Johannes Cabal The Necromancer (19 page)

“The sun!” exclaimed the architect, laughing. “The sun!”

They walked to the sundial. The rain had turned to a fine drizzle illuminated by shafts of sunshine breaking through the clouds. They waited until the dial was caught in light.

The architect leaned low and examined the plate where the gnomon’s shadow fell. “It’s about three o’clock,” he said. Then to Cabal he said, smiling, “Just about time for tea.”

Cabal said nothing but smoothed the raindrops from the writing on the edge of the plate. The disturbed metal had resolved itself, inevitably, into the word “FUGIT.”

“Time will be …” the architect started to say, but Cabal stopped him.

“Time is …” he corrected.

ime was when people thought they could stand against us!” roared Rufus.

“Hurrah!” exulted the Maleficarian Army, who were nothing if not uncritical.

“That time has passed! See how our enemies are consigned to oblivion!” He gestured to Cabal’s gladstone bag, still lying where he had put it down to blow his nose. Of Cabal himself there was no sign. The army had been very impressed when Rufus had made Cabal vanish like that. “See how resistance crumbles before us! This very day, that town down there will be ours!”

“Huzzah!” This was great. A popcorn vendor could have made a fortune.

“And soon this country! This continent! The wor—”

“Oooooh!” chorused the army, looking straight past him at Cabal’s bag. Some of the more proactive pointed. Rufus cast a cursory glance over his shoulder and committed a gross double take that made his plus fours flap in disbelief. Cabal was back. Oddly, in the thirty seconds he’d been gone he seemed to have been caught in a shower, although there wasn’t a rain cloud in the sky. He brushed himself down, took his hat off, combed his fingers through his hair, and replaced the hat.

“Hello, Rufus. You’re probably surprised to see me.”

“But… but I … I consigned you …”

“To oblivion. Yes, well, I didn’t have time for it. Although, in a sense, yes, I did.” And he smiled one of his smiles. Several of the more nervous Maleficarian soldiers whinnied with trepidation. “All of which is by the by. As I was saying, that town belongs to me, Rufus. Continue at your peril.”

“You have tasted the least of my power once, Cabal! Prepare to suffer its full fury!” Once more Rufus tilted his head, placed his fingers on his temples, and started to chant under his breath.

“I must admit, that translocation caught me unawares. You’re not a very impressive warlock, but you have your moments. Thus”—Cabal picked up his gladstone bag and opened it—“I’m not prepared to take any more risks with you.”

Rufus ignored him, muttering in the lost tongue of a pre-human civilisation that had worked great sorcerous happenings yet had never invented the vowel. Cabal continued talking as he fished around in his bag.

“Your problem, Rufus Maleficarus, is that you never understood why magic was superseded by science. If you listen to the sad old wizards up in their keeps and the witches in the dales, you might believe it had something to do with the passing of the Seelie and the Unseelie from our world. Or the dust-sheet of cynicism settling on our hearts and driving out the wonder. Or children refusing to say that they believe in fairies. Poppycock. I’ll tell you why. Convenience. I only practise necromantics because there’s no other way of doing it. But when it comes to applied sciences, technologies, any spotty Herbert with a degree and a lab coat can perform greater wonders than Merlin.”

Rufus was working himself into a frenzy. The summation of his hexing could only be seconds away. Still Cabal seemed unconcerned.

“You’ve wasted your mind and your life. Do you understand that? Science can do it all so much cheaper, easier, and, indeed …” Will-o’-the-wisps were dancing around Rufus’s head as arcane powers peaked. Cabal sighed. Nobody ever listened. “And, indeed,” he continued, “faster.” He drew his revolver from the bag and fired rapidly three times. Rufus was a big man, but he’d just become host to enough lead to build a platoon of toy soldiers. His chanting stopped on the first impact, and he only grunted when the others caught him. He looked at Cabal with rising horror as he realised that he was dying. He blinked, unable to believe that his life was now measured in seconds. He made a strange beseeching gesture to Cabal, his upper arms against his chest and his hands reaching out as if he thought Cabal could somehow reverse the damage, somehow save him. Then his body betrayed him, and he fell forward heavily in a way no living person can. The will-o’-the-wisps danced over the carcass for the moments it took for them to fade away.

“Now,” said Cabal, “what am I going to do with you lot?”

The Maleficarian Army shifted en masse from foot to foot. They weren’t sure, either. A cry went up: “Our new leader!” It was quickly taken up and expanded upon.

“Our new leader, Cabal! Cabal! Our new leader, Cabal!”

Cabal put away his gun. “Very well,” he said dryly. “You can work for my carnival. Follow me.” The army formed up behind him as he set off.

“One thing, though,” he called over his shoulder. “There are some forms that will need filling in.”

    Big Squidhead lies a-scheming at the bottom of the sea,

    He is counting out the aeons that make up eternity,

    And when he’s done, it’s curtains for the vast majority,

    While the Tcho-Tcho get on down.

    Aïe! Ftagn! Ftagn! Shub-Niggurath!

    We’re on the winning side to see the aftermath,

    Put on your marching boots because we’re on the path,

    To the end times, here we come!

    To the end times, here we come!

    To the end times! Here! We! Cooooooooome!

“And stop that!”

    * The classical example of a sentence that is grammatically correct yet semantically meaningless. I’m sure you knew that.

IN WHICH CABAL IS EDUCATED IN BUSINESS AFFAIRS AND UNDERTAKINGS ARE UNDERTOOK

The good people of Murslaugh responded well to their saviour and showed their appreciation by visiting his carnival in droves. In his school exercise book with the squared paper pages that he thought his brother, Horst, knew nothing about (he was wrong, and Horst found it vastly amusing), Johannes Cabal kept a graph. On the x-axis was a one-year time scale; on the vertical y-axis a scale marked from 0 at the origin to 100 at his topmost point. This was Cabal’s “soul chart,” and it was looking quite healthy. With the edge of his wooden ruler, he could estimate the best-fit line, and it took him over the hundred-souls mark about two weeks before the deadline. It was a safety margin, but not much of one; it wouldn’t take much to make him lose the wager. Not much at all. There was a knock at the door. It was Mr. Bones.

“Say, boss, it’s the boss,” he said.

Cabal put his exercise book away and leaned back in his chair. “You are making precisely no sense,” he said.

“You know? The town boss guy.”

Cabal sat up abruptly. “You mean the mayor? Well, show him in.” Cabal had little time for politicians at any level in the normal run of his scientific career. Well, perhaps the level marked “live experimental subjects,” but that was all. If he had learned anything in the previous weeks, however, it was that local politicians have limited powers but enormous egos. A snub, real or illusory, was all it took to make them apply those limited powers with great vigour and imagination.

Two months previously, a disgruntled alderman had almost managed to close them down for health and safety infractions. Cabal hadn’t felt like pointing out that the carnival’s governing body—Hell—only has the sort of health and safety regulations that make sure both are seriously threatened. He had accurately doubted it would have done their case any good. It had taken the carrot of a large brown envelope stuffed with used bank notes, and the stick of a midnight visit from Phobos the Nightmare Man (who was pathetically grateful to have been seconded from Tartarus: “It’s good to get out, meet the punters. Gets you back in touch, you know?”) to clear things up. All because the alderman in question took exception to Cabal mentioning in passing that the last time he’d seen any body as bloated as that of the alderman’s wife, it had maggots crawling out of it. The fact that the observation was true was neither here nor there.

The Mayor of Murslaugh was a jolly, ebullient man of the sort who, in a well-ordered world, would be called Fezziwig. That his name was Brown was a powerful indictment on the sorry state of things.

“Lord Mayor,” Cabal said, “what a delight to meet you. I’m sorry I haven’t had time to call on you.”

“Not at all, not at all, a business entrepreneur like you, busy all hours, not at all.” He smiled, apparently expecting an answer.

Cabal gave up trying to find a verb in that sentence. “Well, how can I help you? I am, of course, at the service of you and your delightful town.”

“Ah, well, yes, marvellous, you see? Maleficarus! Poom! Yes, blink! Of an eye! Marvellous!” Inexplicably, he mimed swiping at a ball with a cricket bat, then watching the ball vanish into the distance. “Exemplary!”

“Oh! I understand. This is about me clearing up that little bit of unpleasantness with Rufus Maleficarus? Really, it was nothing. A pleasure,” he added truthfully.

“Nothing? No! Jings, quite substantially not inconsiderable. Taking all points. All points, mind! Great thing, great thing.” He shook his head at the sheer drama of it all. “Local hero.” He looked dolefully at the floor for a moment, drew a great breath, the huge smile reappearing, said, “Busy man! Off now!” and left.

Cabal looked at the door for several moments after the mayor had shut it behind him. “Yes,” he said finally. “Well, if I ever suffer brain damage, I know there’s always a career waiting for me in local politics.”

The ugly man and the fat, ugly man eyed the stall. “What are y’ s’posed to do?” asked the fat, ugly man.

“All you have to do is throw a Ping-Pong ball into one of the goldfish bowls,” said Bobbins brightly.

“An’ I win a prize?” said the fat, ugly man.

“And you win a prize,” said Bobbins. Brightly. Bobbins had been the result of some of Cabal’s tinkering with the basic “a rag, a bone, a hank of hair (and a quantity of lard)” formula—in this case, by the addition of a tin of Brasso metal polish. As a result, everything that Bobbins did, he did brightly.

“Okay,” said the fat, ugly man, faintly echoed by the plain ugly man. “S’pose I’ll ’ave a go.”

Coins and Ping-Pong balls exchanged hands. The fat, ugly man lobbed a ball in the general direction of the goldfish bowls without taking any time to aim at all. The ball hit one bowl’s rim, bounced high, and landed neatly in another.

“Well done, sir!” said Bobbins, brightly. “You win!”

The fat, ugly man and his companion looked unaccountably put out. “Bugger me, Anders,” he said to the ugly man. “I’ve only gorn an’ won, ’aven’t I?”

Anders looked miserable. “Bugger me, Croal. So you ’ave. Now what?”

“You win a goldfish!” butted in Bobbins, brightly.

Croal ignored him. “Just carry on as usual, s’pose. Okay?” he said to Anders.

“Okay,” said Anders. Then, in a theatrical shout, “Blimey! What a con! This ’ere stall’s a diddle!”

“Yeah!” joined Croal. “It’s a diddle! Cheat! Cheat!”

“But… you won?” said Bobbins, slightly less brightly.

As if by magic, a group of perhaps eight large men with pickaxe handles appeared out of the gathering crowd. “It’s a set-up!” they chorused. “It’s a con job! Smash it up!”

“Oh dear,” said Bobbins, his brightness almost undetectable as the men started to destroy his stall.

Cabal was at the steam calliope, loading up an unlabelled piece of music, when news of the disturbance reached him. En route, he stopped by the Tunnel of Love. There he found Horst flattering an attractive young woman to the sticking point.

“Horst! There’s trouble. I’d appreciate your presence.”

Horst looked like he might argue, but a goldfish bowl arching over the top of the tunnel and landing with a hollow plop in the water distracted him.

“Yes, it might be as well,” he admitted. Then, to the young lady, “I’m sorry, my dear, but I am required elsewhere. Stay right here. I’ll be back soon.” As he stepped away, Cabal noticed that her line of sight continued through the space where Horst had been standing a moment ago.

“You can’t go leaving mesmerised women littering up the place,” he snapped. “It’s, I don’t know, unhygienic.”

“It’s a funfair. People are used to seeing odd things,” replied Horst. “Besides, I’m famished. It’s been days. She’s the most edible thing I’ve seen tonight, and I’m not having her running away. Now, come on.” He disappeared into the darkness between the rides.

Cabal looked around, saw Mr. Bones, and clicked his fingers to gain his attention. “Bones! Do something about that woman!”

Bones looked enquiringly at the still form. “Like what, boss?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Put a blanket over her or something,” he snapped, and followed his brother at a trot.

By the time they got there, it had turned into a free-for-all. The destruction of the stall had sparked fights that had spread to other stalls. Horst picked up a man who was trying to set fire to a coconut shy by the scruff of the neck, told him he was bad, and threw him into the next field, which happened to be on the other side of the river. The man’s despairing scream diminishing into the night sky did a lot to calm matters. Cabal went around and did some further calming with his stick. After a few minutes of applied physical diplomacy, the fight had turned into a lot of people, mainly men, standing around battered, bruised, and sullen. Cabal looked at them with palpable loathing.

“Who started this?” he said, and everybody there past school age had sudden, unpleasant flashbacks to when they weren’t. No answers came. He paced up and down in front of them, his hands clasped behind his back. “All I want is the truth. Nobody will be punished,” he said, fooling nobody.

“They’ve gone,” said a faint voice from the wreckage of a stall. Faint, pained, but still eager to please. In a word, bright.

“Help him out of there, someone,” said Cabal, and immediately several men with scuffed knuckles and nosebleeds went to it, eager to show that they were good people who wouldn’t get involved in a common brawl—oh, no.