Harry Cavendish (12 page)

There had been little local interest in the first game, but that was set to change for the second.

‘This could well turn out to be a public relations disaster.’

‘The Zargons could not get any less popular on Crampton.’

‘We are unpopular but we are feared. We must not encourage the thought that the Cramptonians might have a bit of spunk in them. They played rather well in the end. Imperial and Ancient seemed to suit them. But I suppose the Emperor has the matter in hand.’

The Emperor, in fact, at that moment sat on his pony simulator in the Imperial Gymnasium, did not have the matter in hand, and was apoplectic. Consultation with the hive-mind had ceased. The hive-mind, forever nervous that its throat cable might be amputated, had stopped transmitting into the Imperial Brain entirely, an almost unprecedented occurrence, and the collection of nano-bots that made up its intelligence was quite still in its box.

The Emperor was pink with rage.

‘Whose plan was this? Eh? Whose plan was it for me to slaughter the best polo players in the galaxy, one by one?’

The hive-mind was silent.

‘The man was a friend of mine. Bloody embarrassing when I have to make light conversation with his widow at the P.T.A. These Cramptonians are better than you thought, eh? I hope for your sake they lose the next match. I will use a blunt mallet on her and make sure it takes three blows to lop through her fat neck.’

‘Sire, the tournament is becoming a great success. Ratings are solid throughout the Universe. As we had hoped, it has raised the profile of the game considerably everywhere. There is nothing to worry about.

The Cramptonians will not win the next game. When they’ve lost, we can ease off on the gore, if that is what you wish.’

But, confounding the hive-mind’s expectations, the Cramptonians won their next two games and were through to the semi-finals.

Cormack asked what it was.

‘It’s a barrel,’ said Bernard.

It was made of oak and coopered expertly, rimmed with cast iron hoops, and coated with tar. The Sibyl had placed it upright in a small depression in the centre of the glade as though it were a totem pole.

‘And what am I to do with it?’ asked Cormack.

‘You are to get in it,’ said Bernard.

‘And why would I want to do that?’

‘It’s going to be really rather tiresome if you question every little aspect of the Ordeal. There are two more after this and we’re likely to be here forever, presuming you are who you say you are, of course. If you aren’t, then we might be through rather quickly, I suppose, but all the same, why don’t you just be a good chap and get in and then we can start the whole thing off?’

‘I don’t say that I’m anything.’

Bernard turned to Proton in exasperation.

‘Candidate, Cormack,’ began Proton. Then he turned his back to Bernard and waggled the laser gun that was attached to his utility belt. ‘Don’t you remember our little talk about responsibilities and obligations and about how one good turn deserves another? One good turn like saving your damned life back in that volcano.’

‘I was only asking the obvious question. I’m certainly not ungrateful.’

‘And look at your poor friend, the cow,’ continued Proton. ‘She is so disappointed in your attitude.’

In fact, the cow was nowhere to be seen, having slithered off somewhere earlier that morning.

‘Why don’t you just do what Bernard says and get in the barrel?’

Cormack had thought that perhaps the fervour would have faded from Proton’s eyes now they had reached Shambalah, but if anything it was more pronounced. What could Proton possibly want from him so badly? It was like being chained to a bounty hunter, the chains being merely figurative but no less constraining for that - there was never anywhere to run to. Everywhere alien danger. And how would it end? With Proton wearing a Carmen Miranda hat, serving fruit punch in hollowed-out coconuts like Kenneth More in The Admirable Crichton?

Cormack surveyed Proton’s craggy features carefully, searching for answers, and decided it was best to get in the barrel.

‘Good,’ said Bernard. He had Cormack squeeze up some more, and then he put the lid on, and hammered it into place. ‘Now are you OK in there?’

‘Well, it’s very uncomfortable,’ said Cormack, who was bent double. ‘But I’m as good as can be expected in the circumstances, if that’s what you mean.’

‘The Ordeal will begin when we lower you in the river. So you needn’t use any of your special powers until then. All right?’

‘I don’t have any special powers.’

‘Oh, bugger! The river!’

Cormack could hear some low murmuring, as though Bernard was consulting Proton on some point of order, and then Bernard spoke up again.

‘Perhaps, in retrospect, it would have been better to take you and the barrel to the river first and then had you get in it over there but it’s too late now because I’ve hammered in the nails and they’re the only ones I’ve got for now so could you please bear with us while we roll you there. It’s only a short trip. I really am most apologetic for the cock up. This is absolutely not part of the Ordeal.’

Cormack braced himself as the barrel was tipped over, and then he was rolled gently for a little while until he could make out the sounds of running water, and then the barrel was upended again and there was more murmuring and Bernard finally said, ‘Right, we’re here now. Are you ready?’

‘Ready for what?’ said Cormack.

‘Good man,’ said Bernard and Cormack was about to say something in reply, when all of a sudden the barrel fell on its side, and then rolled violently down what appeared to be a sharp incline at quite some speed, and then there was a great splash, and more rolling, and then a kind of bobbing sensation, and a forward motion, and Cormack realized he’d been kicked into the river, and was now heading downstream at quite a pace.

Immediately he could feel wetness on his clothes from below where the barrel was leaking. He raised himself a little from its side so that he was up on his haunches like a bobsledder, and tried to spread his weight more evenly in an attempt to stop the barrel rolling so much, and was mostly successful at that, so for a little while he was going down the river in a semi-practised manner; but soon after he was settled in this way the barrel jolted as it hit a succession of small rocks, and then he heard the distant roar of what sounded ominously like white water and rapids and torrents.

Very soon, the burble of a little creek was overwhelmed by a roar, and he had to give up any thought of trying to control the spinning of the barrel, and could only brace himself inside as best he could as he was buffeted back and forth, and thrown up and down, and banged against the sides. The barrel was a quarter full of icy water now, and Cormack was becoming badly bruised and nauseated besides.

Then just as he felt ready to black out, there was a huge crack as the barrel smashed at speed into what must have been a very large rock, and he could feel a rush of icy cold water coming all over him. He spluttered and fought for breath, then looked down towards his feet and could see sunlight, and a huge flow of water where a gaping hole had opened up. He started kicking at it, and got it a little bigger, but the water was everywhere inside now and he knew he would have to get out immediately or drown. He squeezed himself round so his face was to the hole, and tried to push himself through, but only managed to get out as far as his waist, and for a while he was stuck there, racing down the river half in and half out of the barrel, bending his body upwards like a beached herring flapping on a sandbank, gasping at the air.

He wriggled some more, and got a purchase on the hoop that held the barrel together at the top, twisting himself round and scraping his hips horribly in the process until he was finally out. What was left of the barrel continued on down the rapids, smashing some more against the rocks as it went along.

Cormack swam frantically for the bank.

The current was so strong, and the rocks so frequent and jagged, that he was always close to being cut to pieces, but at last he made it, and he scrambled up on dry land and collapsed, lying on his back with his eyes closed, panting for breath.

There he lay for quite a while.

He was very still and could feel the sun beating heavily on his eyelids. Everything was an auriferous bloom, speckled with drifting lipids, until he felt a shadow move across him so the bloom became dulled, and he heard something feral moving in the undergrowth, and felt sharp, fetid breath on his face. In spite of his injuries, and his tiredness, and the overwhelming resolve just formed in his mind to die here and now on this muddy riverbank, the Wille zum Leben described by Schopenhauer, buried deep but atavistically aroused, made him open his eyes, and look about him, and assess the threat that was coming upon him.

It was Stanton Bosch.

‘Holy crap!’ said Stanton Bosch.

‘Stanton Bosch!’

‘Scratched you up good and proper, it did!’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Now, don’t be like that. I’m here to help. It was me what cracked you open.’

‘You did what?’

‘I cracked open the barrel. Look!’

He was brandishing an axe and was soaking from head to foot, still in the lederhosen, which seemed to have shrunk around him, so the effect was quite startling, as though he were an axe-murderer from the rain-sodden climax of a horror movie.

‘How did you get here?’ asked Cormack.

‘Secret path, right after you. I was following you all the while. See, Proton’s not the only one with a plan.’

‘Does he really have a plan? What is his plan? I think he’s trying to kill me.’

‘Oh, he don’t want to kill you at all. You is very valuable. He don’t want you dead at all. None of us do.

We wants you certified. That’s what we wants.’ Stanton Bosch was spinning his axe in front of him. ‘And I is here to make sure it happens. Then we kills Proton.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘After we get you certified, we kills Proton.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Get him out of the way. I wants you all to myself see.’

Stanton Bosch gave a dirty laugh and rolled his eyes madly.

‘The cow’s in it with me. If that swings your interest.’

The cow emerged from behind a large shrub and slithered towards him.

‘Hi, Cormack. Isn’t it exciting?’

‘Cow! What are you doing here?’

‘Plotting with Stanton Bosch.’

‘I is a Pantheistic Syllogist too, see,’ said Stanton Bosch.

‘What?’

‘A Pantheisitic Syllogist,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘We is an underground organization of poets and desperate thinkers from all across the known Universe. Me and the cow are both prominent in the organizing committee.’

‘Didn’t I ever mention to you that I’m a Pantheistic Syllogist, Cormack?’

‘You did but I wasn’t sure you were serious.’

The cow gave a little giggle.

‘Thing is this,’ continued Stanton Bosch. ‘Proton has brought you here because he believes you’ve been touched by God. He’s making you undergo the Three Ordeals that will determine whether you is the Negus.’

‘The Negus?’

‘Yes, the Negus.’

‘I don’t think I’m any Negus. I’m from Rochdale.’

‘Me and the cow know that you’re no Negus. Don’t worry about that. You have absolutely no special abilities at all. You may even have disabilities. That has been apparent to us from the beginning. The Captain is too stupid to have seen it though, and he and the Sibyl are going to kill you with these here Ordeals unless we helps you out.’

‘Proton said he’s gone out on quite a limb on my behalf. I understand what he means now.’

‘So anyhow, me and the cow are conspiring to save your life.’

‘And what’s your motivation?’

‘Mostly Pantheistically Syllogistical and partly financial. We will fill you in later. In the meantime, we need to negotiate this here waterfall to get you through the First Ordeal so we can carry on from there.’

He pointed down the river, only some hundred yards beyond where Cormack had pulled himself out, to where the water was at its wildest and a thick mist was rising.

Cormack said, ‘You know, I knew there would be a waterfall involved in this thing somewhere.’

The two semi-finals were played on a Thursday.

First up, the Ceramics, camel-like dromedaries from a small world named Reggiphon within the Crab Nebula, played the home team, the mighty Zargons themselves, and were soundly beaten four to one.

The Emperor performed his now familiar and increasingly unpleasant duty at the end of the match, perfunctorily and with no emotion. The captain of the Ceramics presented his neck as though he was a farm animal inured to the slaughter, taking all the sport out of it, thought the Emperor. His only concession to the horror of his predicament was a large gobbet of spit, which again camel-like, dribbled from his fat lips as the mallet came down on him wearily and chopped his head off.

The Emperor returned resignedly to his seat in the stands. The tournament had become something of a bloodbath, and there was a growing outrage throughout the Empire, outrage that the Emperor and his minions were barely keeping a lid on. But the hive-mind was sanguine and conveyed his optimism.

‘It has had an unexpectedly prophylactic effect,’ it said to the Emperor.

‘Prophylactic?’

‘Everybody is thoroughly terrified.’

They waited for the Cramptonians to take the field. They were playing the Archons, a consistent team of mechano-insectoids that had somehow managed the creditable feat of progressing to the semi-finals without a backbone between them.

‘I trust that the Cramptonians will lose,’ said the Emperor. ‘At last. This is getting quite wearisome.’

‘There is a good chance of it,’ said the hive-mind. ‘The Archons have been impressive.’

‘The tournament has been the most dreadful mess.’

‘Imperial and Ancient has favoured the underdogs. It was unexpected. Nevertheless, you will have the old girl’s duct today. Just be a little mindful of the crowds when you start rummaging through her brains like a dog through garbage, right in front of them.’