival
for influence and power.

        At
this stage, it is worth noting that the palace of King Skan Askander lay close
to the city state of Keeep. The Suets were, therefore, in a good position to
make a grab for any residual power commanded by the royal family. It was said
that one of the boys of the Suet family was bravely romancing the king's
daughter, Slerma, who, at sweet sixteen, was alleged to weigh in at sixty
bushels.

        Baron
Chan Poulaan had already determined that his son Togura would marry the king's
daughter. He had come to a private agreement with Skan Askander, and had
already informed Togura that he would soon be betrothed to Slerma.

        Watching
Togura and Day, Baron Poulaan noted how closely they held each other when the
dance came to a clinch, and frowned.

Chapter 2

       
The banquet was in full
swing. Buoyant with drink and excitement, Day and Togura danced to the skirl of
the skavamareen. In the clinch, he brushed against her soft breasts, which
flushed out against her light woollen chemise. Her sly little fingers dared his
hard-fleshed buttons, then stopped because:

       
"Your father's
watching us."

       
"I love you,"
said Togura.

       
"No, really, he's
watching us," said Day. "He doesn't look happy."

       
"Kiss me. Kiss me
quick!"

       
"Not here!"

       
As the music ended, she
pulled away from him. He pursued her through the crowded hall. He chased her
out through the main doors, and then, giggling, she allowed him to catch her.

       
They kissed.

 
      
His mouth
was warm and yielding. His embrace savoured the curves of her back and her
buttocks. Moths danced around the doorway lanterns. The night was cool but he
was hot, his lust shafting hard within his trews. He smelt her hair, her skin,
her perfume.

       
He burped.

       
"Really!" said
Day, breaking away.

       
She poked him in the
belly, provoking another burp. She poked him again, teasing him with cunning
jabs which he was helpless to resist. As he flinched, she giggled.

       
Then kissed him.

       
Seriously.

       
"Your father was
watching us," said Day, breaking the kiss. "He wasn't happy at
all."

       
"He can shunk his
cho and scavenge it," said Togura, using the local gutter argot.

       
"Togura
Poulaan!" said Day severely.

       
From inside the
banqueting hall came a rowdy burst of laughter which rose above the general
hubbub. What had so amused the banquet guests? Togura, knowing his people well,
guessed that probably someone had been debagged, or that a helpless drunk had
vomited over someone of high importance.

       
The laughter died down
and the music started up again. A drone joined the wail of the skavamareen
while a sklunk back-thumped and a chanter whined.

       
"My lady,"
said Togura, with a formal bow. "Shall we dance?"

       
"Talatashee,"
she said, assenting.

       
They danced the vigorous
kola-ka-skee, kicking their heels and whirling on the changes, inventing
partners for the passages known as the romance and the flora - for the kola-ka-skee,
of course, is a foursome.

       
While they were dancing,
an old man tottered into the lamplight. They danced on, until, disturbed by his
silent scrutiny, they broke apart and turned to face him. He was a tattered
vagrant with a ravaged face and a dirty grey beard.

       
"It is night,"
said the old man in a thin, querulous voice.

       
"No," said Day
smartly, "It's day."

       
"Do you mean to
make fun of me, little smut?" said the old man.

       
"Talatashee,"
said Day.

       
"Talatashee? Now
what's that, young lady? Yes or no?"

       
He was clearly a
foreigner.

       
"Who are you, old
man?" said Togura.

       
The old man, leaning on
his shepherd's crook, was about to answer when the music escalated to a
stormburst crescendo. A thrum began to gallop, a kloo honked harshly, a krymbol
crashed and scattered, a skittling nook began to campaign against the
skavamareen and a plea whistle hooted.

       
"What," said
the old man, "is that appalling noise?"

       
"Music," said
Day. "Don't you like it?"

       
The old man sniffed.

       
"The miscreants
perpetrating that dismal cacophony should be fed to the dragon pits," he
said.

       
Togura could not figure
him out. His manner was bold, and had, indeed, a hint of lordliness about it.
Yet he was clearly a tramp of one kind or another. He was wearing a roughwork
patchwork skirt, which finished above his knees, and a battered short-cut
weather cloak of the type favoured by fishermen. His boots were coming apart at
the toes, exposing his feet.

       
"What are you doing
on my father's estates, old man?" said Togura.

       
"Child, I had the
misfortune to be shipwrecked here," replied the ancient.

       
"Shipwrecked?"
said Togura.

       
Day giggled.

       
"Don't laugh, gamos,"
said the old man, naming Day with the Galish word for a female horse, which was
unpardonably vulgar.

       
"Why, you - "

       
"No, Tog,"
said Day, holding him back.

       
"Did you hear what
he called you?" said Togura, burning with anger.

       
"She heard me,
boy," said the old man, in his stilted, strangely accented Galish, so
unlike the smooth-flowing local patois. "How about some hospitality for a
shipwrecked mariner now?"

       
"If you find
yourself afloat, then hard liquor's to answer, not the sea," said Togura.
"In case you didn't notice before you started drinking yourself silly,
you're up in the mountains, not down by the coast."

       
"I know that,"
said the old man steadily. "Now have pity on poor old Pitilkin and show him
a bed for the night. I've sailed from Chi'ash-lan, and that's a hearty journey,
my boy. Chi'ash-lan to Quartermain, that's a fair old step."

       
"You're not in
Quartermain," said Togura. "You're in Sung."