The Werewolf and the Wormlord (5 page)

Alfric was about to say that this was nonsense. Then he thought about it. The grey-skinned Janjuladoola were notorious racists and not exactly slow to take offence. And, to be honest, a baggy and blubbery ork could be construed as a grotesque parody of a Janjuladoola. So No Dree might quite possibly take offence. But - what a remarkable feat of insight on Morgenstem’s part! Particularly since the ork had probably never seen a person of the Skin in his life. Perhaps there was more to these orks than met the eye.

‘I have to admit,’ said Alfric, ‘you’ve out-thought me on this one.’

‘That’s Wen Endex all over,’ grumbled Morgenstem. ‘Nobody gives an ork the credit for half a brain. You don’t think King Dimple-Dumpling chose us by accident, do you? He chose the best. After all, we’ve important business to do.’

‘What business?’ said Alfric.

Since Alfric Danbrog was a Banker Third Class, he had mastered the nuances of diplomacy. But, since he was a Yudonic Knight by birth and breeding, he was ever inclined to lapse into undiplomatic directness. Hence the bluntness of his probe. A probe which met with failure, for Morgenstem said:

‘We can’t tell you that!’

Alfric thought:

—Why not?

And was about to ask as much, but restrained himself successfully. Instead, he flattered Morgenstem by asking his advice, saying:

‘Well, since your secret mission’s so important, whatever it is, I’d like to do everything I can to ensure your welcome in Galsh Ebrek. Doubtless a row with a Janjuladoola would be the wrong way to start. But I have to go to the Embassy without delay. That’s a duty I can’t avoid or postpone. So how would you suggest we handle this little difficulty?’

‘I suggest,’ said Morgenstem, ‘that we orks would be quite comfortable waiting in the Embassy stables while you go in to meet the ambassador.’

‘But I want to see the Skin!’ said Cod.

‘You would,’ retorted Morgenstem. ‘You wanted to watch your mother’s autopsy.’

‘I did watch it,’ said Cod. ‘And it was very interesting.’ Morgenstem shuddered, and said, as if pronouncing an imperial edict:

‘We will wait in the stables. ’

And wait they did. Under Alfric’s orders, stable hands took his six barrels into the Embassy. In the reception chamber, a representative of the Bank was waiting; for there was always a banker stationed in the Embassy when the ogres’ tribute was expected.

The banker on duty tonight was the elderly Eg, a Banker Third Class like Alfric.

‘Greetings, Iz’bix,’ said Eg.

‘And to you, greetings,’ replied Alfric.

Then they had to wait while the ambassador was roused from sleep. No Dree was asleep? At night? Though She was on the loose? Yes, he was. He was shamelessly asleep. For Pran No Dree was not a Yudonic Knight, therefore did not share the burden of honour which compelled Alfric and his peers to guard the dark against Her depredations.

It was an uncomfortable wait, for Alfric and Eg had little to say to each other. Alfric’s meteoric rise to Banker Third Class had made him no friends and many enemies. While his superiors smiled upon him, he had yet to find a welcome among the ranks of his peers, and it was unlikely that he ever would. Furthermore, the reception chamber was physically uncomfortable, since a blazing fire kept the room at sweat-heat. Alfric shed his furs, but still felt choked by the heat.

When the grey-skinned ambassador at last presented himself in the reception chamber, the seals of all six barrels from the Qinjoks were checked by Banker Danbrog, Banker Eg, No Dree himself and a full half dozen ambassadorial aides and attaches. After due consideration, it was agreed that the seals were intact. At a signal from No Dree, an aide began to open one of the barrels.

The lid came free.

Now the critical question would be answered: would the fortune of fragile jade have survived the journey from the Qinjoks intact?

The lid came off.

No Dree gasped.

‘The jade!’ said he.

In the barrel was nothing but a rubbish of broken sticks and autumn leaves.

‘This cannot be!’ said No Dree. ‘Where is the jade, the jade?’

Alfric, with difficulty, kept himself from yawning.

‘It is as we feared,’ said Banker Eg gravely. ‘The Curse of the Hag has struck again.

‘Curse?’ said No Dree. ‘What curse? This is unpardonable!’ He turned on Alfric. ‘You barbarian fool! You lost the jade. You got yourself robbed. Or did you steal it?’

Alfric withstood this insult without blinking or protesting. That was what he was paid for. No Dree plunged his hands into the barrel and began shovelling out handfuls of leaves and sticks. Stuck to one stick were a couple of snails, snug in their winter sleep. No Dree cursed the snails. Then flung them into the blazing fire. Alfric silently regretted this minor tragedy: for he had a soft spot for snails.

No Dree heaped curses on the taciturn Knight. Then began to threaten.

‘I’ll have you boiled alive,’ said No Dree. ‘I’ll have you torn apart with hooks and pinchers.’

‘My lord is merciful,’ said Alfric, before he could stop himself.

‘You joke?’ said No Dree. ‘You dare to joke? This is no joke, you barbarous piece of yak dung.’

And, because of Alfric’s unwise indulgence in sarcasm, honour could not be satisfied until No Dree had ranted himself hoarse.

But the end result of all these histrionics was a foregone conclusion. The ambassador at last had to admit (though with every show of reluctance) that the seals had not been tampered with. And he had to accept (to do otherwise would have been to precipitate both his own death and a disastrous war) that King Dimple-Dumpling’s tribute had been sealed into those barrels in Alfric’s presence; and, furthermore, that the said tribute had been converted to rubbish by the Curse of the Hag.

This Curse of the Hag, a foul and poxy malison if ever there was one, had thus afflicted Wen Endex for generations. But it was not just Wen Endex which was thus affected. It would seem that a variant of this curse operates in, among other places, Port Domax. There, many an unsuspecting person has paid good money for some bauble which the retailing merchant has then beautifully packaged to enhance customer satisfaction; the sorry outcome being that, when opened, the gift-package has proved to hold no more than a few broken stones or similar rubbish. However, in Wen Endex, the Curse of the Hag seldom struck except to hex the ogre king’s tribute into rubbish.

It may be asked why the Izdimir Empire (as represented by its ambassadors) persisted in demanding the annual collection of this tribute when the Curse of the Hag inevitably converted it to garbage. The answer to any such question is simple. While the enterprise was empty of profit, the collection of this tribute and the delivery of the same to the ambassador from Ang allowed the Izdimir Empire to demonstrate that both Wen Endex and the Quinjoks were subject states obedient to the dictates of Obooloo.

By such diplomatic finesse was the need for war avoided; for, thanks to such annual proofs of obedience, Aldarch the Third (like his predecessors before him) had no need to go to the trouble and expense of marching armies into the northernmost regions of the continent of Yestron to take physical possession of those lands he was so confident he ruled.

Thus, once No Dree had ranted himself into silence, the delivery of the tribute was accepted as a fact, its conversion to leaves and such rubbish was officially attributed to the Curse of the Hag, various papers were signed attesting to this fact and this attribution, then hands were shaken in accordance with the custom of Wen Endex, reverence was made after the Janjuladoola fashion, and Alfric, his mission over, was able to escape from the heat and hostility of the Embassy.

A light rain was falling outside, misting against Alfric’s spectacles so that, had he wanted perfect vision, he would have had to cleanse those optical devices thrice in every sixty heartbeats. He did no such thing, having found it wiser to avoid such full-time occupation. Instead, he cursed a couple of times, then went and collected his orks and his pack horses from the bam.

‘Where now?’ said Cod.

‘Now,’ said Alfric, ‘we find you two somewhere to sleep for the night.’

Alfric thought this should not prove too difficult. But, once his orks had been refused lodgings by five foul netherskens of the lowest kind, he began to revise his estimate of the difficulties involved in finding lodgings for a pair of orks in Galsh Ebrek in the dead of night.

‘Don’t worry about us,’ said Morgenstem. ‘We can sleep in the mud.’

Doubtless they could. But Alfric had more than a rough idea of how the ogre king would react if he knew his ambassadors had been so insulted. The possibilities were appalling.

‘No,’ said Alfric. ‘I’ll find you somewhere to sleep. Somehow.’

Should he take them up Mobius Kolb? He had the option of presenting them to the Wormlord that very night. By rights the Wormlord should offer them the freedom of Saxo Pall. But what if the Wormlord refused them hospitality? That would be a dreadful blow to Alfric’s prestige. Doubtless the Bank itself would quarter the orks if all else failed. But how would that look on Alfric’s dossier? He was a Banker Third Class, not a miserable clerk or an appretice shroff. One of his rank was meant to be ambassador, negotiator and arbitrator all rolled into one. It would be a black mark against him if he came whining to his superiors complaining that he couldn’t find a couple of spare beds in the largest city in Wen Endex.

Then inspiration struck.

‘The Green Cricket, that’s the place.’

He had to go there anywhere, to return the pack horses he had hired.

‘What place?’ said Cod.

‘It’s an inn,’ said Alfric. ‘An inn in Fraudenzimmer Street.’

With orks in tow, Alfric ventured to the backlands of Galsh Ebrek, to Fraudenzimmer Street and the dark-gabled frontage of the Green Cricket. There Alfric delivered the pack horses into the care of Brock the Ostler.

‘How are you for beds tonight?’ said Alfric.

‘That,’ said Brock, eyeing the orks doubtfully, ‘is something you’d have to ask Herself.’

So Alfric took his orks to the front door and knocked. The overhang of the second storey sheltered the doorway from the downfalling rain. Under that overhang was a huge iron cauldron, a relic of the orking days of yore. Its bottom had rusted out years ago, but it remained a potent token of the horrors of the past. To Alfric’s disgust, both Cod and Morgenstem burst into tears at the sight of it.

‘Gods,’ muttered Alfric.

He banged on the door of the lushery, demanding an entry. He wanted to be gone, gone, away from these embarrassingly over-sensitive animals. However, his unsubtle overtures drew no response from the Green Cricket.

‘Allow me,’ said Cod the ork, wiping away his tears.

And Cod fisted the door until its timbers shivered.

A dwarf-hole level with Alfric’s knees opened abruptly and a dwarf looked out.

‘Who is it?’ said the dwarf Du Deiner.

‘Myself,’ said Alfric.

‘And who’s that?’ said Du Deiner, who was looking from candlefire brightness into the murk of an overhung night.

‘Myself is Herself,’ said Alfric. ‘I come from bog, my body drenched with blood but my appetites unsated. I seek a dwarf. I yearn to ravage its flesh for its liver, to gouge out its eyes and pull off its ears for my porridge.’

‘Oh, you,’ said Du Deiner, belatedly recognizing the voice. ‘Hang about, I’ll open the door.’

The dwarf was as good as his word,, and shortly laboured the door open with some help from his colleague Mich Dir.

‘Come in,’ said Du Deiner.

‘In, in,’ urged Mich Dir, for the draught from the open door was making the candles flaze.

In went Alfric with his orks following on his heels.

‘No!’ said Du Deiner, when he saw the first of the monsters. ‘They can’t come in. They’re—’

‘They’re friends,’ said Alfric, inverting the dwarf.

Du Deiner kicked, struggled and bit. When he bit, Alfric dropped him.

‘Stop that!’ This command came from Anna Blaume herself, she bedizened in flame-coloured taffeta, she enshrined in state behind the battlements of her bar. She followed up her order by saying: ‘Why, it’s Ally!’ Then, cheerfully: ‘Come in, come in!’

‘I am in,’ said Alfric, somewhat vexed that this blowsy publican should name him ‘Ally’ in public.

Izdarbolskobidarbix was the name he preferred. Failing that, Mister Danbrog. Or, as a minimum courtesy, Alfric. He had told Ms Blaume as much on many occasions; but she was immune to lectures.

‘Do you drink?’ said Blaume, speaking not to Alfric but to the orks.

‘Beer,’ said Cod.

A wide-eyed Morgenstem said nothing, but looked in askance at the roistering room where drunks sat in each other’s laps or lay on the floor, hammered artificial flatulence from empty wine skins, and made popcorn in a huge wok perched atop a charcoal brazier. A drunk tossed a handful of popcorn skywards. A velvety green vogel swooped from the rafters and snapped one nipplebit nicely. Then it settled on Morgenstern’s head. The ork clawed at it in a frenzy.

‘Skaps,’ said Blaume, sharply.

The vogel launched itself into the air, circled thrice, then hooked itself on to a smokey rafter and chittered with malicious laughter. The vogel is the parrot-bad of Wen Endex, a creature noted more for misbehaviour than for speech.